A LOVE/HATE RELATIONSHIP WITH GOLF
By John Landsberg, June 2009
It is not an easy task for me to write a column about golf. I rarely play the game and am terrible at it when I do.
In fact, one of my best friends, Joe Rotarius, is the GM at Dogwood Hills Golf Course in the Lake of the Ozarks. Joe and I have never played a round of golf and never will.
Playing a round with Joe would be like me playing a pick-up basketball game against LeBron James. It probably wouldn’t be much fun for either of us.
Ironically, golf is a game that has had a major impact on my life—for good and not so good reasons.
On the bright side, my first byline as a sportswriter at The Plain Dealer in Cleveland was a tribute piece about golfer Tony Lema, who had lost his life in an airplane accident. At the time, “Champagne” Tony Lema was just 32 and the second-most popular golfer in the world behind Arnold Palmer.
Having my name on an article was a thrill and reinforced my love of sports writing for years. When you work with the likes of Hal Lebovitz and Chuck Heaton in Cleveland it is an experience you never forget.
On the other side, golf is a game that I learned to resent. My father was a scratch golfer for most of his life. That means his handicap was “zero.” That meant that he spent lots and lots of time on a golf course.
One lesson I learned early from my father was anyone with a handicap of 10 or less who says “I rarely have a chance to play” is a liar. Golf is not a game that can be perfected without lots and lots of playing.
If it was Saturday my dad was gone from about 6 in the morning until late in the evening. He often played 36 holes.
On Sunday it was often the same. Heck, it was true for 3-4 other days during the week. It seemed as if his handicap went down the more time he spent away from the family.
My brother and I learned to hate golf because it took our father away from us for such long periods of time. He played in tournaments and I am sure he also won considerable sums gambling, but that didn’t mean much to us.
If dad asked either of us to join him it was as his caddy. My father’s golf bag was about the same size as Rodney Dangerfield’s in “Caddyshack.” It was agony carrying that damn thing.
Don’t get me wrong. In many respects my father was a wonderful man. He was deeply religious and loved his family. It was just that it was difficult to get between him and a golf match.
It has been several years since my dad went to that great golf course in heaven (probably the Doral Gold Course in Miami). Right now he is probably telling his favorite story about the guy who had a great below par round going until he hit five straight balls into the water on the final hole.
The guy exploded. He started breaking clubs and throwing them into the water. He tossed his bag in. He then went into the shower in the clubhouse, slit his wrists and began bleeding to death.
All of a sudden a voice yelled into the shower, “Hey, Fred, can you play tomorrow?” At that point Fred frantically put his wrists together to stop the bleeding and yelled back, “Sure, what time?”
In many ways golf is a great game. In my case, I genuinely have a love/hate relationship with it.
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