The Golf Lesson

With my part-time job, working for Archie Miller at 65 cents an hour, I hardly had the time or money to golf. Conversely, Willard and Dick spent so much time at the Town and Country Club each summer that they could have gone to court and claimed squatter rights over much of the property.

Dick's uncle, Don Muhs, managed the club for a number of summers and Dick was hired to clean up the clubhouse every morning. Willard often joined him, and occasionally, I pitched in as well. Once we finished tasks like emptying ashtrays, sweeping the floor, and cleaning the toilets, Dick would generously let each of us grab a bottle of soda from a 1950s-era vending machine—a contraption where the bottles sat in circulating water, providing some semblance of coolness, though far from cold. There was no ice maker on site, so each afternoon, when Don arrived to tend the bar, he brought along a Coleman cooler brimming with ice for mixed alcoholic drinks. If you ordered just a Coke with ice, he would complain about how little ice he had, but then grudgingly dispense a single half-melted cube, reserving the rest for the more lucrative beverages.

I never learned to play golf very well, but I did try to play occasionally. I recall one particular day of golfing after we finished the club cleanup chores.  We were at the fourth tee box.  Dick executed a flawless slight left hook with his shot. Willard then teed off and much to his dismay his ball veered off with its characteristic slightly right fade.  Not a bad drive, but Willard was not happy since he and Dick were playing for money and he was already down 30 cents and was now 75 yards further from the green than Dick.  

Then it was my turn and I cautiously addressed the ball with my driver.  Willard and Dick both watched closely while I did a practice swing or two.  Their eyes were intently focused on the angle of my clubhead's face because my ball frequently took a severe smother hook.

Willard: "Open your face a bit".

Me: "OK, how's that?" (The face of the clubhead had not moved)

Willard: "Open it some more."

Me: "Well, OK.  Now is it where YOU want it?"  (The face of the clubhead still had hardly moved, if at all)

Dick (almost shouting): "Turn the fricking face to the right!"

Now "fricking" is the strongest cuss word in Dick's very limited cuss word vocabulary so I knew I was doing something terribly wrong, but I had no idea what it was.  I shouted back: "I have turned it as far as I possibly can!"

Both of their gazes shifted from their intense scrutiny of the angle of my clubhead's face, only to find me in a comically absurd golf stance: my head (not the clubhead) was turned completely to the right facing backwards.  Simultaneously they both broke out in laughter. Dick lay sprawled on the grass and rolled from side to side while he laughed; Willard stayed seated on the bench and wiped tears from his eyes because he laughed so hard.

The laughing hyenas finally stopped. I don't remember exactly how my drive finally turned out, but we proceeded to play. With each hole we played, the incident kept churning in my mind, fermenting like a pot about to boil over. By the time we reached the seventh tee box, I couldn't contain it any longer. I turned 90 degrees to the right to face the Sheyenne River. With a sense of release, I launched all my remaining balls towards the river, each swing fueled by a mixture of frustration and determination.

In that moment, as I watched some of my shots soar towards, or perhaps even near, the river, they felt like the most satisfying drives I had ever executed. Amidst my anger and frustration with both Willard and Dick, I couldn't deny the sincerity behind their efforts. Now as I reflect back on that moment, I'd trade most anything to go back and play golf with both of them just one more time.