The Nine Lessons (5 page)
“Oh,” he stammered, “I didn’t mean me. I only thought—”
“I know what you meant. But you’re still on the top of my list.” It was obvious that she was flirting with London, but he didn’t flirt back. Instead, he quickly said good-bye and took off to put his clubs away. Delores giggled like a schoolgirl as she watched him leave, and then she returned to the driving range to hit more range balls.
With Delores gone, London suggested we go inside the clubhouse for a quick bite. I objected at first, but he roped me into it by pronouncing our deal null and void lest I join him to discuss our so-called golf lesson.
“So,” he said casually, once we were seated inside, sipping Cokes, “do you feel like you learned anything from our lesson today?”
“Not really,” I said honestly.
“Bugger. I was so sure you would. Oh, well, it was fun golfing again, right?”
“Yes, great fun. Have you seen the blisters on my hands from swinging that stupid putter?” I held them up for him to get a good look. “What did I shoot, like 200?”
He glanced down at the scorecard lying on the table. “Yeah, about that. Plus another hundred on hole number three.”
“I’m not counting those,” I objected. “I would have never kept trying for a hole-in-one if you hadn’t told me to.”
“You’re right,” he conceded. “I won’t count those. But I sure would have liked to see how many strokes it would take you to get a hole-in-one. I read recently that for the average golfer, the odds of getting a hole-in-one are one in 150,000. Can you imagine hitting that many balls and only sinking one of them?”
“Nope,” I said, “it would be a complete waste of time even trying.”
London took a long sip of his drink. “You know, when you think about it, in golf a hole-in-one is perfection. An ace. You just can’t do any better than that. I think it’s every golfer’s dream to have that moment of perfection, when the stars align just right—the swing is perfect, the wind direction is perfect, the club-head speed is perfect—and that little white ball drops out of sight into the cup. After all these years I still haven’t gotten one, and I’ve taken well over 150,000 shots.” He paused to put a toothpick between his lips.
I set my drink down. “Where are you going with this?” I asked, suspecting that he wasn’t just rambling on for no reason.
“Going? Nowhere. Not really… it’s just that… do you remember what I always used to say about golf?”
I rolled my eyes. “You mean that
golf is life
? How could I ever forget? You drilled it into me every chance you could! I grew so tried of hearing you say that. Golf may be your life, but it certainly isn’t mine.”
His entire face frowned. “I’m glad you remember. But I don’t think you understood what I meant back—”
My shrill laugh cut him off. “If you meant that golf was the most important thing in your life, then I understood perfectly.” I was starting to feel like it was time to go. I’d already had way more golf than I could stomach for one day, and if we were about to start bringing up bad memories of the past, I preferred to not be part of it.
“It was a metaphor,” he said flatly. “A bloody figure of speech, nothing more. I learned a long time ago that golf could teach me about life, if I was just willing to listen.”
I laughed again. “Seriously? You’re crazier than I thought. Golf is golf—
nothing more
. You hit the ball, you lose the ball, and then you go home and curse the man who invented the game.”
I could sense him tensing, but he kept his emotions in check. “I respectfully disagree.”
“Oh? Well then, Coach, assuming your little theory about golf is correct, then it stands to reason that I should have learned something today about life, right? But all I learned is that putters suck on the fairways and that I’ll never get a hole-in-one. Why are we even talking about this?” I asked impatiently.
“Nobody plays golf because they are perfect golfers. Nobody expects to step up and nail a hole-in-one every time. The whole point of golf is not to
be
a perfect golfer—that’s impossible. The point is to become better over time as you play more and gain experience. It’s like you with that putter today—you improved throughout the day. That’s progress.”
“And? What’s your point?”
London placed his drink down abruptly on a coaster and looked right at me. “The point, Augusta Nicklaus, is that fatherhood scares the bloody snot out of everyone! The point is that
nobody
is ever ready for parenthood, and nobody will ever be a perfect parent. If a father expects to stand up and hit a hole-in-one right from the start with his children, he’s going against the odds. The best you can hope for as a parent is to use whatever measly skills you’ve got, and try to do your best.”
I stared blankly at my father for several seconds, dumbfounded by what he’d just said. Had my ears deceived me? Had London Witte just successfully related our golf lesson to my personal fear that I was incapable of being a father? The thought that he might have just taught me something of value about life by hitting a little white ball around in the grass was more than I could take. I was tired, my hands ached, and to top it all off, my father had just said something intelligent. “I have to go now,” I said lamely.
London didn’t blink an eye as I stood up. “One last thought before you leave, Augusta. From what I saw out there today, a golfer with nothing more than a measly putter in his hands can still move the ball in the right direction. And even if it seems difficult at first, given a little practice and experience, the golfer will improve.”
I would spend plenty of time during the ensuing weeks and months thinking about those words, but I wouldn’t allow myself to ponder them right there in front of my father. He should have been the last person on earth offering advice about fatherhood. This was the man who, when I was a first-grader, had cared more about teaching me how to correctly replace spikes in my golf shoes than how to tie shoelaces. The same man who made sure I memorized, in chronological order, every winner of the British Open before he would allow me to study the presidents of the United States for my seventh-grade history exam. No, this man had no business talking to me about fatherhood. I turned and left.
“So, see you next month?” he called.
I stopped just long enough to nod. “Only for the scorecards.”
Love is a hole in the heart.
—Ben Hecht
J
anuary 24, 1973
—It has been a mere seventeen days since I first stumbled across the incomparable Jessalynn Call. She is a wonder—a rare combination of intelligence, humour, and beauty, the likes of which I’ve never found in one person. She is terrible at golf, but that is a minor flaw at best. She returned two days ago to school in New Jersey, and I feel strangely empty without her. From our first date on, we spent nearly every free moment together while she was in California, and now that she is gone I feel a piece of me is missing, too. My hyperdiligence in practicing for the PGA has slipped considerably, being temporarily replaced by a burning desire to simply see her again. One way or another, I will see Jessalynn very soon.
February 8, 1973—Having spent most of my surplus money on course membership fees, I lack the funds needed to buy a plane ticket to New Jersey, so this morning I began hitchhiking across the country. A trucker named Les picked me up after just thirty minutes by the roadside. If all goes as planned I should be on the East Coast in a couple of days. We have already crossed the border into Arizona. Les has agreed to take me as far as Denver. I brought along plenty of extra scorecards to document my trip, which I pray will be a safe and quick journey. Princeton or bust!!
February 13, 1973—The drive continues… slowly. Finding willing chauffeurs who do not appear dangerous has proven to be the largest obstacle to hitchhiking. Les, it seems, was a lucky first ride. I spent the better part of yesterday freezing in the cold at a rest stop in Ohio. Finally a nice old man named Willie took pity on me. My hands have just defrosted enough in his car to grip the pen and write. We are currently passing through Centre Country, Pennsylvania—beautiful rolling hills, but too much snow for my liking. I could never live in such a climate—I would suffer golf withdrawals during the long winters. Assuming there are no major delays, I should arrive at my destination by tomorrow.
February 14, 1973—Valentine’s Day! And what a perfect day it has been. Jessalynn was completely shocked when she opened the door to find me on her doorstep. I had not told her I was coming, so she was beginning to think I had lost interest in a long-distance relationship and that I was avoiding her calls. Actually, she was right—which is why I took measures to shorten the distance between us from miles to inches. I don’t wish to put words in her mouth, but based on how tight she hugged me, she was glad I’d come. Our reunion was very nice, but really just a prelude to what happened later in the evening during dinner: Cupid must’ve had his arrows pointed straight at my heart today, because while we were waiting for our waiter to bring dessert, I asked her to marry me! No ring, no knee—just a whim and a prayer.
Jessalynn is the smartest woman I’ve ever known, and so in typical left-brained fashion she weighed her options carefully, methodically measuring the plusses and minuses of accepting the proposal (she even asked the waiter for a pen and paper so she could jot down notes and make a list). In the end, her decision required a little more information from me. “Will you always love me?” she asked. I said that I would. “Will you put me first in your life, even ahead of golf?” I answered affirmatively. “Then,” she said, throwing all caution and planning and mature decision-making out the window, “let’s go to Atlantic City tonight. If we apply for a license tomorrow morning, we can be married in seventy-two hours! I can’t wait to become Mrs. London Witte!”
February 18, 1973—Are only fools allowed to rush in? No, sane people can rush in, too, but only when the love they share is real. The love I feel for my wife is the realest, purest thing I’ve ever felt in all my life. We were married this morning in a simple ceremony at a wedding chapel. Jessalynn’s parents were not overly thrilled with the news, but they came down from Vermont anyway to support their “headstrong” daughter. Jessalynn is asleep beside me on our first night as husband and wife. I can hardly believe that she is mine. After she fell asleep tonight I knelt and thanked God that Jessalynn and I needed shoes on the same day.
March 15, 1973—Life just keeps getting better! The university has awarded Jessalynn a research stipend, which will help keep us afloat through the rest of this semester. I am also working hard to help provide some income; I’ve found a sales job at a large golf shop in Trenton. It doesn’t pay well, but they have a large room inside where I can hit balls to work on my swing. I can’t wait for the heavy spring rains to let off, so I can get back on an actual golf course.
April 20, 1973—Life happens too bloody fast! After a long bus ride home tonight from work, I entered the apartment to find Jessalynn crying on the couch. There was a brown paper bag full of vomit on the floor next to her. I thought maybe she had the flu. She was reluctant to tell me that it is not a sickness that will go away any time soon—Jessalynn is pregnant. I am ecstatic about it, but she is very nervous. She feels ill prepared to take on motherhood. What’s more, if her department finds out about it she will likely lose her scholarship, but the way things look right now, that won’t matter much anyway. The semester ends in a few weeks, and at that time we will go to stay with her parents in Vermont. Jessalynn is trying to be stoic and positive about it all, but I think deep down she realizes that the child she carries is bringing a much sooner end to her days at Princeton than she had planned.
