MY FATHER THE GOLFER

I suppose my dad was like many businessmen in that he picked up the game of golf because so many of his customers played. I never asked him when and why he took up the game. I wish I had. My first memories of playing golf with him date to the mid sixties when I was in my teens. We would play nine holes on a Saturday afternoon and would normally play Pine Grove in Grove City or either Krendale or Stoughton Acres in Butler. (It’s interesting to note that when we played at Stoughton’s the proprietor’s wife kept her baby on the counter. That little girl now has grown children and may even be a grandmother.) We rarely played Ronland in Slippery Rock. I think it was a little too close to home for Dad. He knew too many of the folks he would run into there. We often played with Don “Pryor” Hilgar (the dealership sales manager), Joe Ligo (the local undertaker) or Sam Wible (whose daughter, Linda, was in my class). Dad had a wry sense of humor and I developed my social skills by watching him interact with his friends on the golf course. If Pryor was lining up a three-foot putt Dad would encourage him to “knock it close.” If Joe found a tree against which to relieve himself Dad would say behind his back, “Hello Mary.” Dad would help Sam look for his ball in the woods and if he found one he’d ask Sam what he was playing. To which Sam would ask, “What’d you find.” “A Topflite,” Dad would answer. “That’s it,” Sam would respond. Messing with Sam, Dad would then say, “Oh, sorry, I see now it’s a Titleist.” To which Sam would respond, “That’s close enough.” Dad’s regular group had a favorite game – Bingo, Bango, Bungo. The person who had the longest drive on a hole had Bingo. The first one on the green was Bango, and the first to get the ball in the hole had Bungo. It made for a fun round.

I know my dad enjoyed the game in those years but I think he enjoyed the fellowship that went with it more. He never played by himself. The older I got the more Dad and I played together. It wasn’t long until it was just the two of us, unless my brother happened to be back home. We probably averaged no more than a round per month together but I always looked forward to them.

Dad had two holes-in-one in his life. One was at Green Meadows (pictured above) and the other was at Ogelbay’s Crispin course with a church outing. I didn’t see the first but I did witness the second. Dad had turned around to pick up his tee as the ball rolled in the hole. He never saw it go in but got excited when we all started yelling.

One of the greatest gifts I ever gave my dad was a couple trips to play the famous Oakmont Country Club. A co-worker’s father was a club employee and he was able to get us on the course when it was closed to members on Mondays. Dad was such an Arnold Palmer fan and he had watched Arnie play Oakmont on TV. Being able to play the same course was a dream come true. To play it for free (as frugal as Dad was) was an added bonus.

Quicksilver Country Club hosted a senior tour event one time and I took my dad down to see it. He enjoyed watching all of his favorite golfers but he couldn’t wait for Arnold to tee off. Like it was yesterday I recall the childlike expression of admiration on Dad’s face when Arnie walked past just on the other side of the ropes. “Go get ‘em, Arnie,” Dad yelled. Arnold (the consummate gentleman that he is) turned and waved at Dad. I thought he was going to cry.

I was invited to the grand opening of an Arnold Palmer signature course at Stonewall Jackson Resort in West Virginia. Dad was living in Florida at the time but I bought Arnie’s autobiography for him and had Arnold autograph it during the event. The book became his favorite.

Dad remained an avid golfer well into his eighties. Even when Alzheimer’s disease clouded his decision-making ability he enjoyed going with Johnny, Lynn and I to the golf course or even just the driving range. He maintained a short back swing and easy follow through that enabled him to still hit a straight ball, although not a long one. Sometimes we had to point him in the right direction but when he hit that sweet shot he got the biggest smile on his face and shrugged his shoulders as if to say, “Nothin’ to it.” As in his earlier years, Dad loved the fellowship on the course much more than the game itself. I have such fond memories of golfing with him. Sharing stories, sharing memories, sharing his life.

GOLF AND THE FLIG'S EARLY YEARS

I can’t recall just how old I was when I became interested in golf. My best guess is my early teens. I think this was the first time that important golf matches were televised. It is a sad commentary that I learned how to swing a golf club by watching television. What is even sadder is that I have never had a lesson in my life (and my current game shows it). My dad played golf but was not what I would term an avid golfer in those years. I don’t think he had the leisure time for the game and he certainly didn’t have the inclination to spend his hard-earned cash on the sport. He may have played once a month or so on a Saturday afternoon (usually with either dealership co-workers or customers). Dad never encouraged me to play but I think he was pleased when I picked the game up on my own. I suppose that he realized golf was an expensive sport and we didn’t have the money it took to play very often. He probably figured I’d be able to play about as often as he did.

I began by using my dad’s clubs in the back yard. He had a Wilson Blue Ridge set that consisted of persimmon driver, 3 and 5 woods, 3, 5, 7, 9 irons, wedge and putter. The woods had a red finish and were very attractive. I don’t know where Dad got the old white canvas bag and fold up pull cart but I doubt he bought them new. Like any kid I wanted my own clubs. (These days most parents take their youngsters down to the local sporting goods store and buy them a new set. Some may go to the extra expense of having a set made for their child – envisioning the next Tiger Woods I suppose.) In those days it was up to me to cobble together a set from any source available. My Uncle Wid had a few clubs and an old beat up bag in his basement he gave to me. I’m not sure where they came from but there were a 5 and 7 iron as well as a putter. I recall the grips were very strange and felt rough in my hands. Dad had an old hickory-shafted 3 iron that a brother of his step-mother had given him. Dad wasn’t real fond of his step-mother but he seemed to have a lot of respect for her brother. I wish I could remember his name. I know he lived in Ashville, NC. Every time Dad mentioned that 3 iron he would say, “That club was owned by one of the finest gentlemen I’ve ever known.” (I still have this club in the attic.)

The balls I used were ones that Dad discarded. Because he was so frugal that meant a ball had to be in pretty bad shape for him to quit playing it. The college students used to hit balls around the campus in different locations and sometimes I’d find one of the balls they left behind. In those days golf ball covers were so soft that they cut easily when miss hit with an iron. We used to call the half-moon-shaped cut “a smile”. Most of the balls I had were smiling back at me. One I had was is such bad shape that my brother said it looked like a dirty marshmallow.

I didn’t have any woods but that was probably a good thing. I practiced hitting wiffle balls with irons in the back yard until the time came when I actually went to a golf course. I wish I could remember at least something about that first course experience but I don’t. I’m sure it was at Ronland, the local 9-hole Slippery Rock course which is now called “Shamrock”. It was a goat path in those days (and hasn’t improved a lot over the years) but it was cheap. It may have been with my friend and close neighbor, Danny Birnley. He was a good golfer. His dad was a greens keeper at a golf course near Butler. Some years they would spend the winters living in Florida while his dad worked a course there. Danny taught me a fair amount about golf etiquette on the course. Things like not dragging your feet on the green so your spikes (I wore tennis shoes) didn’t scratch the grass. Others were not to walk in the path of your opponent’s ball; when you tend the flag don’t let it flap in the wind; don’t ground your club in a hazard (like a sand trap); the person who won the previous hole tees off first (as does the person who is furthest from the hole); replace your divot on the fairway and fix your ball mark on the green (I rarely left a ball mark). Dad would later teach me more golf etiquette, as well as some important social etiquette that just happened to be applicable on the golf course as well.

The older I got, the more embarrassed I became of my poor set (if you could call it that) set of clubs. I began to save my lawn mowing earnings to see if I could purchase at least a new bag. This was before the days when garage and yard sales were popular. Today you can probably pick up a used set of clubs for $10-15 at such a venue. In those days I looked around for a deal anytime we went shopping. In Butler there was a department store called Troutman’s and in the basement they had a small sporting goods department. On one excursion I found a golf bag that was the last of its kind so it was less than half price. It was red plaid with black trim. Although it was really cheaply made (especially by today’s standards) I thought it was great. I was tickled that I had a new bag but it made my meager clubs look even worse. My next quest was to obtain a set of woods. On another trip to Butler I found that Troutman’s had some woods on sale. They were dirt cheap and I didn’t find out why until much later. They were autographed by someone I had never heard of named Jackie Pung. The set I purchased included driver, 3 and 5 woods. They had a shiny black finish and cheap green rubber grips. I was fortunate that nobody else I ever played with had heard of Mr. Pung. I’m not sure when it was that I leaned Mr. Pung was actually Mrs. Pung. I had been using women’s woods all this time! Jackie Pung was a 235-pound Hawaiian who won the 1957 US Women’s Open, only to be disqualified because she made a mistake on her scorecard (but not one that impacted on her winning score). It seems everyone in attendance felt so bad that they took up a collection of $3,000 for her. The winner’s prize was $1,800 so she made out pretty well.

I guess these cheap ladies woods fit in pretty well with my odd assortment of other clubs and my red plaid bag. In total, my equipment matched my talent level. When I was a little older Dad got a new set of irons and he gave me his Wilson 3, 5, 7, and 9 irons. In combination with my other new stuff I was no longer embarrassed by my clubs. My game was now the most embarrassing part of golf for me.

Once again I cannot recall how I came to get on the Slippery Rock High School golf team. I think I may have had a conversation about golf with the team’s coach, Ray Webster. He had been my seventh grade math teacher and I always liked him. There were no tryouts for the team. I expressed an interested and I was on the team with just four other guys (I guess that’s why there were no tryouts). Dave Thomas (not the Wendy’s hamburger magnet) was our best player and I was always impressed with his long drives. The second echelon of the team consisted of everyone but me – Kirk Jansce, Bob Allison, and Bruce Hovis. I was number five of five. We played our matches and practiced at Lake Arthur Country Club. Number 14 started off over a large lake. You needed to hit the ball at least 150 yards to carry the water and there was no way around it. I could hit the ball 200 yards in those days – unfortunately that was 100 yards straight ahead and another 100 yards to the right. I had a slice that has been described alternately as either a banana or a rainbow. After several practice rounds that never included a shot over the number 14 lake I gave up. I never made it to an actual match.

Perhaps that set the tone for the remainder of my golfing career. I have always shied away from competition. When I was older my good friend, Pat Docherty, would suggest we play for dime skins (the most one could lose in 18 holes was $1.80) but I would refuse. I love to play in a scramble because it is a team event where I feel I can contribute at least once in awhile.

Thereafter I pretty much stuck to playing with my dad and his buddies if they needed a fourth. I rarely played in college and after we had children I didn’t have either the time of money to play often. This pretty much sums up my golfing life until our boys were grown and Lynn took up the game. That’s another chapter.

WHAT'S GOLF GOT TO DO WITH IT?

“Golf” is not just another four-letter word, although one may hear many such words on the golf course. For many of us golf is life (another four-letter word). As in life, one can have a great game one day and shoot a miserable score the next. Like life, there are those we truly enjoy playing with and some – not so much. As is true in life, the more we hurry around, the more we screw things up. When we play the new ball we immediately lose it but can play an old ball forever. I’ve borrowed Tina Turner’s song title and changed it slightly for this series of articles on the game of golf.

I will begin with a history of how I came to take up the game at a relatively early age. Next I will detail some of my most memorable golf games with my father. Over the years I have stored in my limited memory banks a series of golf jokes and humorous sayings that I will record. Reviews of some of my all time favorite golf movies. I’ll detail some of the championship courses I’ve played or tournaments I’ve attended as well as my contact with some of the games leading professionals. Lastly, I will discuss what the game has meant to me over the years and what it means to me now.