By Jimmy Roberts
We sent our little guy – who’s bigger than me – off to his final year of college a few months back. On the second day of classes, he called me around 10 in the morning – WAY early for him, by the way – and although there was an urgent tone in his voice, I was a little distracted.
“Dad (thwack!),” he said. “When you (thwack!) and mom come out for (thwack!) parents’ weekend next month (thwack!), I need you to bring me a few things (thwack!).”
“Where are you?” I asked him.
“I’m at the driving range (thwack!). Why?”
This is what I’ve wrought, I suppose.
I have to smile.
My son is now officially obsessed with golf. He dabbled with it as a kid and a teen, but he was really much too busy with a lot of other sports… and music. At his first-grade recital, the program listed most kids playing songs like “Mary Had a Little Lamb.”
But there, next to Daniel Roberts, was listed “Slow Ride” by Foghat.
I should’ve known at that moment that my then little man would eventually gravitate back to the game that owns his rock ‘n’ roll dad.
I think it runs in the family.
As I detailed in the space last year, my wife has now taken up the game. My oldest son has been on board for years. Right now, he’s the leader in the clubhouse for “Best Swing in the Family.”
The only one of our brood who’s (aggressively) chosen NOT to play is the middle one (of course.) His role is to make fun of the rest of us for pouring ourselves into what he sees as a carny game designed to allow you only to get close to winning, all the while encouraging you to put down another dollar(s) to play. He may be the smartest.
But the youngest, I get a real kick out of how he’s suddenly so all in.
All those logo’d shirts, hats, and quarter zips I brought back from tournaments for him – which had mostly been gathering dust in his closet (“Dad, I’m sorry, but they’re kinda uncool.”) are suddenly just about all he wears.
And I so envy the sound his club makes when it compresses the ball.
I came home one day last month, and I couldn’t find my youngest or my wife anywhere. Turns out my boy wanted to play nine holes after he got home from his summer internship, but he didn’t want to go alone, so he dragged my wife along with him. I loved it. (Note: moms will generally do anything for their babies.)
But careful what you ask for. I went out to play the other day, reached into my bag for my range finder, and POOF! It had disappeared! Shocking, it had been borrowed. (“Sorry, Dad, I forgot.”) And coincidentally, his summer vacation has corresponded to a frightening elevation of the bills we’ve gotten from our club.
I know at times, our family seems like some kind of stereotypical bad sitcom, or a hokey public service announcement for the game, but I’ll take it all.
I love playing with my friends, but watching my kids is better than I ever thought I could be – and knowing they haven’t scratched the surface of their obsessions yet is terribly cool.
And for all the places in my life I’ve searched for “the perfect wave,” clearly, I’ve found it far from the ocean… walking alongside a pair of sweet swings to the never-ending and wonderful refrain of: