The ground was frozen solid and covered in snow as my dad and I took to our local country club on Thanksgiving day. I wore an obnoxious pink chullo hat, along with an overly-puffy teal jacket and clunky winter boots. My dad had never come to the course in these conditions, at least he never tried to, because the club was always closed in the winter. But this one special time, he snuck us into the gated course with my small red putter and his shiny silver driver in his bag, and we were off walking through the front nine. I can’t say I thoroughly enjoyed it — I was quite cold. But this memory with my dad remains clear in my head, and I was content walking across the hills on that silent November morning, even if we were golfing.
The meaning of the game of golf has always evaded me. Why is it so slow? Why are there so many different clubs? Why is there a designated person to carry your bag? For most of my life, I have seen it as pointless, a pastime for leisure. The closest I have ever gotten to being a golf player came my junior year when I joined my high school’s first-ever girls’ golf team. I didn’t care about playing, what I really wanted was to be in as many yearbook photos as possible. I stopped going to practice at the beginning of the season anyway.
My quitting spirit doesn’t run in the family though — my dad may just be the biggest “golf guy” I know. He plays about once a week, sometimes twice and on occasion three times. He holds a long-time membership to our local course while making his way around Long Island to try new courses, or to revisit old ones. He has even been to the major tournaments hosted by the PGA, held in locations all across the country. If I had to relate his travels to another hobby, I would say birdwatching is the best bet. But instead of chasing cardinals and bluejays, it was golfers like Phil Mickelson, Bubba Watson and Tiger Woods. Woods was my favorite, until the day I was oddly affected by the news of his infidelity and DUI charges, which broke golf fans’ hearts nationwide.
My dad had always kept me around golf when I was young. We would go to the course together on a Sunday when he was off from work and I’d teeter around with my toddler-sized clubs and be fascinated by the buckets of white resin balls or the tall neon flags that stemmed from each hole. Was I headed for the LPGA? No, unfortunately not. Well, I don’t think I would want to anyways, because why does the acronym stand for “Ladies Professional Golf Association” instead of “Women’s Professional Golf Association?” But besides that unanswered question, I had a good time on the course nonetheless.
The peak time of the year came near the middle of April: Masters Week. Or should I say Masters month, with the amount of golf that flooded our house during early spring, it felt like it. The Masters is the most prestigious golf tournament held by the PGA, the closest thing golfers have to a national championship. From the infamous pimento cheese sandwiches to the lush greenery surrounding Augusta National Golf Club, the Masters is a golfer’s aesthetic dream. The tournament is only open to the best of the best, and holds tradition on a pedestal, evidenced by events like the Green Jacket ceremony and the inflation-resistant food prices.
Masters Week to me was never the event all sports programming hyped it up to be. It was okay. I just knew that the Golf Channel would be on all day, and my dad would be sitting on the edge of his seat waiting for someone to be deemed champion or jump out of his seat if someone shot a hole-in-one. I would sit next to him on our L-shaped couch, looking up from my iPad on occasion to see who was in the lead. As I got older, I started to stray from my electronics and watch the players and caddies walk on the field. Last year, my senior year of high school, I would get just as excited for a hole-in-one and root for the same player as my dad next to me. Maybe it was because I subconsciously knew that the 2023 Masters could be the last time I watch beside my dad, at least for a little while. Or maybe I had a newfound interest in the game … I think I am leaning towards the first option.
This year, in mid-April, I received a text from my dad while I was sitting at my dorm room desk. “Masters Week,” read the message. The tournament’s timing had been unbeknownst to me until then, slipping my mind that was full of assignment deadlines and studying schedules but despite the hecticness of my schedule, I still couldn’t believe I had forgotten about it. The text made me smile, bittersweetly, but I still smiled.
Later that night, I was scrolling through TikTok, as one does, and I came across a familiar video. It was the classic Masters tournament commercial, clips of Augusta, with “Georgia on My Mind,” by Ray Charles playing in the background, a nod to the Peach State where the championship is held. For a minute, just a minute, I got sad. I remembered all those times with my dad, both watching and playing golf. No matter how bad I was at my swing, no matter how impatient I was for getting to the end of the 18th hole, I did treasure those memories.
So, as Ray Charles sang from my cell phone, I reminisced about being on the couch, watching the biggest golf tournament play out on my home television. And I remember being a little girl, walking across the rolling green hills to the next hole and playing golf with my dad.