Golf relationship will carry on

It may be the end of January, but I’m thinking about golf.

Not golf of the Tiger Woods variety. But golf as the life-long sport it is.

And how important it can be.

The reason I’m thinking about golf is simple. Recently my wife Kim and her family scattered the ashes of her dad Fred at Point Lobos State Park on the California coastline.

And Kim brought some of Fred back.

He and I played golf together – a lot.

Like many people, the golf course is where we bonded. It’s also where he gave me the OK to marry his daughter. Somewhere on the back nine at Jack Kramer’s course in Corona, Calif., a lifetime ago.

Of course I wasn’t crass enough to ask on the course – that came later in Fred and Kay’s home – but his approval came right after he left a birdie putt short and, without thinking, I questioned his manhood. Just blurted something out really. Didn’t know how he would take it. But, heck, it’s golf and that’s what golfers do. I instantly regretted it.

He laughed. And gave me a look that let me know he accepted me.

Wheh.

Over the next three decades we played often. Many of my favorite memories come from the course.

Like the time we stood on the 14th tee at Liberty Lake, needing a good drive in our pursuit of winning the prestigious Wet Dog Fur Open, a four-man scramble event sponsored by the sports department.

Catching all of a drive, my ball sailed over the little valley and on to the upper level less than 100 yards from the green. Our two teammates exploded, because they knew no one else needed to hit. We would use mine.

That didn’t sit well with Fred, whose play up to that point wasn’t particularly satisfying.

“No way he’s out-driving me,” he growled, before air-mailing my ball and landing his within 50 yards of the cup.

He turned, laughed and smiled a satisfied grin. I don’t remember anything from the rest of the day. But I do remember that contented look.

Fred never lost it – he was a retired firefighter after all – and he never stopped out-driving me.

In more ways than one.

When he took the family on a cross-country vacation in 1969, he packed his clubs along with his two daughters’ clothes and school books in the trunk of their Lincoln.

Miles and miles they drove, visiting historical sites, relatives and old friends. But he didn’t play golf. The clubs stayed in the trunk.

Until they got to Augusta, Ga.

Then Fred had Kay and the girls drop him at the front gate of Augusta National, his clubs and firefighter badge in hand.

He spent the day there, standing on the edge of Magnolia Lane trying to get someone, anyone, to let him play.

It was a Quixotic quest, he knew, but something he had to try. He failed. But he traded a day for a story he could tell for 30 years.

I heard it often. With golf, Fred was a creature of habit.

Before every round we played together, he unscrewed the top of a small glass jar that held a sticky substance. He rubbed a dab of the stuff on his hands. He bought the jar, he told me, back in the ‘60s. The stuff still worked.

And in the jar now, after I washed the rest of the sticky junk out, are some of Fred’s ashes.

Before you judge, know that Fred and I talked this over as we cleaned out his garage, saying goodbye. He knew he was going to lose his battle with brain cancer and I knew I wanted him to play golf with me the rest of my life.

It was his idea to use the jar.

So I’m going to carry him with me in my bag as well as my heart. And if I ever get to Augusta, he’ll get a chance to be there with me.

And some of him will stay.