A Walk in the Woods

Chicken Soup for the Soul: The Golf Book

BY: Neil Rosen

A passion, an obsession, a romance, a nice acquaintanceship with trees, sand, and water.
~Bob Ryan

I was in Florida, on vacation, playing golf with my eighty-something-year-old mother and two of her peers. On the 12th tee-box of a lousy round, having just swung as hard as I could, I found myself listening to the oohs and aahs of these octogenarians as they watched how far my ball traveled, and how high. Then I heard these oohs and aahs change to silence as the ball sliced and veered deep into the woods.

The shot went so deep into the woods that I could actually feel my blood pressure rising, rising as least as much as my self-esteem was plummeting. I seriously considered storming off the golf course right then, giving up the game forever. I was just about to slam my driver into the ground to blow off a little steam when my mother said, "Say hello to your father for me."

I turned for an explanation, clearly curious, a rash of frustration spread over my face like hives.

"Your father," she began, "told me just before he passed away, that if I ever needed to talk to him, or spend some time with him, or just be in his presence, I could always find him right here on this golf course traipsing through the woods. He'd be searching for his lost golf ball, he said. And he said it with a smile that made me understand he knew something that I didn't."

My father worked hard all his life, picked up his first golf club when he was about sixty. By that time, his muscle memory had full-fledged amnesia, so even though once in a while he'd manage to hit a good shot, he could never do it twice in a row. He was a hack.

"Your father never got frustrated," my mother continued. "Never made excuses for his bad shots, and he never stopped smiling. Even if he took a swing and missed the ball completely he still had a smile on his face. When you go into the woods and see all the dings in the tree bark that have been made over the years by errant golf balls, you can be sure that at least some of them were made by your father.

"And your father truly looked forward to each walk in the woods." She looked straight at me. "So go find your ball, and say hello to him for me."

With a lighter feeling in my head and my chest, I set off to find my ball. Entering the woods, I did sense my father's presence. At first I was aware of how quiet the woods were, but soon I became aware of how the woods had sounds all its own.

As my mind wandered I was paying little attention to the task of trying to find my ball. Yet, after walking far into the woods, I looked down to the ground and there was my ball within inches of my feet, resting in the center of a small clear patch of grass.

"Thanks, Dad," I said quietly.

Not only was the ball perfectly placed for a clear swing, there was also a window between the trees up ahead that gave an open shot to the green.

I sized the yardage and picked a club, stood behind the ball and pointed the shaft at my target. I went through my pre-swing checklist: yes, I was lined up properly; yes, my hands were lightly gripping the club; yes, I was taking deep, relaxing breaths.

I swung, somehow knowing that nothing further was going to go wrong on this day. Not on this golf course under my father's presence. The shot was going to be perfect.

The ball came off hot to the right and smacked a tree in the middle of its trunk. It ricocheted off a number of other trees and ended up fifty years deeper into the woods than where I was standing.

This time, as I started off to find the ball, I had a smile on my face. After all, it gave me more time to spend with my dad.

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