A priceless nine

Must have been around three months ago he found my old golf clubs in the corner in the garage.  Spider-webbed and dusty.  There were some years I'd be golfing once or twice a week, March through November, but that was another lifetime.

Curious about every single aspect of every single thing that exists or ever has existed, he began to ask questions.  Asked if he could go out in the backyard and try hitting a few balls.  In no time, we had to switch to plastic balls due to him whacking a couple of shots over the fence.  

Almost immediately, he began watching golf tip videos on YouTube.  I purchased him a used set of junior clubs.  Then, just as he was learning about birdies, pars, and bogeys, sand traps and divot tools, someone mysteriously dug two golf holes in the yard.  

We began going to the soccer fields and practicing, using light poles as our "holes."  The 4th of July trip to Wisconsin included his first visit to a driving range.  I suppose there was only one thing left.

So on a 97-degree Sunday afternoon, we packed a cooler with water, Capri-suns, and Goldfish, and I took him to play his first round at an actual golf course.  We rode nine.

He was excited about the scorecard.  He was excited about the pin flags.  But I'm pretty sure he was most excited about driving the golf cart.

Kid started off with a legitimate eight on the first hole, a par four.  He matched me on two holes.  Granted, one was a snowman on my worst hole of the day, but the other was a bogey on a par three.  And sure, he may have five-putted a couple of holes.  But in the all-important balls lost category, he trashed me--losing only one, to Dad's three.

I had been worried a bit about pace of play.  And while it was expectedly slow, we went late enough in the day so that there was only one group behind us.  They played through on the second hole and we enjoyed a casual round the rest of the way.  

A few clouds, along with the sun fading behind trees at times, helped to keep the weather bearable.  It was down to 85 by the time we wrapped up play around 7:30.

"Sorry, Daddy, that it took us so long."

"Oh, buddy, don't apologize for that.  We were having fun, right?  Why would we want to rush through that?  We got to take our time, and hang out together, and have a snack, and just have fun."  

I'd told an old golfing buddy a couple of days ago that I was planning to take Luke for his first round.  He texted Sunday night to ask what I shot.  I realized I hadn't even added it up.

Turns out it was a 48.  Definitely no course record.  This was something immeasurably better.

"Daddy, do they have souvenirs we could buy?"

"Daddy, can we come here a lot more?"
"Daddy, I think I will be on the golf team."
"Daddy, could we buy a range finder."

(Well, at least it's not a Range Rover?)

Going golfing, like virtually every other thing in life, is both a new and remindful experience when you see it through a child's eyes.  There was a lightness.  A fresh appreciation.  And moments that conjured up memories of myself.

Perhaps my favorite part of one of my most favorite days occurred as we were walking off the last hole.  

"Daddy, do you think since I hit it over the water on the last hole, I could hit this old ball into the water to celebrate?"

"Absolutely, buddy."

He promptly took out a short iron and plopped one about twenty yards out in the pond.  Then giggled a giggle of pure life-loving joy.

My only regret is that I didn't join him.  Next time I will.

Because while we didn't get any souvenirs, and the golf team and range finder are likely still a few years away, I have more than a hunch we will be coming here more.

And yes, buddy, probably a lot more.