Daddy, I Wanna Play Golf!!!: And Other Stories

By Frederick L. Wedel Jr.

What do you do when your two-year-old shakes you out of a sound sleep on your living room couch and demands that you teach him to play golf? In the first half of this book, the author leads readers through an eight year odyssey in which he used golf to teach his youngster the most important lessons of his youth. The boy discovers that being a good person outranks birdies and pars in importance. Their adventures are cut short by tragedy; the son falters, then notches an incredible victory.
In part two, the author relates some of the important experiences of his life, focusing initially on an insignificant corner of the rural south. During the cold war he met a world famous musician from the Soviet Union and they shared an unbelievable adventure, which only culminated 25 years later. The author also spins the tale of Rusty, an extremely clever Alaska brown bear, who developed a brilliant fishing technique in eat salmon sushi - 40,000 Alaska brown bears cant be wrong.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Apr 28, 2016
• ISBN: 9781503558854

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Daddy, I Wanna Play Golf !!!

And Other Stories

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Frederick L. Wedel, Jr.

Copyright © 2015 by Frederick L. Wedel, Jr.

Library of Congress Control Number:   2015906356

ISBN:      Hardcover      978-1-5035-5886-1

                Softcover         978-1-5035-5887-8

                eBook              978-1-5035-5885-4

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the copyright owner.

Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Thinkstock are models, and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

Certain stock imagery © Thinkstock.

Rev. date: 04/27/2016

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Table of Contents

Section 1 Daddy, I Wanna Play Golf!!!

A Young Man’s First Great Accomplishment

All Golfers Are Ladies and Gentlemen…… Aren’t They?

Learning Honor and Respect on a Golf Course

A Young Man’s First Birdie

The Day Ricky Could Not Stop Laughing

Golf, Baseball or…… Spelling?

The Amazing Mr. Ricky

The Amazing Mr. Ricky, Part 2:It All Begins at Eight Years Old

Mr. Burke

Postscript November, 2014

Wedel takes his father’s game to US amateur semis

The Last Item on My Bucket List

Section 2 My Life and Times

My Dad

I Was an Unusual Child, Or So They Said

The Best and Worst Days of My Childhood

Fudgikulls

Can Prejudice and Stereotypes Really Be Less Valuable Than Cockroaches At Our Dinner Table?

Nothing Can Begin to Prepare You for the Vicious Attack and Horrific Bite of a Red Nosed Copperhead!

Slava

The Alcan Highway-1968

My Favorite University

The Easiest and Most Surprising Career Change Ever

The Most Diplomatic Save Ever

Mr. Shyshov

Our Family Tree

Eat Salmon Sushi; 40,000 Alaska Brown Bears Can’t Be Wrong!

There Is More to Refereeing Ice Hockey Than Stripes and a Whistle

Howling

Preface

T HE PICTURE ON the cover is my son at about six years of age. The pictures on the title page are my son at ages three months and 17 years. He provided the material for the first section of this book. The stories that follow are all from events from our lives, which have been an amazing combination of good fortune, hard work, being in the right place at the right time more than once and having an incredibly wonderful son. I simply had to tell these stories, if only to him because he candidly admitted he doesn’t remember many of them anymore. For that reason, there was no option other than to write them, his stories and mine.

Imagine that I’m sitting across from you and telling you these stories in person. We’re relaxing in a small living room with a sliding glass door. It leads out onto the deck of a home in Anchorage, Alaska. It’s a relatively warm winter evening and a very light, wet snow is falling. The flakes may be few and far between but they are quite large and fragile and they immediately disintegrate when they splat on the decking. Beyond the deck the wide, dark trunks of many tall Alaskan spruce trees are backlit by a gray night sky. Inside, spruce logs in our small fireplace burn softly and have made the room toasty warm. Each word comes directly and personally from me to you as I try to paint a verbal picture of many of life’s best memories and a few of my very worst.

The best advice I ever received about writing surprisingly came from a fourth grade teacher who told me if there was one thing in my life I should do it was write. She claimed I had talent. She absolutely demanded that I write about what I knew best and that taking detailed notes was the only way to do so successfully. She provided the foundation. Until now, all the writing I have done was for technical journals, oil well drilling and completion related publications and oil company engineers and drilling superviors. The topics were strictly chemical engineering and later health, safety and environmental protection. Whether my teacher was correct about my writing talent is for to you to decide.

I kept my hand scrawled notes for many, many years and then in the 1980s thankfully scanned all of them into a computer. Finally I transcribed them and converted them to PDF files. I only needed to wait about 60 years to start writing! In deference to my teacher, I must admit that accurate notes have allowed the dialogue I relate to be a very detailed recreation of the original incidents. Remembering what my son said, even though he may have said it more than 15 years ago, is easy. Every parent can understand that. However, remembering what Mstislav Rostropovich said in Russian 45 years ago might have been a bit more challenging without notes. Remembering exactly what my dad said over a period of 15 or 20 minutes was seemingly impossible, but most of his words are still indelibly impressed in my mind. In any case, I have tried to the best of my ability to pull you into the story so you can actually listen to the conversations. I want you to be in that scene, standing invisibly next to me, so you can experience what I experienced at the time, as much as possible.

In just a couple instances I have changed names and locations. I don’t think most of the participants, except for one, would have had a problem being identified, but without being able to ask them I have written to maintain their anonymity.

Section 2 of the book is very different animal altogether. Golf is a non-entity. However, there are other stages for the actors, which, in retrospect, often defy belief. In college I was a bellhop. In my first real job I worked as a medical laboratory technologist in the United States Air Force at Elmendorf Air Force Base, Alaska, the first stop for critical patients coming out of Vietnam, I learned how important one person can be in medicine’s life-saving chain and that each of us is capable of giving to his fellow man at a much higher level than we would ever suspect. Through a quirk of fate, I ultimately ended up as a chemical engineer in the oil industry. I was fortunate to do so many varied things in my life and see so many countries of the world before I could no longer travel. I found the Soviet Union of 1982 as oppressive most Americans would have expected. On the other hand, I found that not everyone there was a devout Communist and that people the world over had many of the same concerns. All we needed to do was find a way to get governments out of the way so we could talk with each other. I have been told that thinking like that is naïve, but even this many years later I still believe it just takes a little extra individual effort for people to get along.

Finally, this book is dedicated to my son with my greatest appreciation for the wonderful son that he has been. As you read the stories about my son and me, I hope you’ll be reminded of your youth and the marvelous times you and your children shared as they grew up. Share the best moments and stories with them and us, so they are not lost! I hope your son or daughter will treasure your stories as much as I treasured the moments my son and I shared, moments which allowed me to write these stories for you and him.

My health is declining rapidly and I am faced with the choice between publishing now or, perhaps, not being around to publish it all. I have chosen the former. It is more important to me to leave this legacy to my son than to pursue absolute perfection. I’m sure he will understand. Please excuse any typographical errors or glitches in the text. They are my fault, not the publisher’s. I thank the publisher, Xlibris, for their generous help and understanding.

Fred Wedel

3/22/2016

Section 1

Daddy, I Wanna Play Golf!!!

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A Young Man’s First Great Accomplishment

Y OUNGSTERS UNDER THREE years old are the best golfers in the world. Nobody can beat them, not Jack, not Arnie, not Bobby Jones, not Tiger, none of them. Before the age of three my son Ricky approached perfection a number of times, primarily because his prodigious skill at golf was completely overshadowed by his emerging incompetence at numbers. His counting skills demonstrated great proficiency, albeit with a lack of understanding, only through the number five. That said, however, the skill he did have reminded me of an automobile careening its way toward an unavoidable accident, noticeably faltering at number three before skidding through four and inexorably crashing at five. However, these skills still served his purposes quite well. His best score on our front yard course was a total of eleven strokes for nine holes, besmirched only by two double eagles on a couple monster par fives that were at least 15 yards long. At the end of every hole the story was the same.

How many?

One.

On par fives. I complained, You hit it a lot more than I did?!?

Two.

And so it went. His golf career had begun not long after his second birthday. I remember the moment quite well actually because I had almost drifted asleep on our living room couch one Sunday afternoon. I was exhausted after an uncomfortable morning spent running the driving range of a country club in Houston in the almost unbearably steamy heat so common to South Texas during middle of August. For some reason I faced away from the television. In that haze halfway between sleep and mental competence I became aware of two tiny hands pushing staccato on my back, in perfect rhythm with Ricky’s voice. Daddy! I (push) want (push) to play (push) golf (emphatic push)! I was also vaguely aware of golf on the television behind me. Almost immediately the slide back toward sleep began to prevail over a two year old’s determination to divert my attention to his purposes but again I was pummeled back to reality with even greater ferocity than before. Daddy! I (push) wanna (push) play (push) golf (two emphatic pushes)! His level of aggression was definitely increasing. Well, it was time to deal with this blatant challenge to my position as undisputed champion of at least this couch, much less this household. I reluctantly rolled over, gave my young son a big hug and assured him if he wanted to play golf, then we would play golf. First we had to make him a club. His delight was evident. My delight was at best restrained because the couch still beckoned.

My cousin Bill, a five handicapper and an accomplished club maker and tinkerer, was visiting at the time. When he returned from 18 holes at a nearby course, I related the events of earlier in the day. He smiled and asked if I had any old clubs. Of course; I had a veritable closet full. We selected a very old, forged seven iron which probably originated in the 1920s, cut it down to about 18 inches in length, rewrapped the obviously original leather grip and dutifully presented it to Ricky. He immediately began swinging it in earnest, failing to consider both his proximity to the television and the damage he was doing to our carpets. We muzzled him just in time and shifted the zone of destruction to the front yard. Dirt clods began flying almost immediately.

It wasn’t long before my appreciation of the couch wavered and my innate business sense became greatly aroused. I realized goats and lawn mowers couldn’t hold a candle to two year olds as a cheap means of keeping the lawn cut and aerated. I also quickly understood that I had enough old clubs to turn the whole neighborhood youth corps into a real money making enterprise. All I needed was a lawn edger to spruce up after the main damage was done. In addition, it would provide someone, probably Ricky, with lots of practice replacing divots. My wife quashed the idea when I presented it to her, with some folderol about Federal Child Labor Laws, followed by a knowing wink. What about father labor laws I asked? She walked away without comment. Darn, she spoiled that kid!

Over the next six months, or so, Ricky began to develop a swing and a game, if you can call it that. Whatever it was, it was apparent to me that he had a special gift and that he had the potential to become a really good golfer. He was just a natural. He also began to grow very tall for his age, which meant that grass clods and a whiffle ball went further than ever before. At first the seven iron had only lofted a real golf ball a few yards but toward the end of his second year his swing improved greatly and distance increased to thirty or forty yards when he really caught one. By three years old he had certainly outgrown our front yard and I began to worry about the neighbors’ windows, not to mention ours. I began taking him to an out of the way driving range on Saturday and Sunday afternoons. In addition to the main driving area it had a five hole short course designed for chipping and pitching. For Ricky, however, it was a full-length golf course. We could start at number one and almost never see another player. Everyone else seemed to be in kill it mode on the driving range, powering balls as far as they could, apparently with little concern for accuracy, much less even thinking about their short games.

Ricky’s game was characterized by one rapid fire stroke after another until the ball was holed. When it came to putting, whether or not the ball had stopped rolling before he made his next stroke was immaterial. I think five putts was probably the record for non-stop hand eye coordination. He stroked his putt, raced after it in full stride and quickly decided whether it was on line or not. If it was not, he simply hit it again before it stopped rolling, this time, presumably in the proper direction. At times he looked more like a hockey player with the puck on his stick than a youngster with a putter in his hand. By three years and a couple months old, he had really begun to demonstrate competence as a golfer. The form was there. Direction and distance were clearly in the offing. Touch was not to be expected but he certainly did not lack interest or determination either. Chasing his putts had practically ended. This youngster wanted to improve and he learned very quickly.

Look at the ball when you hit it. Keep your eyes on it. And from then on he did. Scary! Not only did he look at it, he had questions about it. Dad, why does the ball have little bumps? I wasn’t about to be drawn into a physics lesson with a three-year-old but my teaching continued unabated.

Stop the backswing here (horizontal). Two practice swings and he had it. Even scarier! However, that was my eureka moment, the moment when I first realized that he had a special talent, a gift that absolutely could not be ignored. He had the potential for greatness and I had to nurture it, give him every chance to develop it, convince him not to waste it. This was something that could not be taken for granted. On the other side of the coin, for him life was much simpler and was summed up in a completely neat and tidy manner by one question:

Dad, when am I going to beat you?

Who counts the strokes?

You, Dad.

You will probably beat me on a hole by the time you are eight or ten years old and you will be a teenager before you beat me on 18.

What’s a teenager?

One of the courses we began to play frequently was a nine hole, lighted par three named Classic 3, not too far from Willowbrook Mall in North Houston and only a couple miles from our home. The price was reasonable; the course was perfect for Ricky and as an added benefit we could play there in the evening after I came home from work. At three years and four months old, Ricky crashed asleep relatively early so I could still count on time to do what else I needed in the evening after we returned home. We usually arrived at the course around 7:30 p.m. and completed our nine holes by 9:00 p.m. or so. Strap him into his car safety seat and he was gone well before we pulled into the driveway.

One November evening we decided to play the lighted course as an afterthought. Our local television weatherman was strongly admonishing folks to stay home because heavy fog was predicted to descend on the area, making driving conditions very hazardous. I was convinced we wouldn’t have a problem. After all, we would finish relatively quickly and should be back home before reduced visibility resulted in a safety problem.

Ricky’s lowest ever score had been a five on hole number two, a hundred yard vanilla fudge setup with a green sloping from back to front. I was encouraged that he had hit the ball extremely well at the driving range the previous weekend so I expected him to play better than usual. Although I could not have known it at the time, that evening would change both his best ever score and our lives forever. After wolfing down dinner, we grabbed our clubs and jumped in the car. At the course the first thing we noticed as we began to pull our clubs out of the trunk was that the temperature was a few degrees cooler than at home and the humidity was overpowering. There was a small swampy area next to the course and that may have in part explained the excessive humidity. Moisture began to condense on our jackets almost immediately, giving them an iridescent glow in the lights of the course. A quick look upward revealed no obvious fog yet but it was certainly just a matter of time.

In a few short minutes we reached the practice green, where it occurred to me that dew on the putting surface would certainly be a factor in our play later that evening. I really had not explained to Ricky how dew slowed a putted ball but it appeared that this might be the night to do it. The surface of the practice green was dry at that point but I knew condensation would inevitably begin soon. Meanwhile, Ricky rifled practice putts one after another at random holes, always with unerring accuracy insofar as direction was concerned but usually with excessive speed. Just a shade left or right of center meant the ball would shoot wildly off the edge of the hole, one way or another. A miss was usually followed by a disgusted scowl, a mumble and a rapid fire follow up putt. Sometimes the putt went right over the center of the hole, hit the back edge, jumped up into the air and rolled a short distance past. This was viewed as a victory. However on those occasions when the ball was hit so hard that it went over the center of the hole, leaving the lip completely unscathed, distances past were occasionally astronomical. Ricky’s response was simply to walk quickly to the ball and send it on its way again. That evening, after his warm-up was complete, he displayed great confidence in his ability to perform well. Dad, I’m gonna to kick your butt! For him, it was once again show time.

The first hole was a 150 yarder, vanilla fudge by all estimates. Ricky completed it with three shots and two putts, which I figured was really a par for him in view of his usual distance with that trusted seven iron. Five total strokes was a new low for him on that hole and I pointed it out, to his great delight. Chalk up another milestone! The second hole was only 100 yards long and he neatly finished it in four strokes, two full shots, a really nice chip and only one steep, uphill putt. Another milestone! On we went, with him playing quite well actually but with me keeping an eye upward on the weather. By the sixth hole fog was down to the treetops and dew was definitely forming on the greens. The weather man obviously had known what he was talking about.

Hole number eight is the toughest one on the course. For me it was 180 yards long, most of which was carry over a narrow lake lined on both sides by tall Texas oak trees whose branches hung well out over the water. From the back tees, which I played, it looked like there was very little room left or right of the path my ball had to take. Even worse, the chosen line of flight looked like a fog covered tunnel. It was definitely visually intimidating. I knew I had better not pull or push the shot because if I did the ball would be in the branches of the trees and then very likely in the water. There was no bailout; you either made it or you didn’t unless you hit it long. As I surveyed the hole the fog boiled even farther downward, clearly below the treetops, which made it look even more narrow and intimidating. I envisioned actor Steve McQueen and his friends being engulfed by The Blob near the end of that film. I must have smiled because Ricky immediately questioned, What’s so funny, dad? In view of Ricky’s youth, it seemed the perfect moment to inject drama, mystery, and perhaps a modicum of humor into an otherwise ordinary Texas weather moment. I’ll show you a movie tomorrow at home and you will understand. Look up at the fog. Does this look scary at all, like a fog monster is getting ready to eat us!?

No.

He was all business at this point. If I wanted to appear foolish in the eyes of my son I had just taken advantage of a golden opportunity. No trouble at all; just use my adult imagination, then add a dash of fantasy, all in an attempt to ask a question that from his point of view required only an obvious one-word answer. His youthful imagination was apparently dormant at that same moment. He thought only of golf and the immediate task at hand. After a slight hesitation he expanded his one-word reply. Come on dad! You’re just trying to make me miss my next shot! I really wasn’t but lesson learned, for both of us.

I tried to convince myself that insofar as the difficulty of my shot was concerned nothing had really changed except the view. Fortunately, I made perfect contact and the ball settled 15 feet from the pin. Then it was Ricky’s turn and he certainly faced a much different problem than I had. From about 150 yards he had to hit three perfect shots down the left side of the hole, keeping the ball between an out of bounds fence and the water. He had no more than 10 yards of landing area left to right and I suspected that before he finished the hole at least one ball would find the water or be lost over the fence. He fooled me, however. Three perfect shots were followed by an equally accurate fourth across the corner of the lake to a position 10 feet in front of the green. He then tossed an artistic little pitch within three feet of the hole. By now dew glistened brightly on the surface of the green. I resisted the urge to explain the effects of dew on putts because I didn’t want to confuse him. I also knew he would hit the putt firmly enough that ball speed should negate any effects dew might pose to a three foot putt. A lesson on the effects of dew would have to wait for another time. I two putted for par and then Ricky rammed his putt directly at the back of the hole. It jumped at least 6 inches in the air, then plunged and rattled its way to the bottom of the cup for a marvelous six. So much for the potential effects of dew. At the same time, I reminded myself that I really had to work with him on putting speed. One of these days, hitting the ball too hard really might prove costly.

For the first eight holes Ricky was somewhere close to 45 (I had recorded his scores but hadn’t bothered to add them up) and I was at 25 or 26. It seemed like not only a safe but an absolutely insurmountable lead. Dad had won every hole. How long, you ask, will it be until you beat me, kid? A long time! Certainly not tonight! However, because he had played the eighth hole so beautifully and because the last hole was only 75 yards long, I asked Ricky if he wanted to take the honors.

What does that mean?

It means you go first because you played the last hole so well. Since I always hit my tee shots from farther back than he did, honors had never been in question. This was a good time to discuss honors, to acknowledge and show my respect for his wonderful play on the eighth hole.

Giving him honors was the first of several fatal mistakes I made over the next few minutes. He immediately recognized the importance of honors and jumped at the chance to hit first. He dutifully pounded his tee into the ground with his ball. (The first time I saw this method of teeing up a golf ball it truly amazed me for a couple reasons, not the least of which was his ingenuity. He did not want me to stick the tee into the ground for him nor did he have the hand size or strength to do it himself. His inelegant solution was to use the ball as a hammer and drive the tee to its required depth.) Twelve whacks were necessary. Okay, kid! You have the honor. Now show me what you’ve got! He gazed at the green, which was steeply sloped front to back but also had some strong contouring. I knew that because of his short stature he couldn’t see much, if any of the actual putting surface, perhaps the back third at most. He carefully surveyed the hole. Bushes about three feet tall and native Texas grasses covered an area about ten or fifteen yards in front of the green. That shrubbery had to obscure his view of the green. Just in front of the bushes lay a 5 yard patch of bare, probably hard, dry fairway. The situation was obvious to me. He would be lucky to hit the ball just short of the nature area with his first shot, or so I thought.

How a kid three years and four months old could figure out that he needed to blade that seven iron at absolutely full speed on a slightly upward path to reach the green I will never know. However, as the ball left the club and absolutely rocketed straight ahead I realized the speed and angle of ascent might make it possible to land much closer to the putting surface than I believed possible. This ball had more grandiose ideas than even I could have suspected. It rose only to about ten or twelve feet above the ground, then began to fall on a path directly toward three bushes. It struck the patch of bare ground I described earlier, took a sharp hop forward, grazed the top of the bushes and kept going. Following one more bounce in the damp grass, it popped onto the fringe and released onto the green, finally coming to rest about six or seven feet above the hole. The only problem was, Ricky could not see over the bushes so he had no idea what had happened

Where is it dad?

About six or seven feet from the hole.

I can get an eagle!!!!

And the celebration began. He wanted to run straight to the hole and putt out right then and there. Who cares if dad still had a tee shot to contend with? Dad cared and recognized that Armageddon had just struck with full fury. Dad also realized that Ricky had an opportunity to defeat dad on this hole, five or six years ahead of dad’s prediction. I’m sure you would admit that pressure is epitomized by the putt Phil Mickelsen faced on the 18th hole of the 2004 Masters to win the tournament or the huge putt Justin Leonard faced some years ago in the Ryder Cup, to turn probable defeat into final victory for the United States team. I thought I had known pressure in one of my previous avocations, as an operatic soloist, walking out on stage the first time, realizing that everybody in the audience knew every note I was about to sing. I knew that if I made a mistake every one of them would know it. At the time I thought that was real pressure. However, I ultimately found that real pressure was defined by standing on the ninth tee that evening, trying to pick the correct club, knowing a big mouthed three year old was no more than seven feet from the hole and I had to hit a really good shot in a bold attempt just to match him. The other eight holes and our scores on them no longer mattered. If he beat me, mom would soon know. Even worse, I envisioned that everyone on the course would soon know. I could only imagine that before he was finished, everyone in Houston would know. That evening! No later! To make things worse, as I was taking my stance at the same 75 yard distance from which he had hit, he looked up at me and urged, Come on dad, hit it close! I knew what he really meant. Dad, I gotcha! And you know I gotcha! And just remember, I may jingle the change in my pocket at the top of your backswing.

I considered the situation for a moment more. Finally, sanity and reason came to the fore. The logical conclusion had to be that a really good dad would miss the green and make the kid feel good. After all, isn’t the idea to make sure I have a devoted golf partner when I’m an old, old fart and nobody else wants to golf with me? Upon logical analysis this wasn’t such a difficult problem after all. However, in the end, potential embarrassment took priority over responsible parenting and I decided to go for the flag. There simply was no other option. The thrill of victory sounded a whole lot better than the agony of defeat.

My sand wedge sent the ball soaring high into the air, initially directly towards the flag, but as it neared the end of its flight it almost dutifully began to fade. I had occasionally been good at unintentionally cutting my short irons and this was one of those shots, just heading lazily right. With a large green this would not have been any problem whatsoever. However this was a very small one and as the ball plummeted down into dew laden grass Ricky looked at me and proudly announced, Dad, You’re away! How could he see that?! I rued the day I had taught him that phrase. To this day, all I can remember about the swing is that I was numb from beginning to end, all because of a three-year-old. Can you imagine that?!

My ball did indeed imbed itself deep in the wet grass but it was visible and playable. Paul Runyan would certainly chip this within two feet of the hole, I thought. Simple shot. Play it well back in my stance. Cut and severely pinch a sand wedge, land it about seven or eight feet on the green and let it trickle down to the hole. Runyan was my hero, a pro from the 1930s and 40s. I had read his book on putting, chipping and pitching in 1987 and in one summer had gone from averaging around 105 down to shooting consistently no higher than the mid 80’s. Now I was a low single digit handicapper. This shot was in my arsenal and had been executed many, many times. That evening, the grass and the ball had other ideas and conspired against me. My chip may have been cleanly struck but it landed in the fringe, a couple feet short of my target area, bounced once and then only trickled a bit, stopping at least twelve feet from the hole.

You’re still away, Dad!

By now, heavy dew had definitely formed on the putting surface. I faced a wet, downhill, right to left breaker. I figured starting it 12 to 13 inches to the right of the hole would do the job. The dew held it to 10 and I tapped in. That made four strokes, a two putt bogey, and I knew I was in desperate trouble. The stage was set and the star of the show raced to his putt. Almost before I could say anything he was ready to send his ball on the most important mission of its short life. Wait, Ricky, wait! I hollered. He looked up in obvious dismay. He was ready to fire. The last thing he wanted to do was to wait.

"How hard are you going to hit the putt?

He took the putter back about a foot and showed me his practice swing.

"Does your putt roll up the hill, down the hill or is it flat?

Down the hill.

Is it down a lot, down some or down a little?

"Down a lot.

"If you take the putter way back, where will the ball go?

In the hole.

Let’s try this a different way.

"If you hit it too hard and it misses the hole, where will the ball stop?

I won’t miss.

"But if you do, where will it stop?

With five or six practice swings, we eventually shortened his backswing to less than four inches. I didn’t mention dew because I had already factored that into the distance he would take the putter on the backswing. Now the stage was really set. This putt would not curve. Since there was no break, it was just a matter of starting it on line with the correct initial speed. The putter head moved back slowly, and then accelerated smoothly forward. Click! The ball began its journey down the hill toward its rendezvous with destiny. The effect of dew was immediately apparent as water droplets coalesced on the ball, then gently spun off, but they did not seem to have much effect on its speed. The putt started dead on line but half way to the hole it hit either an imperfection in the green, an inadequately repaired and invisible ball mark or an unseen object, bumped slightly left and continued to roll about four feet beyond the cup. Ricky looked obviously dismayed as this was the last thing he had anticipated. He raced to the ball, ready to pull the trigger again almost as soon as it stopped. Once more I stopped him and we looked at the putt.

Uphill or down?

"Up.

A little, medium or a lot?

Medium.

Will it curve? He paused to walk around the hole, as the pros on television do. Twice he squatted down for a better look and both times his tail scraped the dew laden surface of the green, leaving a wet spot on the seat of his trousers. Short legs actually are a real disadvantage in golf I reassured myself.

No. No curve.

Is there any dew on the green?

What’s dew?

At this point I went through my explanation of dew and how it would affect the putt. He had to hit this uphill putt somewhat harder then he would normally hit it on a dry green.

How far are you going to take the putter back?

He figured it about right. Was touch possibly in the making?! He set up more slowly and deliberately this time, recognizing how important this putt really was. Birdie was gone and the next stroke would determine whether he made par. We both recognized that this putt had implications far beyond par, however. He carefully checked his alignment, then looked at the ball, the hole, the ball, the hole, and then stopped. Standing no more than six or seven feet away I was aware of the sound of a heart beat. I wasn’t sure whether it was his or mine. In an instant, he sent the ball on its way, much faster than his previous putt. It began rolling smoothly up the hill. I immediately noticed water droplets flying off the ball in a mini rooster tail and was certainly convinced the stroke was firm enough. The ball bored straight ahead, closer, closer. I then realized it was hit too hard but the line was dead on. The heartbeat became noticeably louder. At last the ball crossed the front edge of the hole, center cut. After what seemed an eternity, it hit the back of the cup, no more than a quarter inch down. Four or five rattles later it rested at the bottom. Dad! I beat you!!! And I’m only three! His celebration began immediately.

If you’re a three-year-old kid and you really want to kick start your dad’s emotions on the golf course or anywhere else for that matter, do what Ricky did. While you’re jumping up and down and yelling Par!! hug your dad tightly below the knees and tell him you love him and what a great dad he is. I could not help hugging him back after lifting him to my chest. In that moment, I knew I had a golf partner for life. He, on the other hand, had a dad who understood what he never could understand at age three. I had tried to beat him, yet at the same time I was so proud of him and what he had just accomplished. I had done everything I could to beat him but destiny and his skill had conspired to script this drama otherwise. Worst of all, I had choked, under the pressure inflicted by a three year old! How do you paint what had happened any other way? As I stood there on the ninth green that evening I was actually ecstatic that he had beaten me. In fact, I was as happy as he was.

Ricky, may I please have your golf ball?

Why?

Never mind, may I have it, please?

He dutifully presented the ball to me with obvious pride and we ambled back to the car to drive home. True to form, he was asleep in the back seat before we pulled into the driveway. I gently carried him to his bed, took his shirt and pants off and tucked him in, then kissed his forehead both to say good night and to thank him for our wonderful evening. He hardly moved a muscle. No bragging to mom. For him the evening was over. Later, when I told mom what had happened, she simply stared at me in disbelief. It was obvious she enjoyed the story as much as I had enjoyed being part of it.

The next day, I took the ball to a local trophy shop and selected a small but beautiful wooden plaque with a picture of a green on it. I agreed with the worker that we should glue the ball in place, just below the picture of the green and above the brass plate. Then we selected the wording for the plate. "Ricky Wedel First par… Age 3 years, 4 months, Classic 3 Golf Course, Hole Number Nine, 75 yards, etc., etc.. Now the incredibly memorable moment we had shared the night before was ready for the ages.

Neither of us would ever forget it, although as Ricky grew older the details of the actual moment itself grew dimmer. However, every second was indelibly recorded in my mind as though it was on high definition video tape and I was only too happy to hit my instant replay button whenever he wanted. That trophy was his first of very many, only two of which came from me, to record his memorable accomplishments when we played together. As time separated us from the actual moment, I appreciated even more what an incredible event we had shared as father and son. Also, as he aged and added height, Ricky’s hugs rose from my kneecaps to my waist and on up. However, I knew I would never forget the night or the feeling of his hugging my knees in absolute elation after his first par. In my mind, that moment really defined why we become parents.

All Golfers Are Ladies and Gentlemen…… Aren’t They?

M Y SON, RICKY, completed his first swing of a golf club in diapers and on bare feet. With that swing, he began the long and tumultuous transition from a hooligan in the throes of the terrible twos to the partner with whom I looked forward to playing 18 holes for the rest of my life. Well, most of the time anyway. For me, the process ranged from a labor of love to a military campaign, befitting Caesar, Napoleon or Gen. George Patton. It was often a tactical struggle in which the opposing army, my son, always seemed to have an unexpected but logical counter-response to my strategy. A few years later, I contracted a terrible infection and became a quadriplegic. With that, playing golf was relegated to the past. However, I have been fortunate enough to follow him around a course in my wheelchair during tournaments a couple times. His skill and demeanor were an absolute delight. As I now look back at life from my wheelchair, I remember with great fondness many of the days and events of that formative behavioral process. Although I will never again experience the satisfaction of a pure one iron down the center of a very narrow fairway or making a chip that Paul Runyan would have appreciated, I also will never forget the behavioral modification journey we shared. I tried to pass on to my son the lessons of golf and especially of life that I learned over my 65 y ears.

Golf was the perfect vehicle to accomplish this. Bobby Jones wrote that golf is played on a six-inch course between your ears. I think that is the most perceptive remark I have ever heard about both golf and life. Jones was both the ultimate golfer and the ultimate gentleman. However, by his own admission, Jones also had to conquer his horrible temper before he attained the highest levels of success. I’ll let you in on some of my successful methods and some of my mistakes in trying to change my son into a consummate gentleman on the course.

Predictably, Ricky’s journey began in our front yard with a club that was slightly less than 18 inches long from tip to toe! I presented the club to him, along with a whiffle ball and stepped back. Despite its short length, I noticed immediately and with considerable dismay that the club was somewhere between two and 3 inches too long for him. However, Ricky didn’t seem to notice, much less mind, and gripped down appropriately. Over the next 10 minutes, clad only in diapers and a T-shirt, he ruthlessly transformed our front yard from a closely manicured green carpet into a waste land that looked like it had been diligently attacked with a rototiller. All this was accomplished with great enthusiasm and, quite surprisingly from my point of view, a certain amount of anger, especially when he missed the whiffle ball entirely. This was my first indication that he had a temper and that we might have a problem. A complete miss was usually followed by one or more vicious chops into the turf, accompanied by whatever utterances a two year old who is just learning to talk usually selects to express his disdain and frustration. For the most part, they were loud and unintelligible and would remain so for months to come.

Over the next two months, Ricky’s devastation of the front yard continued, albeit at a rapidly decreasing pace. The displays of anger, on the other hand, persisted. Eventually he began to display an uncanny ability to hit the whiffle ball straight and with an appropriate flight path. I often hit with him, more as a teacher than a competitor, but his competitive instincts were already evident. I could tell he really wanted to beat dad at whatever he did. I made corrections to his swing and he showed immediate improvement. He was obviously delighted and connected the swing changes with the