Scratch Angel

For Wordless Wednesday I opted to post a photo of my Dad and I in 1977. It took everything in my power to not attach any words to that picture. My Mom visited a few weeks ago and brought with her a ton of pictures for me to keep. You see, my Dad is no longer with us, he had a heart attack and passed away in 2004 a few months before my wedding. Any and all photos of him are like sacred items to me. He was the first man I loved that possessed a keen ability of looking right at me and knowing precisely what I was thinking. My toughest critic, if there was one "B" on my report card,(typically for Math) he called me to task for it.

Ramble on forever I could, about my Father but, for purposes of this post I want you, my readers to know that my love of golf comes from my Dad.He was a scratch golfer and in 1989, he introduced me to this great game. In 1990 he purchased my first set of clubs for me, Ram Laser LX's with an expanded sweetspot. I'm sentimental, I keep these clubs in my storage room and occasionally the 3 iron from this set migrates back into my golf bag to the chagrin of any club pro that happens to look upon it. My Dad could hit a 1 iron with such finesse,surely I must have inherited my ability to play low irons from him.(I'll devote an entire post to my love of low irons another day)

We had a family membership to a small golf course in Hightstown, New Jersey. My Father would take me to the golf course where I took lessons with the Club Pro, Bobby and on occasion Dad would take me out to play 18. On numerous occasions I was handed the rule book and told to read it. When we were on the first tee, my Dad would make a huge fuss and embarrass me. If I was standing over a putt for Birdie, my Father was beaming.

In addition to my experiences playing golf as a youngster, I was privileged enough to also attend some LPGA events. We would attend all of the pro-am and tournament days of the JAL Big Apple Classic. The First year we attended I formed a friendship with Sally Little, who won 15 LPGA events including the LPGA championship in 1980. She was a phenomenal talent and a truly classy lady. Once, she even gave a swing lesson on the range at Stratton Mountain Golf Course in Vermont.

Sophomore year of high school I tried out for the all boys' golf team and although I was striking the ball better than some of the boys, I somehow mysteriously did not make the team. I sensed that the coach wasn't taking me seriously and knew my private school did not want a girl on the boys' golf team. I probably shed tears over this at the time but I was engrossed in a number of different sports and activities which served as a distraction.

Although, I continued to play golf intermittently with my Dad, none of the other girls in school played. Just as I was starting to get good at golf my energy started to fracture in a number of different directions. I attended college in New York City,devoted a tremendous amount of time to school work and jobs. Once I had a career,95 percent of my attention was devoted to being a success, which left little time for golf

When I met my Husband, Jim in 2001, I finally had someone my age to golf with and occasionally we golfed with my Dad. On one such occasion I inadvertently grabbed unmarked balls out of my bag to use. The matter was going along unnoticed until the 10th hole when I blistered a drive quite far into the right rough. I was playing a Titleist and apparently, so was a man on the adjacent hole.Suffice it to say, I ended up playing someone else's ball. My then boyfriend defended me to the irate man who knew I'd played his ball. As we were riding up to the green, I spied my true ball. The jig was immediately up as far as my Dad was concerned because he knew precisely what had transpired. I was busted. Due to this life lesson, I am now neurotic about marking my golf balls.

My Father is buried in a fitting place, with a view of Todt Hill Golf Course in Staten Island, New York. I insisted we bury him with his putter. The golf course is where I feel closest to my Dad these days. On the first tee I usually ask him to help me out during my round. Sometimes I feel like I do have a golf angel, other times he's surely got to be laughing at me when I'm off the beaten path scouring the woods for my ball.

It is my desperate desire to be a low handicap golfer someday, hopefully sooner rather than later. Surely, having scratch genes has to make you predisposed to being an incredible golfer. It's what I keep hoping.