Golf is a game often passed from one generation to the next, father or mother to daughter or son. Our staff tell stories of the way the game was given to them.
JOSH NELSON, ATLANTA
The first time I played in a Father/Child golf tournament with my dad I was only six or seven years old. It was part of the family fun at the PGA Tour’s Walt Disney World Oldsmobile Classic. My dad, Larry Nelson, would play with both me and my two year-older brother, Drew, at the same time.
I remember a few holes into the tournament hitting a good shot to about six feet that bettered my older brother’s shot to about twelve feet.
My dad made the 12-footer for Drew and then proceeded to miss the 6-footer for me. I walked off the green crying, thinking my dad loved my brother more than me.
To this day, my father, who won three major championships and played on three US Ryder Cup Teams, says, “The most pressure I ever felt in my professional career was after making a 12-foot putt for Drew and having to make a 6-footer for Josh to tie.”
Golf with Dad has provided many of my favorite memories associated with the game. I’m thankful that the love of my father could create more pressure over a six-foot putt for a Mickey Mouse trophy for his son than any other he can remember.
Thank you, Dad, for always making your family priority over worldly success!
BILL EULER, SOUTHWEST TEXAS
I loved seeing my dad play Beechwood Golf Course in La Porte, Indiana, where I grew up, on the weekends. He had a regular game with four or five friends. They would always walk and played a low ball-high ball game. Probably exchanged a dollar or two each round.
He wanted me to play golf, so he had me caddie, knowing I would get hooked on the game. He was right.
MARTY JACOBUS, CALIFORNIA DESERT
I played my first round of golf with my dad 55 years ago on a nine-hole course in Southern Illinois. He was a pretty good 11- to 14-handicap and we played together many times during the spring/summer throughout his life. He was my favorite golf partner in friendly matches and in tournaments. I was 14 when I beat him for the first time and he never beat me again after that.
My dad and I won a few member guests and a couple father son events over the years. One of my favorite memories was at The Connecticut Golf Club where I was a member in the late 80s and 90s. He had been diagnosed with leukemia and would pass away a few years later. We were competing on Father’s Day weekend in 1990 and he was not feeling well at all, but we played anyway. He managed a par on the short par-4, seventeenth (which was the only hole he counted on all day). I played some of my best golf that weekend and somehow we won low gross. I will never forget the smile on his face when they gave us the crystal trophy for first place. I miss him a lot and am grateful for the start he gave me to the game I love so much.
RAY CARRASCO, SOUTHERN CALIFORNIA
This is about how my father helped me become a good putter. My father never really played golf. Yes, he played about three or four times with me after I had started playing on my own. I actually “played” for about a year and a half on a large school field before I set foot on a real golf course. I was about 10 years old at that time.
About four years later, I had started playing in junior tournaments. My father would dutifully watch me as I shined and struggled. He encouraged me to keep working on the right stuff.
One evening, while relaxing at home after a tournament, he turned to me and asked, “Son, how long have you been playing golf?” I answered, “I guess about five years now.” He looked at me and said, “Isn’t it about time you started becoming a good putter? There is no one throwing a fastball at your head, no one trying to block or tackle you, and no one is trying to take your head off with a wild right cross. Why don’t you just step up there and roll the ball where you are looking?”
I thought about that for a few seconds and decided that he was right. From then on I became a very good putter.
LEWIS GREER, ARIZONA
Like many kids, I loved golf because my dad loved golf. I have a picture of me with a plastic club when I was about two, and throughout my childhood “the country club” was one of my favorite places. We lived in a small rural town, and the golf course was nine holes with two sets of tees. Our church picnics were often held in an open area near the fourth tee, and at least one high school party was held in the clubhouse, which was about 3,000 square feet if you counted the basement, where the concrete-floored men’s locker room was.
My dad was a solid player, winning the A flight of the club championship when I was very young, but mostly he played on Sunday after church with Doc and Tommy and Kell. I took up the game with some seriousness when I was 10 or 11, and I first beat my dad when I was 14. He was much happier about it than I was, though it had been a goal of mine for a while. The best thing about it was that I then got to play more often with my dad, and with other adults at the club. Once on number seventeen (eight from the back tee), our longest par-4 at about 390, I hit a long drive down the middle. Dad asked, “What were you thinking about when you hit that shot?”
I pondered for a moment and then answered honestly, “Nothing.” And he said, “That’s a good thing to think about when you play golf.”
These days it is rare for me to play golf and not quote my dad, who passed away in 2001. The one I use most is, “As my dad used to say, Confucius said,’He who looks up sees bad shot.’”
Perhaps because I picked up the game easily, or perhaps because he didn’t feel qualified, my dad never really tried to teach me how to play. But on the golf course he taught me a lot about the game, and he taught me even more about how to conduct myself, about playing by the rules, and about the joy of both the game and the friendships that came with it.
My dad, widowed when I was 11, cared deeply about two things outside of taking care of his kids: God and golf. I followed his lead in both, and I am forever grateful. Happy Father’s Day, Dad. You were the best.
(Photo: Lewis on the right, his brother Bill on the left, flanking Carolyn, the daughter of one of their father’s golfing buddies, Doc Harrell. Carmi Country Club in Carmi, Illinois. Circa 1950.)