Authors: Don J. Snyder
He makes an easy par on 7.
Hole 8—552-yard par-5. Dogleg right uphill over water. He nails it! Right down the center. I just paced it off—he’s 251 from the flag for
his second shot into this par-5. Uphill into the wind. Pin is guarded by a deep bunker. He must play right onto good flat green. Maryland is in the woods. Jack outdrives everyone by 40 yards. Mississippi lays up to 60 yards. Maryland lays up to 70 yards. Here’s Jack going for it in two now. Fairway metal. It’s drifting right. Fifteen feet off the right side of green. Buried in deep Bermuda rough. I am standing right over the ball and can barely see any white. But he’s here in two on the par-5, so all he has to do is get on the dance floor even if he can’t hear the band. Pars are good enough out here now. It’s freezing cold, and all the southern boys look as if they want to be at the waffle house on Route 40. Excellent wedge—high and landing soft. Ten-foot putt for birdie now. He’s the only one on the green putting for birdie. Okay, Jack for birdie now—it’s uphill and will break only a cup right to left. Makes the birdie! He is now one under after eight.
Hole 9—409-yard par-4. Tight driving hole. He can hit fairway metal. But he has driver out. Two birdies in last three holes. I would take the driver out of his hand here. But here goes—oh God, he PIPES it right down the highway. Okay, I just ran to this ball. He hit that drive 351 all the way over and down the hill no more than 50 yards from the green. Downhill wedge into bright sunlight now. The whole surface of the green is painted with shadows from the trees. Here he goes. Safely on—he’s hitting too much spin on the ball—it hopped back eight feet. He just cursed. He’s twenty-four feet from the hole now. Okay, a good lag putt. And a par. One under through nine.
Hole 10—a little par-3. He has the honors. Waiting for the group ahead to clear the green. I am halfway up the right side. Okay, it’s high and short, into the bunker. It’s a deep bunker, but he’s got ten feet of green between his ball and the pin. And he’s now singing as he walks past me. Bunker shot to ten inches. Makes par. One under after ten.
Hole 11—448-yard par-4. Jack has honors leading his group. He looks very relaxed now. Just put on his white sun visor. It’s a massive
big drive down the center. He’s 123 from front of green. Light breeze behind him. He’s 20 yards ahead of everyone. Mississippi is on in two and tight. Maryland is on at fifteen feet. And Jack hits a perfect wedge. A high cutter. He’s nine feet from the hole for birdie. It looks like a makeable putt. But pars are so good right now. Jack will putt third here. Blue sky above. This morning it was hailing on this green. Okay, Jack is putting for his birdie now. Pars are good, I am saying under my breath. He misses. Makes par. He’s hanging very tough. One under through eleven.
Hole 12—short 370-yard par-4. Jack has driver out. He’s leading his group at one under par. Sun is lowering now, and it’s getting colder. I lose his drive in the sun, but I think he’s turned it left toward the bunkers. A better caddie would have seen it land. Wait! He’s carried the bunkers 310 yards. Only 60 yards to the center of the green. He’s outdriven everyone by miles again. Mississippi is lost in deep grass. Here comes Jack’s wedge. Just left off edge of green but he’s putting only fourteen feet from the hole. Maryland is to ten feet. A long wait for Jack. Mississippi is off the green in deep rough. Jack is using wedge. I would give him putter. But he could run this in. Not a great wedge. Two feet short. Should have putted it. Will he save par and keep his streak going? Hasn’t bogeyed since the 1st hole. All pars and two birdies. I still can’t believe he’s here playing with the best D1 players in the country and holding his own. He’s got a long way to go. But he’s learning something about himself today. He’s lining up the putt now. He misses it. Bogey. Even par after twelve.
Hole 13—553-yard par-5. Can he get that dropped stroke back now? He must stay out of the trees here. Yes—right down the center. That is how you fight back from a dropped stroke on the last hole. How far to the green from here? Two hundred and twenty-six yards to the front edge. A four-iron in his hand now. Oh my God, he flies it to the pin in two on this par-5. The ball misses the hole by five inches. Rolls past. Twelve feet for an eagle. Every stroke to help his team. He doesn’t need eagle here. A birdie puts him back at one
under par through thirteen and right at the top of the leaderboard for the round. But this eagle putt will pick up a lot of speed at the hole and will be tough to stop for an easy birdie putt. Here he goes—to ten inches, great eagle putt. Should have this birdie. Yes, birdie. Back to one under through thirteen.
Hole 14—441-yard par-4. Jack leads his group at one under par. He fought right back from the bogey on 12 and birdied 13 to take the lead again. Turning very cold now. Narrow landing area. Okay, drives it up the left side. Close to tree line. Have to run ahead and see. No, he’s fine—drives it 327. Just over no into the green. He’s 40 yards past everyone. What a lovely wedge. Right on the pin but thirty feet short of the hole. Must play to save par and hold his lead here. Still a few balls of hail on the green from this morning. This is a long difficult putt. Pushed it right of hole. Two-footer to save par now. No one else saved par. I just need a beer and a cigarette. Two beers maybe. Yes, beautiful par. One under through fourteen.
Hole 15—202-yard par-3. Very narrow through the middle. Uphill over a ravine. No sunlight on the green. Four holes left to play at almost 5:45; might not finish in daylight. Dark here in forty-five minutes. A brilliant five-iron on the green. Fifteen feet from the hole. All he needs are pars the rest of the way in. He hasn’t hit one poor shot this whole round. And has birdied three of the long par-5s. He moves his head and pushes the putt right again by two feet. Another tester to hold par here. And the lead going to the 16th tee. Yes, on to 16. One under after fifteen.
Hole 16—357-yard short par-4. Tee shot. He’s trying to carve the corner on this dogleg. Why? It’s short from the middle. A mistake. He pushes the drive too far right into the Bermuda rough again. Mistake number one with three holes left. This is where you have to think straight and close the deal. Pars are all he needs. He drives to 10 yards short of green, 347 yards. That was a hell of a drive. But he’s in Bermuda grass again. He chips it out. Okay, a ten-foot putt for birdie. Should save par. But he got ahead of himself on this hole. Feeling his oats. This will be a fast putt, and it will turn two cups
from left to right. Just misses the birdie. He marks his ball. Seven inches to make par. Yes. One under after sixteen.
Hole 17—357-yard par-4 uphill narrow fairway. Can’t wait till this is over. Can’t believe what I have seen Jack do today. Holding his lead against these big top players. Murders his drive. A 340-yard drive. Miles past everyone. His coach just spun by. I told him he’s under par through sixteen. “He’s shown guts and character today,” he said. “Real guts in his first Di tournament. He can go as far in this game as he wants.” Two holes left, and why am I scared to death right now? He’s got only 120 left. Oh God, what a shot. High cut, and landing like a moth. He’s ten feet from his fourth birdie this round. Just short. He’s got par. One under to the last hole.
Hole 18—357-yard par-4. Holding a two-stroke lead in his group. One more par and he will have posted one of the best rounds in this, his first D1 tournament. Darkness is falling. “Close the deal, Jack,” I tell him as he walks past. Cold and the sun has set. He massacres the drive. I am utterly amazed that he can play like this in his first tournament. He drives the fucking green! I swear. Here he is on the green! A 357-yard drive with a two-stroke lead on the last hole. Well, I have seen everything now. And water down the left side. He has an eagle putt on the par-4 last hole. Here comes his putt. Two feet short. He picked up on it. Here comes the birdie. Misses. A three-putt par on the 357 par-4. Jack finishes one under in his first Division I college tournament.
As he comes off the last hole, he tosses me his ball. “This is for you, Daddy,” he says. It is one of those moments that we live for. And as I drive away from Greensboro, I am certain for the first time that Jack can play golf anywhere and hold his own against anyone.
Five months later. Money is very tight now with Erin heading to grad school, Nell in her third year of college, Cara starting her freshman year in the autumn, and Jack in his sophomore year. We are living the way we did when I was in grad school, only not quite so well without our youth, wrapped up in blankets on the couch in the evenings rather than turning up the heat. Dear Colleen found an exercise bike for me at the Cape Elizabeth dump so that I can keep in shape all winter for another season caddying in Scotland. I’ve been riding it every day since Thanksgiving, and I was churning through my ten-mile session this morning, staring out the window at the first buds on the maple tree in the backyard, when Jack called. I thought about climbing off the bike and answering the phone, but I decided that I would call him back, so I let the machine pick it up, and soon I heard my son’s voice saying, “Call me back when you get this, Daddy. I’ve got some bad news.”
Since North Carolina in October, we could afford to bring Jack home only once for a few days at Christmas, but each time he’s called, he has been well and full of excitement. His new golf season is about to begin. He’s in love with his girlfriend, Jenna. But there was something in his voice this time, a heaviness, I suppose. I played the message again after I finished riding, then one more time as I got down on the floor and did my forty push-ups. Each time my Saint Christopher medallion clinked against the floor, I imagined a different kind of bad news … His old car died. He lost his job at Inverness.
I didn’t get him on the phone until tonight; he was busy working all day. And before he could deliver the bad news, I told him that I was flying over to Scotland on the fifteenth and that I had decided
to set aside the money I made from my first ten loops to bring him across for a week.
“How’s that sound?” I asked him.
“I’m through with golf,” he said. “I got thrown off the team.”
I listened to him explain that his grades had fallen so low that the university would not allow him to play any more golf. I was only on the telephone with him a few minutes. The whole time I kept thinking in one chamber of my mind, Well, it’s small potatoes when you consider how bad things can go for your kids. It’s nothing really. What does golf mean in the wider scheme of things? But the top of my head felt as if it were on fire. I walked into Jack’s old bedroom and stood there for a while feeling as if a cold wind were blowing through me. I sat down on his bed and began reading through the entries I made in my diary last summer at Kingsbarns. That whole season, whenever I got discouraged or missed home, I reassured myself that even though Jack and I were on our separate roads, they were running parallel toward the same destination.
The first stars were out when I sat at my desk and uploaded the diary entries from my BlackBerry to my laptop. I’ve been meaning to do this for months, and when I finished, I walked out the back door of the house, across the yard, and down the hill to the marsh, where I threw the BlackBerry up against the side of a tree trunk as hard as I could and watched with some satisfaction as it shattered.
I have just written to Davy at Kingsbarns, telling him that I will not be able to return this summer.
This is my first diary entry in nine months. I haven’t felt like writing anything since Jack was thrown off the golf team, and now that he is home, I am sticking to the plan I made before he arrived—never to be alone with him in a room so that we won’t have to talk about him pissing away his chance to earn a golf scholarship by not going to class and by letting his grades drop so low that the coach had no choice but to cut him from the team. With his three sisters in school now at the same time, I needed him to win a scholarship. And I told him last summer that he was on his own from here on. He is taking the loans in his name and he will be repaying them until his hair turns gray.
I’ve had plenty of time to drive to Pennsylvania to have that conversation about forgiveness with my father that Jack talked to me about three years ago in Scotland, but somehow I never did. My father got strong enough to leave the skilled-care wing of the assisted-living facility, back to his apartment, where he resumed watching his beloved Penn State football games with the old men who had been boys with him in the 1940s, but only for a little while before his decline began in earnest. Two months ago he made the short
journey once again down the carpeted corridor into the skilled-care wing, where he was expected to die as quickly as possible and with little fuss.
Always the optimist, my father thought he was there to get stronger so he could return again to his apartment. But after several months when no one took him for a single walk down the hallway to see the people he missed, he began to understand what was happening, and he lashed out at everyone trying to care for him.
By the time I made the trip to see him on Sunday, I had four empty bedrooms in my house in Maine and another five in my house in Canada, and I was determined to get my father out of the warehouse, where the staff now kept him so drugged that he could barely lift his head up. I arrived at lunchtime. He sat strapped in a wheelchair at a round table with six others also in wheelchairs. They were all drooling and lost in their own misery while nurses’ aides shoveled food into their mouths.
I held his hand and told him who I was, but he didn’t acknowledge me. After half an hour I could barely breathe, and I got up to go outside and have a cigarette. I had just turned away when he called to me. “Donnie, you can do anything. Take me with you.”
I told him that I would. “Someday soon I’ll drive down here from Maine and take you back with me,” I said as I lay beside him on his bed later that day. Then after he fell asleep, I left him there and drove home.