sending the ball squirreling off toward the trees 150 yards away.
While I was putting my driver away, the ring of a cell phone interrupted my mental self-loathing. “Dad?” I gasped, surprised that he, of all people, would carry a phone around on a golf course.
He pulled the gadget from his pocket and read the number on the front screen. “Sorry,” he said, “I have to take this. It’s the restaurant.” He spoke quietly into the receiver for a few seconds, and then nodded several times as he listened to the voice on the other end of the line. “No problem,” he said finally, “I’ll be right there.” He turned back to Delores and me. “Delores, would you mind if Augusta helps you out for a while? I’ve got a small emergency to go take care of, then I’ll be back to join you for the back nine holes.”
Delores winked again, this time at me. “Fine as wine,” she quipped.
“Thank you. Why don’t you make your way on up to the ladies’ tee while I have a word with Augusta.” Delores waved good-bye to my father, then heaved her bag to her shoulder and started up the path. “I’m sorry about this, Augusta,” he said once she was out of earshot. “Do you mind terribly?”
“No,” I lied again, “it’s fine as wine. A little bit like the blind leading the blind, but I’m sure we’ll manage.”
“Wonderful. Thank you. Listen, Delores has been going through a bit of a rough spell since losing her husband to a heart attack a couple years back, so try to be gentle with her.”
“No problem,” I said honestly. “I’ll take good care of her.”
When I joined Delores at the ladies’ tee she had all of her clubs laid out on the ground, trying to divine which one was the right one to use. I recommended she start with a three-iron, because it would be more forgiving than a driver, though with somewhat less potential for distance. She stepped up and swung as hard as she could… over and over again. Delores missed seven times in a row before finally connecting. I was beginning to wonder what she’d been doing all those weeks at the driving range if she was still unable to make any contact whatsoever with the ball. On her eighth swing the toe of the club barely nicked its target, sending the sphere petering off the tee box about fifteen feet away, and quickly coming to a stop not far from where I’d set down my clubs. Her second shot wasn’t much better, nor were her third or her fourth, or any of her thirtyish shots on that first hole. I cringed to think that it was probably a lot like watching myself playing the game as a kid.
Golf was definitely not Delores’s cup of tea (cup of tee?), at least not yet. She struggled with each and every shot. But each time she swung I dutifully gave her words of encouragement, helping her along as best as I knew how. To my surprise, by the fifth or sixth hole she did begin to show signs of improvement. Not only could she carry her bag properly, but she was also hitting the ball with more consistency.
London was waiting for us at the clubhouse as promised when we came in after the first nine holes. Delores excused herself to the ladies’ room as soon as we walked in the door, which afforded me a few minutes alone with my father.
“How did it go?”
“Better than I thought,” I said with a chuckle as I sat down across from him at a table. “It was fun playing with someone who is worse than me.”
“But how did Delores do?” he questioned.
“Oh, she was a trouper. She struggled at first, but she really hung in there. I could tell she appreciated having someone there with her, even if all I did was offer a little encouragement and support. You can ask her yourself, but I think she genuinely had a good time. By the last hole she actually looked like she was getting the hang of it.”
London smirked knowingly. “Good. Then this month’s lesson is over,” he stated casually, turning his attention to a large television hanging on the wall.
“But
While I was putting my driver away, the ring of a cell phone interrupted my mental self-loathing. “Dad?” I gasped, surprised that he, of all people, would carry a phone around on a golf course.
He pulled the gadget from his pocket and read the number on the front screen. “Sorry,” he said, “I have to take this. It’s the restaurant.” He spoke quietly into the receiver for a few seconds, and then nodded several times as he listened to the voice on the other end of the line. “No problem,” he said finally, “I’ll be right there.” He turned back to Delores and me. “Delores, would you mind if Augusta helps you out for a while? I’ve got a small emergency to go take care of, then I’ll be back to join you for the back nine holes.”
Delores winked again, this time at me. “Fine as wine,” she quipped.
“Thank you. Why don’t you make your way on up to the ladies’ tee while I have a word with Augusta.” Delores waved good-bye to my father, then heaved her bag to her shoulder and started up the path. “I’m sorry about this, Augusta,” he said once she was out of earshot. “Do you mind terribly?”
“No,” I lied again, “it’s fine as wine. A little bit like the blind leading the blind, but I’m sure we’ll manage.”
“Wonderful. Thank you. Listen, Delores has been going through a bit of a rough spell since losing her husband to a heart attack a couple years back, so try to be gentle with her.”
“No problem,” I said honestly. “I’ll take good care of her.”
When I joined Delores at the ladies’ tee she had all of her clubs laid out on the ground, trying to divine which one was the right one to use. I recommended she start with a three-iron, because it would be more forgiving than a driver, though with somewhat less potential for distance. She stepped up and swung as hard as she could… over and over again. Delores missed seven times in a row before finally connecting. I was beginning to wonder what she’d been doing all those weeks at the driving range if she was still unable to make any contact whatsoever with the ball. On her eighth swing the toe of the club barely nicked its target, sending the sphere petering off the tee box about fifteen feet away, and quickly coming to a stop not far from where I’d set down my clubs. Her second shot wasn’t much better, nor were her third or her fourth, or any of her thirtyish shots on that first hole. I cringed to think that it was probably a lot like watching myself playing the game as a kid.
Golf was definitely not Delores’s cup of tea (cup of tee?), at least not yet. She struggled with each and every shot. But each time she swung I dutifully gave her words of encouragement, helping her along as best as I knew how. To my surprise, by the fifth or sixth hole she did begin to show signs of improvement. Not only could she carry her bag properly, but she was also hitting the ball with more consistency.
London was waiting for us at the clubhouse as promised when we came in after the first nine holes. Delores excused herself to the ladies’ room as soon as we walked in the door, which afforded me a few minutes alone with my father.
“How did it go?”
“Better than I thought,” I said with a chuckle as I sat down across from him at a table. “It was fun playing with someone who is worse than me.”
“But how did Delores do?” he questioned.
“Oh, she was a trouper. She struggled at first, but she really hung in there. I could tell she appreciated having someone there with her, even if all I did was offer a little encouragement and support. You can ask her yourself, but I think she genuinely had a good time. By the last hole she actually looked like she was getting the hang of it.”
London smirked knowingly. “Good. Then this month’s lesson is over,” he stated casually, turning his attention to a large television hanging on the wall.
“But
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