Out of the box
The 10:50 Foursome
Over the Canada Day weekend, I decided to join my dad on the last day of a tournament at Terrace’s Skeena Valley Golf Club as his caddy. I caddied for my dad years ago at Smithers’ Northern Open, but that experience involved actually hauling around his golf bag. This time we were in one of the many electric carts that buzzed over the fairways like sedated 4 by 4s, and I hardly even got to drive, so it wasn’t really caddying as much as a long but halting drive in midday heat. But it did give me a fine opportunity to partake in some half-assed analysis of the game—and be the sole, and thus most important, fan of my pa.
At 10:50 a.m. my father teed off with three other men. For the sake of anonymity I’ll call them Ron (tall and thin), Trent (moustachioed), and Charles (slight Eastern European accent, often with a Corona in hand). It didn’t take long to detect beneath the steady burble of compliments and reassurances (“No, no—that ball’s gonna come back. You’re fine”) there was a competitiveness that wasn’t based solely on beating the other guys on each hole or over the whole round, but on playing well enough not to dishonour oneself and preserve the integrity of the foursome.
As to the etiquette and gentlemanly standards of the game, I’ll just say that no one ever had to beat the bushes for a lost ball by himself. The foursome drove well over a dozen balls into the forests and long grasses in that final round. At one point Trent ran out of balls and was about to pack it in, not only bereft of equipment but also infuriated by repeatedly hooking into the tules. He was encouraged by the others to stay and supplied with a few more dimpled little spheres. I’m sure these were all regular courtesies, but I respected the all-for-one, selfless aspect of the round.
One thing that always strikes me about golf is the idea of par. It’s interesting and unique to have a standard to meet for each hole. There are eighteen goals on the road to one daily goal that is part of a long weekend objective. Some pars seemed dead-on but some seemed to almost taunt the golfers, especially devious par 3’s. Par 3’s beckon and show a little leg even when they’re dead straight, if you know what I mean.
Unfortunately, my dad had a lousy round, and I feel like a jerky son for committing this fact to paper. At the first hole the other guys in the foursome had praised him as a long hitter for a man of sixty-nine, making me hot-cheeked with pride. I was impressed later how well dad hid his frustration, as if vicious swearing at inanimate objects—an anger-style I share with my pop—ran counter to the all-important manners of the game. But other than very focused smoking, he kept a lid on his bubbling cauldron of bitterness. At the end, I was surprised to find that even ball-topping Charles, who had been contacting the ball with his $600 square-headed driver on the upswing, not at the bottom of the swing (I was told), finished ahead of my man. Charles’ drives were like baseball grounders, not likely to make it out of the infield.
I’m not destined to be a golfer. This must disappoint my father on some level. But knowing my cycling addiction and having driven the Team Sturney support car in the 2006 Kitimat River Challenge road-cycling race, he understands that singular physical passion. And I understand his. Since his move to Terrace, I miss being out biking and coming across him whacking golf balls at the old horse racetrack. I would holler between swings and he’d look up and we’d wave—two yahoos whose obsessions intersect on a day when, truly, there’s nothing better to do.
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