The Nine Lessons (13 page)

“Then thanks for teaching me,” I said. “At least I learned
something
about golf as a kid.”

London nodded. “Yes,” he sighed thoughtfully. “At least you learned something.”

CHAPTER 13

Golf is 90 percent inspiration and 10 percent perspiration.

—Johnny Miller

J
anuary 7, 1974
—A year ago today I met the woman who stole my heart in a shoe store. Now look at me; all of the dreams I was chasing just twelve months ago have died. But they have been replaced by new dreams—better dreams, like watching my son grow up to be a man. Who knows, maybe one day he’ll carry the Witte family name into the golf hall of fame (I’m already talking to him each night about how to get a tight backspin on the ball and when to lay up instead of trying to fly the full distance of a water-hazard… hopefully it will all sink in!)

We celebrated the anniversary of our meeting by moving out of Jess’s parents’ home and into a small flat. It’s nothing much, but at least it’s a space of our own.

February 4, 1974—Since I’m not going to pursue a career as a professional golfer, I feel an urgent need to find something else that can financially provide for my family. To that end, yesterday I visited the local culinary school, which is known to produce some of the best chefs in the States. When I got there I was not surprised to find that they had no interest in helping me steal away one of their students from the program, which was understandable. Besides, I don’t really need the absolute best chef in the world—I just need someone who knows his way around a kitchen and who is hungry for opportunity. It took some finagling, but eventually I begged the receptionist to give me a list of local residents who had dropped out or been kicked out of the school in the last year. She reluctantly provided me with three names. This morning I contacted them all. One of the three is a man named Brian Dillon, and he is just the sort of young, nothing-to-lose kind of guy that I need. I proposed that the two of us go into business together to open a golf-themed restaurant. He has no particular affinity for golf, but as long as he stays back in the kitchen cooking good food I don’t see that as a problem. Brian is going to start working on a menu while I put together a business plan.

March 15, 1974—We’ve settled on a name for our restaurant: Scotland Yards. The food will be a sampling of fares from the United Kingdom, mostly Scottish, and the place will be decked out top to bottom with golf memorabilia. Plus, our entire staff will be clad in kilts. I can hardly wait! The few people who I’ve told about the idea think I’m nuts, except for Jessalynn—she says I can do anything I put my mind to, and I think she truly believes that. Her faith in me helps me have faith in myself. She is truly the gust of wind that helps my ball soar.

March 24, 1974—This morning the bank agreed to give us a loan for our business… sort of. Actually, they told me “no” the first time I went in, due to lack of credit history and almost zero collateral between myself and Brian. But somehow Jess managed to convince her parents to put a second mortgage on their home to make the deal work. So Oswald and I went back in to the bank today to sign the final papers. He told me point-blank on the ride home that he fully expects the restaurant to fail, and that he only agreed to get us the money so he can prove to Jessalynn once and for all that she married a louse. He also made it clear that if (he said “when”) I lose his money, he’ll see to it that I work around the clock at whatever menial jobs I can find to pay him back, even if it takes me the rest of my life. Talk about pressure! It makes me wonder if I wasn’t better off just going ahead with my plans to make a living swinging clubs. As it stands right now, Oswald Call owns me. How about that—I’ve sold my soul to the devil!

July 1, 1974—Scotland Yards’ grand opening was held today, and it was a smashing success! The building we’ve leased is in an idyllic location near the waterfront. Somehow we were able to cobble everything together in just a few months to be where we are today. Now we can get down to the business of making money. My time has been very limited lately; it seems as though every waking moment is dedicated either to working on the restaurant or to helping take care of baby Augusta. He wakes us up at least three times a night, but I don’t mind—holding him in my arms, even when I’m exhausted, warms my heart and makes the long hours at work all worth it.

With everything else going on in my life, I have only golfed four times in the past three months. I miss it, but would much rather spend what little free time I have with Jess and Augusta. I find it funny how personal priorities change, seemingly overnight.

December 21, 1974—It’s Augusta’s first birthday, and he is growing like a weed. Since I couldn’t take time off work today, Jessalynn and her parents brought him into Scotland Yards for dinner so I could celebrate with them. He grunted loudly all during my rousing rendition of “Happy Birthday” on the bagpipes, turning bright red in the face in the process. By the time the music stopped his diaper was filled. I’m hoping that wasn’t his way of telling me what he thought of my playing, but if it wasn’t to his liking I wouldn’t blame him a bit—I’m bloody terrible at it! Even so, playing for my own son tonight with the whole restaurant watching was a special treat.

CHAPTER 14

If your opponent is playing several shots in vain attempts to extricate himself from a bunker, do not stand near him and audibly count his strokes. It would be justifiable homicide if he wound up his pitiable exhibition by applying his niblick to your head.

—Harry Vardon

W
hen the morning
of my September golf lesson rolled around I awoke with a hint of anticipation for whatever new insights awaited me on the links. Against all of my initial expectations and preconceptions, playing golf with my father was actually becoming, dare I say, enjoyable. I woke up earlier than normal, hoping to beat London to the course so I could get in some warm-ups for a change. Erin was still asleep when I rolled out of bed, and I decided it was probably better that she remain sleeping if I wanted to get out the door early.

For reasons I didn’t fully understand, Erin seemed to be growing resistant to my taking time away to play golf. During the past week she’d dropped several hints that she wanted me to spend my Saturdays with her, getting the house ready for the baby, rather than “roaming around in the weeds” with London. I chalked her sudden opposition up to lack of understanding on her part—if she knew the things that London was trying to teach me, she’d probably be thrilled that I was spending one day each month hitting balls with the man. But I still wasn’t ready to share that information, and until I was it seemed wise for me to avoid confrontation. If that meant creeping out of bed and sneaking out of the house before she awoke, that was fine with me.

I tiptoed quietly across the room and crept into the hallway. With the coast clear I found some fresh clothes in the dryer, scarfed down a piece of toast, and was just heading into the garage to grab my clubs when Erin’s voice disturbed the silence.

“Honey,” she called. “Are you up?”

My wife is a very intelligent woman, so she must have known that I was up without even asking the question. I wasn’t in bed next to her as she yelled at me from our bedroom on the other end of the house, so where else could I be but “up”? I knew right away that her question was just a prelude to some other matter that she wanted to discuss, but I had no intention of delving into tangents at the moment, so I played dumb. “Uh, yeah, Schatzi, I’m up.”

“Well what are you up to?”

Again, this was a question that she already knew the answer to. I had personally watched her write down “August—Golf” in her day planner just two days earlier. I answered her question, but with as few details as possible. “Going to the garage,” I called back.

“For what?”

“Oh, for crying out loud,” I mouthed silently, wanting to scream the words but knowing that doing so would spoil my trip to the golf course. I considered turning the handle to the garage door and proceeding as though I hadn’t heard her, but even from the other end of the house I loved her too much to be deceitful.

“August? Did you hear me?” she yelled again.

I saw no point in continuing our game of verbal cat and mouse, since we both knew precisely what I was up to. In the interest of putting an immediate end to the discussion so that I could leave, I yelled back to her as politely as I could. “I’m going golfing! I’m going into the garage to get my clubs, and then I’m walking out the door, getting in the car, and going golfing!”

There were several long seconds of silence.

“Did you take the trash out?” she called eventually.

Rather than continue yelling, I stomped back through the house and opened up the bedroom door. She was sitting up in bed with a book on her lap. “I took the trash out yesterday,
Schatzi,
” I said as sweetly as I could through clenched teeth, still hoping to avoid a formal confrontation that might further delay my departure.

Erin picked up her book and opened it, searching for the page with a bent corner. She didn’t look up. “It needs to be taken out again.”

“Well I’ll take it out when I get back then.”

She looked right at me, drilling into me with her eyes while placing one hand on her belly, almost daring me to get into a row with a pregnant woman. “How about the dishes from dinner last night?”

“Ugh,” I sighed. “Isn’t it your turn? I know I did more than half the dishes this week.” Erin set down the book and placed her other hand firmly on her belly. The resentment in her eyes told me I had just lost all hope of beating London to the golf course that day, so I stopped holding back, plowing headfirst into an argument. “Plus,” I fumed, “I’m the only one who takes out the garbage, and I have to feed the dog, too—you never do that!”

Her face turned bright red. “Who does the laundry?” she hissed. “Who picks your clothes off the floor and hangs them up? Who cooks?”

“I cook breakfast!” I chided. “And now that you’re home all the time being pregnant, who’s the one who works all day long and then still has to do half of the housework when he gets home? Who is the only one earning any money? Who has to fill up both cars when they’re empty because you don’t like the smell of gasoline?”

Now a fire was burning white-hot in Erin’s eyes, and she shot right back at me with scorching heat. “Oh, yeah? Well when was the last time that you paid a bill? When was the last time you even
looked
at one of our bills? And who is the one who makes the bed every day and vacuums the carpets? Who cleans the windows? Who cleans the—”

I cut her off midsentence. “Who cleans the car?” I shouted, and then we started trading barb for barb.

“Who walks the dog?” she countered.

“Who cleans the fridge?”

“Who cleans the shower?”

“Who scrubs the toilet!”

“Who mops the floor!”

“Who cleans the roof and the driveway and who mows the lawn!”

“Oohhh!” she screamed. “Sometimes you make me so mad! Who is the one who is pregnant, and who shouldn’t be doing half the things she is doing anyway, but should be resting more and taking it easy? And who is the one whose only contribution to this pregnancy was to deliver one measly little sperm, while the other one of us is sentenced to vomiting and weight gain and water retention and aching joints and excessive flatulence and muscle spasms in places she never knew she had muscles!”

I took a moment to breathe while mentally debating whether to say what I was thinking. I probably shouldn’t have, but I allowed it to slip out anyway because I knew it would hurt her. “Who was the one who wanted to have a baby in the first place?” I asked quietly.

She stared at me in horror.

I turned and walked away, stomping back down through the hallway to the garage where I grabbed my clubs, got in the car, and left.

I was in no mood to play golf when I showed up at the course. My father was taking a few putts on the practice green while he waited for my arrival.

“Good morning,” he said cheerfully when he saw me.

Where was the sulking, angry London when I needed him to commiserate? “Really?” I hissed. “Could have fooled me.”

My father asked why I was in such a sour mood so I filled him in on the exchange I’d had with Erin. Out of loyalty to her I didn’t give him all of the excruciating details, but I gave him enough to justify the fact that I wasn’t up to playing golf.

“We don’t have to golf today if you don’t want to,” he offered.

The chip on my shoulder was too large for me to believe that anything worthwhile would come from hitting a ball around that day, but the alternative was to go back home and face Erin (and the dishes, and the trash, and who knows what else she would dream up), so I took the path of least resistance and went ahead and played.

On the first hole I didn’t do too badly, but then again I’m always grateful for a double-bogey. The second hole went more like normal; I sliced my drive out of bounds and my father helped me find it. The third hole was one of the best I’ve ever played, but my father ruined the joy of it.

“Holy smokes,” I said when I stepped up to putt from the nearside fringe of the green, less than eight feet from the cup. “This putt is for birdie.”

I was just about to tap the ball forward when London spoke. “You sure about that? I thought this was already your fourth shot, which means you’re going for par.” One by one he recounted the shots he thought I’d taken.

“No,” I corrected, when he said I’d chipped one that fell short of the green. “That was on the last hole. I swear, this putt is for bird.” I leaned over to gauge the putt once more.

“More like for the birds,” he mumbled under his breath. “Looks like somebody forgot how to count.”

I stood up and gawked at him. He’d never before made such comments about my game. “What’s gotten into you? Give it a rest, already. I know what shots I took.”

He apologized. I took my putt, missing it slightly to the right, and then hit a second one for par. I hadn’t earned par in my entire life, but I didn’t celebrate for fear that my father would say something more about how I counted strokes.

On the fourth and fifth holes I scored back-to-back double-bogeys, but after my ball dropped into the hole on the latter my father questioned my results again. “You sure that wasn’t a triple? I think you forgot the one you shanked off the tee.”

“No, I counted that one,” I said. “Trust me.”

“You sure?” For the second time of the round London recited the shots he thought I’d taken to get the ball in the cup, and for the second time I knew he was wrong. It made me furious.

“Stop it! I know what I shot. Stop trying to count my strokes and mind your own score!”

“Exactly!” he shot right back.

I hadn’t expected that response from him. “What?”

“Mind your own score, that’s what. In golf we keep score to measure ourselves, not our golf partner.”

I was totally confused. “That’s exactly why I just told
you
to stop counting
my
strokes. Why the heck are you turning this back on me?” I stopped talking long enough to think about what he was trying to tell me. “Were you counting my strokes on purpose so you could make some sort of point?” I asked in a much more amicable tone.

London seemed amused. “Listen,” he said. “If you and Erin would stop keeping score, then fights like yours this morning wouldn’t happen. Nobody wants to hear that their spouse is keeping track of how much they are or are not contributing. Get rid of the mental tallies of who is doing what, and just work as a team to get everything done that needs to be done. Erin is a good woman. I’m willing to bet that if you don’t keep score, she won’t either. Does that make sense?”

I tipped my head gently in reply, then strode over to the cup and picked up my ball. “Would you mind if I didn’t finish playing golf today?”

London patted me on the back and replaced the flagstick. A foursome was waiting two hundred yards back so we got off the green immediately and let them proceed. “I think I’ll call it a day, too. And hey, before you rush off, don’t let me forget to give you your next dose of my silly old memories. I’ve got two large stacks of scorecards waiting in my car.”

“Excellent.” Reading my father’s quirky scorecard journal entries had somehow given me an added sense of belonging in the world that I’d never felt before; it connected me with my past in unexpected ways. Through reading about the lives of my parents I was quickly coming to better understand myself.