By Marshall Carder
As the weekly rounds turned into years, the bonds between everyone grew despite all of the on-course antics. There were many scenes of high drama, like the time Brooksie told Christian after a round that he had better seek professional help because he was the craziest person Brooksie had ever met, which was saying a whole lot considering his background in psychology and Synanon. You see, Wells had adamantly disagreed about the final resting place of one of Brooksie’s balls and a full-blown shouting match had ensued complete with all manner of denigration. And normally that type of behavior could have resulted in a parting of ways, but for Golfers it meant nothing after the next t-time was made. Such is the power of the game.
The little transgressions and the major faux pas are forgiven when done in the context of the game. Yes, there are rules and etiquette, but I have seen full-blown shouting matches over a small bet between members at La Costa, and I know for a fact that they played again soon thereafter. The magic of the game breaks people down, builds them up, shows their weaknesses and their strengths, and that is what binds people. When the barriers are down and the worst of you is there for the world to see, how do you treat others?
On a day when you are killing it and can’t lose, how do you treat others? In these moments, Golf exposes the best and worst that a person has to offer, and those whom you keep inviting back to your weekly tee-times are the ones that treat you well…no matter what is happening. Those are your true friends.
As we played more and more courses we began to dream of Scotland’s Old Course and Carnoustie, because our mutual sense of history left us no choice. A lover of the game cannot feel complete without a walk around the sacred and hallowed links that created the fickle mistress that is Golf. We often still mutter in our best Scottish accent, “just like the links at Carnoustie,” every time someone hits a worm-burner and sends it running on the ground down the fairway. And each passing year, the Open Championship renews our love for the magical feel of Links Golf, a very different game from what we play here. And to that end, every time over the past decade that it rained or was windy, we tried to get to a course. One reason is that when it rains in the USA, the courses are empty. But more important were the invaluable training in the use of rain gear, in hitting shots with wet, cold hands, imagining that one day we would get to play in the promised land and that when that day came, we would be ready.
After a few years, we started an “annual” golf trip with about a dozen willing guys, but it petered out after only a few incarnations. It probably ended because most of the guys were not really golfers in the true sense of the word. You see, there are people who play golf, and there are Golfers. Golfers play golf whenever they can, wherever they go. Golfers always keep their clubs and shoes in the trunk (1st criterion for buying a car is that is has to hold the clubs comfortably). Golfers wake up at ungodly hours to play on their days off. Golfers play alone, go out as a single. Golfers usually like to practice and “dig it out of the dirt” to be sure they have some game come t-time, knowing full well that the game doesn’t owe them anything, they have to earn it (Wells is definitely not this guy).
On the other hand, people who simply play golf don’t do these things consistently, because it just doesn’t matter, golf is simply a way to pass the time. And people who simply play golf don’t dream of trips to windy and cold St. Andrew’s. That is what Golfers do. We five were all Golfers in the truest sense of the word, and one day we would turn our long-lost annual outing into the trip of a lifetime and “play the surface,” we would visit the promised land. Such was the allure of this special place for us.
It is hard to say exactly when we really took notice of Brooks’ Parkinson’s disease. I do remember that during one of the annual outings it became very apparent that his disease would begin to limit his game. His tremor had begun to affect his putting and chipping, especially his putting, so he had to make adjustments to his equipment. But the decline was happening quickly and right before our eyes. Week to week we could see the deterioration. At one point I called him to play and he told me he had given up the game. That was not possible, I told him. You have to keep playing.
Even if it is only nine holes. I promised him that for every nine holes he played he would get an extra hole at the end of his life. It seemed to help his spirit, and he agreed to keep playing. As is often the case with Golf, he played much better than he expected that first round back and the hook was set again. Soon after that, too, he received a tremendous blessing in the form of new medication for Parkinson’s. The very week after starting the new meds, we all took notice. His posture was better, his gait was better, and, most importantly, his game was better, which meant our bond by way of the game acquired more life.
But the Parkinson’s diagnosis definitely got me thinking about the beautiful manner in which the game is passed down from generation to generation. His game was fading, just as mine was really coming into form. And even though he often bemoaned his game, he could genuinely find pleasure in our game and our shots. The very same trees and doglegs that a golfer had to navigate as a youth are still there to battle in later life. And the task remains to preserve the courses, the rules, and the ethics of the game for future golfers. We rake the bunkers and fix our divots so that those who follow us will find the course ready for their game. Courses survive the test of time – like Brooksie’s old favorite, Swope Park – exactly because of this shared stewardship. Generations care for and then pass these courses on to their progeny after having shared a lifetime of enjoyment of them. The collective memories of rounds and shots become fixed on courses and in holes, and their moments become timeless. We all remember Seve’s putt [Seve Ballesteros] and his joyous celebration from the Valley of Sin at the 18th on the Old Course, or Hogan’s legendary 4 straight birdies on the 6th at Carnoustie, now called Hogan’s Alley [Ben Hogan]. Holes also remind us of the Epic Meltdowns, like Jean van de Velde’s double on 18 at Carnoustie, or Thomas Bjørn’s capitulation to the Road Hole bunker.
These courses attain a timeless majesty because they hold a world of memories for so many different generations. Given Brooks’ condition, we knew that if we were going to match our games against these iconic and almost mystical holes, we were going to have to get it done soon. A trip to St. Andrews was quite literally now or never.
So, without really giving my wife all of the details, I convinced her to get us tickets to the UK. I pleaded that it was my dad’s last chance to do this with us, but I think what sealed it for her was overhearing a conversation I had with her father and step-mother, because they couldn’t stop talking about how honorable and special it would be to take this trip together.
Once we had booked the tickets and set the dates, I sent an email to everyone. Get your tickets now or miss the proverbial bus. Brooks was the first to jump on board and buy his tickets, and the other cats then jumped in with both feet. It was only a few days before JG and Wells ponied up and then Brother Bert quickly followed. A short time later, Brooksie told us that he had invited some “adults” to join us. The consolation to Jared’s family and mine was that it would not be just a golf trip for them. We would spend the majority of the trip in London, with a brief jaunt to Liverpool for everything Beatles and a soccer game between Everton and Arsenal.
Obviously, that was not really any kind of sacrifice. We were finally going to the birthplace of golf to play on the timeless links at St. Andrews, where shepherds had created the game on their daily migrations across the land that connected the town to the sea, and where, as far back as 1457, Golf was outlawed because it interfered with archery practice. Our outing to Fife was on!
The months leading up to the trip were filled with planning and dreaming. Ana (my wife) and Jared laboriously arranged all of the lodging details and the general itinerary. We were going to spend the first couple of days in London, travel to Liverpool for a soccer game and to see the birthplace of the Beatles, then go on to Scotland for golf before returning to London the final weekend.
In all, we would have four days for Golf, which was actually more consecutive days than I had ever played in my life. I was ecstatic, to say nothing of what the others were feeling. Dad and Bert planned to go directly to Scotland and begin the golfing from day one. We would meet up with them on Monday and spend the weekdays together.
It was almost torture for me, the final few weeks before departure, fearing that something might happen. Despite my better sense, I was sort of afraid I would get injured in Capoeira martial arts or during my daily workout and not be able to play golf. But in the end, the much anticipated date did arrive and we were finally all set to go. Next stop London!
We arrived in London on a Friday, in time for lunch, and settled right in. Our time there included the usual array of great food and great pubs to go along with all of the sights. Having spent a couple of weeks there two years earlier (in 2012), we had some sense of what we wanted to see and where we wanted to be, so it went smoothly and mostly uneventfully. For Wells, it was different, because this was his maiden voyage abroad. Every church, alley, and tower was photographed and fawned upon, which was great to see. Coming there from California, Wells found the old very new. Of course, we all enjoyed it immensely, but Wells was clearly a bit more overwhelmed than the rest of us.
When Sunday morning came, we caught a first-class train to Liverpool and arrived without a hitch. That afternoon, Jared, Wells, and I attended the soccer match with several locals, which was an amazing treat (and another story). But all the while we had golf in the back of our heads and on the tips of our tongues. Every conversation eventually ended up with talk of the Old Course and whether or not we would get to play it. Later that day, we got our answer.
We all felt sheer exhilaration when we got the news that the daily lottery had won us a spot on the Old Course. We had made the reservations to visit St. Andrews without knowing for certain that we would get our chance at the grand old layout, the Old Course. Obviously, an abundance of great courses were available to play on, but none of the others were the home of golf as it is truly known. We were relying on our luck. We had put our names in two days before and hoped we would be drawn, but nothing was certain about that.
We had been green with envy when we learned that Bert, Brooks, and Brooks’ two companions had gotten a spot for Monday, so we were particularly overjoyed when we learned that we were similarly blessed. Our t-time would be at 7:50 a.m. on Tuesday, which meant it was going to be very cold when we hit that first shot. All of this anxiety and emotion was bubbling just beneath the surface, and we had yet to arrive in the promised land. Such is allure of this special place for us.
| Copyright © 2014, 2020 by Marshall Carder Marshall Carder lives in Cardiff by the Sea, California. He is a father, a husband, and writes occasionally about things that inspire him. This story appeared originally on WordPress, posted on July 24, 2014. |
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