by Ali Bode
walks to the tee with a gait that
only hints of the battle he has fought
these last two years.
his physical stature is now somewhat
smaller from the effects of his treatments,
the largeness of his presence is easy
to feel as I stand in his shadow.
he places his tee into the ground,
nodding a silent acknowledgement to
me that he is back.
worry as to the result he watches
his ball fly from the clubface and
feels his unleashed passion for the
game soar into the air.
back at me in obvious pleasure. The
game begins.We walk the fairways together,
speaking of our love for the game,
not with words we say, but through
the unspoken competition that goes
on between us.
as one another makes an unexpected
putt, and forget to write down the
some fatigue as the holes begin to
pass, but his determination to finish
feared this day might never come and
now I wished it would never end.The
round over, we sit for a few minutes
and he tells me he thinks I won this
as I look back into his eyes. For
me, it hadn’t been about the
all about playing the game.
to my grandfather, Jim Keogh.