Golfing With Dad

Dad at work. Associated Truck Lines.

I don't golf. I don't like to golf, it's frustrating and requires a lot of walking. Now that, that is established, let me tell you about my phone call with my Uncle Joe. Uncle Joe called the other day to check up on me and Mark. My eighty seven year old uncle called because he was worried about me and Mark. Let's just stop and think about that for a moment....   Anyway, during that call with my uncle and aunt, we discussed my dad and wondered how did he come to be such a cusser. One of the enduring memories of my dad was his cursing. I suggested he learned it when he was in the Army Air Corps during WWII. Uncle Joe felt it was probably something he picked up from the drivers and dockhands during his decades working for a trucking company.

This memory of Dad involves golfing. One bright Saturday morning my Dad, my brother, and I went golfing. It was the very first and the last time I ever golfed. We drove out to a small golf club near Orlando, Florida. Luckily for me it was not crowded. Just our trio and a few others, including a group of elderly ladies. So I tee off and my ball travels about five feet. Dad starts cursing, "What the hell are you doing? Goddamn, you gotta hit it better than that." First hole probably took me ten strokes. Beyond that things got worse and Dad continued to swear. He swore when I fucked up, and he swore when things didn't go well for him. Meanwhile, my brother seemed to be disturbed by all this swearing. Especially when the group of elderly ladies caught up with us. That was when my brother Dave, pulled Dad aside and asked him to calm it down. After all, this golf course was owned by the Baptist Church and those were some very genteel Baptist ladies that we let play through.