Dad took my brothers and me golfing for the first time when I was around 14 or 15, I think, though it might have been earlier. There was a 9-hole course in town that provided a decent spot for learning the game. The unique feature of this course was a set of stone markers, one by the club house, the other on the 9th fairway, that denoted the landing and launch, respectively, of the world’s first liquid-fueled rocket by Robert Goddard in 1926.
I don’t remember where we got our first clubs—maybe we played out of Dad’s bag. In any event, I’ve been playing golf ever since, off and on, never getting really good at it, but at least able to hold my own if we play in tournaments or just for fun. It’s a relatively expensive game to play on a regular basis, so I don’t get out much. And I got my current set of clubs from my brother, who was a connoisseur of fine golf equipment.
The infrequency with which I play means that I have no reason to expect any consistency or to see much improvement. I’ve sort of plateaued in that respect. Still, whenever we get out, it’s great fun, an enjoyable time spent with people you like, in settings that are often well cared for and pleasing to the eye. Dad set the tone for that aspect of the experience—he loved being with his peeps, and he reveled in the scenery.
Golf has provided much enjoyment over the years. It’s a great game, so much more than chasing a little white ball around a field. And playing it myself only deepens the appreciation for the folks who play professionally. I envy that they get to win crazy sums of money, but am also appreciative of their level of proficiency. They’re crazy good at it, yet still have those occasional rounds where we are all reminded that they are human after all. The game has a way of humbling even the most accomplished players.
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