Father's Day: U.S. Open

On the Father's Days I could spend with my dad, we spent them watching the U.S. Open golf championship. When I had moved to Oregon, I drove to my Kellogg friend Roger's apartment, we watched the final round, and then I called Dad to wish him a happy Father's Day and we became golf analysts and broke down what we'd seen.

Dad loved professional golfers. Aside from Lannie Watkins, whom he considered a "hot dog", Dad enjoyed all the great golfers: Jack Nicklaus, Raymond Floyd, Miller Barber, Gene Littler, Hale Irwin, Tom Watson, Rod Funseth, Johnny Miller, but none more than Lee Trevino.

Dad and I both loved Lee Trevino. We knew his story, how he had taught himself to play golf, used to hustle golfers at a par-3 course, playing with a taped up Dr. Pepper bottle. He was a golfer a couple of Kellogg Zinc Plant workers could identify with. Unlike the scores of professional golfers who advanced to the professional ranks through country clubs, junior programs, and prestigious university golf teams, Trevino came up from public courses and working at a driving range.

For Father's Day, 1978, I was living in Spokane and saw that Esmeralda Golf Course was hosting a Father/Son tournament. It was an alternate shot format and I thought it would be fun to play together.

I had my most humiliating moment ever on a golf course that day. Neither Dad nor I were great golfers. We managed to make our way through the first hole, probably with a double or triple bogey.

On the par-3 second hole, however, it was my turn to tee off. I got myself set, started my backswing, and in a moment of indecision, lack of confidence, anxiety (the emotions that dictate my golf game), I leaned back on my heels, totally out of balance, and only the very toe of my eight iron tapped the ball. It traveled about two feet, max.

Had this happened in a friendly golf game at Kellogg Golf Club, the others in our foursome would have just said, "Take a mulligan."

But, this was a tournament.

I've never felt worse, more ashamed, more inadequate, and more unworthy of my father, when he had to walk those two feet, take a club out of his bag, and hit our team's second shot.

I nearly cried and wouldn't have blamed my dad if he never spoke to me again.

He was embarrassed, too, and addressed his shot grimly, not expecting to have to hit a 138 yard second shot on a 139 yard hole.

I don't remember how that hole turned out or how we did in the tournament. I'm hoping we found a way to at least par a hole.

But when we went to Grandma's house after our round and sat down in front of Grandma's black and white television to watch Andy North survive the blustery conditions of Cherry Hills to win his first Open championship, Dad said, "That was a lot of fun, son. Maybe we can do it again someday."

We never did.

We played a lot of golf over the next fifteen years, but we never again formed a competitive Father/Son team.