The Nine Lessons (4 page)
“You came back,” she said groggily.
“Yes,” I whispered and kissed her on the forehead. “I came back.”
She squinted through very tired eyes. “And?”
“And… it looks like I’m going to be a father.”
“And?”
she asked again.
I knew she was fishing for a formal apology, but I found it hard to say the words. Part of me felt like “I’m sorry” would seem hollow, given my incredibly poor reaction to the news of her pregnancy. Another part of me was afraid to apologize at all for fear that she would misinterpret that to mean my opinion on the matter of her pregnancy had somehow changed. But there was at least one tiny portion of my subconscious that understood full well that
not
apologizing to my wife right then, no matter how trite such an apology might sound, was marital suicide. “And… I’m sorry for how I reacted earlier.”
“Good,” she said curtly, “that’s a start. If you’re lucky, I’ll forgive you tomorrow.” Erin rolled over and drifted quickly back to sleep, but I was still too wound up to follow her lead. I sat for another hour just running the day’s events through my mind, stewing on every little detail, looking for ways that things might have turned out different. But no matter how the thoughts churned in my head, I couldn’t change the fact that I had unwittingly stepped onto a path that led straight toward fatherhood, and the thought terrified me to no end. I cringed as I considered my own father and wondered if there was any chance that I could avoid ending up just like him. Was I destined to follow in his miserable footsteps? Was the genetic die already cast, or could I somehow find a way to break free from the dark shadow that London had cast on the title of father?
Rehashing my father’s shortcomings eventually gave way to thoughts of my mother. I retrieved the stack of scorecards and removed the thick rubber bands that kept them bound. There were more than fifty of them, all from the first half of 1973. Most were from Torrey Pines and Pebble Beach, famous golf courses located in California, but there were also a few from Pine Valley golf course in New Jersey. They were stacked in chronological order.
I grabbed the topmost card and started reading, and within a matter of minutes I’d learned more about my mother—and, for that matter, my father—than I’d known in my entire twenty-seven years on earth.
When you fall in love with golf it is never easy; it is obsession at first sight.
—Thomas Boswell
J
anuary 7, 1973
—It is late at night, but I cannot rest until the events of this day are recorded, lest I wake tomorrow and convince myself that it was all just a dream. And should it turn out to be a dream, God help the person who wakes me!
As I’ve written before, I have been keenly focused on improving my skills on the golf course, training each day in pursuit of obtaining full-fledged PGA membership. To that end I have strived diligently to keep my mind free of any and all distractions. But notwithstanding the diligence of my mind, today my heart encountered a distraction that it could not ignore. The name of this beautiful distraction is Jessalynn Call.
Jessalynn hails from Vermont, but she currently lives in New Jersey as a student at Princeton University. I don’t fully understand what she is studying, other than it has something to do with the physics of bending light around corners. She is visiting in California for three weeks as an official delegate at a national consortium of research universities. She must be as brilliant as she is stunning to have been selected to fill such an appointment!
I met Jessalynn quite randomly in a shoe store—I was in search of new spikes, and she was looking for tennis shoes. When I first laid eyes on her she was methodically debating the qualitative merits of Nike versus Adidas, reciting aloud the positives and negatives of each. I have no idea what compelled me to approach her; I felt drawn like a moth to fire—one look and my heart was aflame!
“The idyllic swoosh of the Nike will best complement your remarkable smile,” I told her, hoping to help put an end to her immediate concern.
“Is that so?” she said, smiling in such a way that I knew she appreciated the compliment. “And what if I frown while I’m wearing them? How will I look then?”
“Do angels frown?” I asked in reply. “I find the thought unlikely.”
When I finally managed to introduce myself as Oswald Witte, I’m embarrassed to admit that she openly laughed at me. Her father’s name is also Oswald, and she would not, under any circumstances, call me by her father’s name because doing so, she said, would erase any amount of charm that she might ever find in me. She asked me where I was from, and I proudly reported that I had moved from London, England, just four months ago. “Splendid,” she mused. “I like how that sounds. I’ll just call you London. London Witte. It has a nice ring, don’t you think?”
I told her she could call me anything she wanted, if she was willing to join me tomorrow for dinner at Torrey Pines. She agreed!
January 8, 1973—Jessalynn and I had a wonderful date tonight. I taught her the mechanics of swinging a golf club, and she in turn instructed me on how the moon’s gravitational pull could cause small but measurable differences in club-head speed at different stages of the lunar cycle (okay… so I didn’t really understand it, but it sounded VERY impressive). She persisted in calling me London throughout the entire evening, and it is beginning to grow on me. I know I’m getting ahead of myself, but I wouldn’t mind hearing her call me London every single day for the rest of my life.
It took me seventeen years to get three thousand hits. I did it in one afternoon on the golf course.
—Hank Aaron
T
he sun was already rising
above the Green Mountains when the smell of hickory bacon woke me from my slumber. I stumbled toward the kitchen, where I found Erin stooped over the countertop, putting the finishing touches on what looked to be a gourmet meal—bagels and lox, quiche, fresh fruit, and the aromatic bacon that had pulled me from bed.
“What’s all this?”
She didn’t respond. She didn’t even look up at me, but just kept slicing up berries.
Ah, the silent treatment.
I didn’t mind. I deserved it and I knew it. But I couldn’t help wondering if she was planning on eating all of the food by herself, or if I was somehow included in her brunch plans. I hoped for the latter, even if it meant eating in silence. “So,” I said, once I was sure she was fully ignoring me. “This smells… great.”
Erin scooped a small pile of whipped cream on top of the berries and took them to the table with the rest of the spread.
“And you… how are you doing? Anything I can help with?”
She went to the cupboard and withdrew two plates and cups, fetched some silverware from the drawer, and placed everything carefully around the table. Through it all she diligently avoided acknowledging my existence. Once the juice was ready and the napkins were laid out artistically atop the plates, Erin finally walked toward me. She grabbed me by the shirt and dragged me to the table, forcibly sat me down, and then she sat down quietly in the opposite chair and bored into me with her eyes.
“This really looks great… Schatzi,” I said somewhat sheepishly when I’d had my fill of her glare. “But… you really didn’t have to—”
She cut me off. “I know.” Her voice was stern, but not condescending. “I didn’t have to.” She continued staring.
“Well, then why did you?”
“I… I
chose
to.” Her face softened slightly. “Do you recognize this meal?”
I briefly studied the items on the table. “Breakfast?”
“You’re such a man,” she sighed. “This happens to be the same thing we ate on the first morning of our honeymoon. As difficult as that was for me then, I already forgave you once over this meal, and one way or another I’m determined to do it again.”
I was speechless. Erin’s actions reminded me anew that I didn’t deserve her. “You…” I stammered. “Really… I’m… you’re incredible.”
The tensions of the previous day were not immediately abated, but her gesture had at least provided a way that I could work my way back into her good graces. As we ate, I told her all about my trip to London’s—about the moose, the scorecard-journals, and the agreement I’d made to play golf with him. Erin saw it as a positive sign that I was facing my father. I think she figured it would somehow be good for me in my preparation to become a dad myself if I could put the disappointments of my youth firmly behind me. I assured her that, if anything, my visit had only heightened my fears that I would somehow become just like him.
By the time all of the food was gone, Erin had agreed to be patient with me as I tried to wrap my head around the life-altering changes that were in our future. I promised, at a minimum, to keep my negative thoughts about parenthood to myself. It wasn’t everything she hoped for, but it was a start.
London showed up as planned right at one-thirty and we drove together to get my car out of the mud. Neither of us said much along the way. A tow truck met us there and made quick work of it. My vehicle had never been dirtier, but fortunately no fluids had gotten into the engine; it started up just fine and I was able to drive myself the rest of the way to the golf course.
London was scratching at the scruff on his face when I approached his car in the parking lot. He was standing near the rear of the vehicle, beside the open hatchback. In the afternoon sun it was apparent that his short facial hair was considerably saltier than the salt-and-pepper locks on his head. He quietly pulled a new golf bag from the trunk of his car, and then addressed me in his usual gruff voice.
“Your old clubs will do, but the bag had to go.”
“Criminy,” I lamented. “I’m not taking up golf again. You really shouldn’t have done this. After your nine lessons, I won’t need a golf bag at all.”
As he’d done the night before, my father was trying very hard to keep his face as vacant as possible. His lips tightened slightly, but his voice remained steady. “Well… who knows? You might find that you enjoy it more than you remember. At any rate, I didn’t buy it for you. I’m only letting you borrow it for the next nine months. I plan to keep it around as a spare for when I take your child golfing in years to come.”
“Ha!” I snorted. “There’s no way you’re taking my kid to play golf. You’ll be lucky if I even let you near him.” I didn’t say it to be mean, it was just the way things were. London’s lip curled up at the edges, but he didn’t say anything in response.
I breathed out heavily. “You know what? Let’s just get this over with. The sooner we get on the golf course today, the sooner we can get off.”
He nodded.
“What have I gotten myself into?” I mumbled under my breath as I picked up the new bag and started walking to the first tee box.
It was still early enough in Vermont’s golfing season that there was no waiting to tee off. The fairways and greens in late April are so soggy that everyone but the nuts like my father stays away for at least a few more weeks. When we got to the first tee, I took some practice swings with my driver. I felt as clumsy as ever with a club in my hands.
“So, what will we be working on today,
Coach
?” I asked impatiently.
London was sitting on a wooden bench next to a golf ball cleaner. He scratched again at the stubble on his chin. “That depends on you.”
I looked at him dubiously. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“It means, I’m unsure what to teach you today, because I don’t know what you need to learn. Tell me, Augusta, when you found out you were going to be a father, what was the thing that scared you the most?”
“What does that have to do with golf?”
He leaned forward on the bench. “Trust me.”
I snickered at the thought.
He tried again. “Seriously, Augusta, trust me on this. Besides, I’m not starting the lesson today until you’ve answered my question. Now c’mon, out with it. What was your biggest fear when you learned that Erin was pregnant?”
“I don’t see the relevance, but fine, if it’ll move this thing along, I’ll tell you.” I took a moment or two to carefully decide how best to put my feelings into words. “I guess it’s the ‘what-ifs’ that scare me the most. What if I just don’t have it in me? Fatherhood, that is. What if I’m not cut out for it? What if I’m simply not good enough to be… the kind of father that every kid deserves?”
He looked up at me intently, carefully pondering each of my words. “Very well then. I believe I know what I’d like to teach you today.” London got up off the bench and told me to put my driver away. “For the first couple of holes,” he said, “I want you to use your putter for every shot, all the way from the tee to the cup. Depending on how you do, we may change clubs later on.”
At first I thought he was joking; nobody in his right mind would use a putter for anything but putting. Of course, I don’t recall anyone ever accusing my father of being in his right mind. It took me sixteen strokes to get the ball into the first hole and another fifteen to complete the second, which is really bad, even for me. I felt like I was playing in slow motion, moving the ball twenty to thirty yards at a time over the damp ground.
Hole number three was a short par three, and London decided to change tactics. “Put your putter away,” he directed, “and pull out your nine-iron.” Even a duffer like me knew that a nine-iron was the perfect club for this short shot, providing just the right combination of distance and height to land the ball on the green in one swing. But there was a catch. “I brought along a sack of a hundred old balls. Since there is nobody behind us on the course right now, I want you to stay right here on the tee box and just keep hitting balls until you get a hole in one. This’ll be great practice for you. Heaven knows you need it.”
“I’ve never hit a hole in one before.”
“But you’ve never had so many chances, have you?”
So I stepped up to the tee and began hitting balls toward the flagstick ninety yards away. I did miserably. Once in a blue moon a ball would land on the spacious green, but not anywhere near the hole. Most of my shots sliced or hooked in the wrong direction, missing the target by a mile. Of the hundred balls, only five ended up within putting distance of the hole. When I was out of balls London took the empty bag and started walking toward the flurry of white specks scattered along the fairway.
“Where are you going?” I asked.
“Where do you think? You haven’t got a hole in one yet. I’ll fetch the balls so you can keep swinging.”
I felt my own shoulders slump forward. “Are you serious? We’ll be out here all day,” I whined. “I’ll probably never get a hole in one.”
“Oh, have some bloody faith in yourself, Augusta. You’re bound to get one in sooner or later. Hopefully sooner, because I’m getting hungry.” London began walking away again, then he stopped once more and turned back around. “Of course, if you honestly believe you’re incapable of getting a hole in one, then I suppose we could go back to practicing with the putter like we did before.”
He didn’t have to say another word. I put the nine-iron away, pulled out my putter, and teed up a ball. If you don’t count the hundred hole-in-one attempts, then I finished that par three with a respectable 10 using only my putter.
The rest of the morning was uneventful. Dad and I didn’t talk much as we walked the course; mostly we just plodded along from shot to shot minding our own business. He was not limited to use of a putter, so he took considerably fewer shots than I did, but eventually we both finished the round. After my ball dropped in the final cup, I commented on how much better I did on the final hole than I had done on the first. “Mark me down for an eight,” I said proudly. “That’s what you call improvement.”
The final green was only a short distance from the driving range, and as I was replacing the yellow flagstick in the cup, a thin woman in her late forties came hurrying up the cart path from that direction. She was dragging along a set of well-used rental clubs in a bright orange bag. “London!” she shouted. “London! Hello!”
My father turned and smiled cordially. The woman was waving gracelessly with one hand while trying to adjust the weight of the clubs with the other. The way she positioned the bag across the front of her body told me instantly that she’d never set foot on a golf course before. “Oh. Hello, Delores. Fancy meeting you here.”
The woman flashed a flawless smile and tossed her auburn hair gently over her shoulder. “Well, I saw you coming from a mile away and I just had to say hello. And who is this strapping young man with you today?” She touched me softly on the arm. “It wouldn’t be your son that I’ve heard so much about, now would it?” Her comment caught my father by surprise, and I could tell by his awkward expression that he’d have preferred I not hear it. It caught me off-guard as well; I never would have guessed that my dad spoke to others about his semiestranged offspring who couldn’t golf worth a hill of beans.
I learned that Delores was a frequent customer at my father’s restaurant, Scotland Yards. She’d mentioned recently to London that she was looking for a new hobby to fill her free time. He casually suggested she take up golf, and that’s exactly what she did. After brief introductions, Delores explained that she was setting aside time every Saturday to come to the driving range for practice. She wanted at least a month or two of hitting balls on the range before venturing alone onto the fairways.
“Alone?” asked my father as we walked together back toward the driving range and parking lot. “You should find somebody to play with who can show you the ropes.”
“Oh, don’t you worry.” She beamed. “When I’m ready to play with someone, London, you’re on the top of my list.”
