Mallory, what do you want to eat for breakfast?” I ask
my three-year-old as we hurry to get ready for our big day.
Actually, she’s almost four -- a minor, yet important,
fact that she is quick to point out to anyone with ears.
“I don’t want breakfast; I’m not hungry,”
she responds.
“We’re going to be at the golf course for a long
time, sweetie. You need to eat something.”
That doesn’t work, but I keep trying: “How about
toast or yogurt?”
“No thanks.”
“Can you at least drink some juice?” I plead.
“Yeah, that’s not a long time,” she concedes,
as it becomes evident that she is perfectly willing to skip
the day’s most important meal if it’ll get her to
the golf course faster.
At this point in her life, Mallory has been to the driving range
once, but this will be her first time out on the course and
the anticipation is gnawing at her.
My wife coaxes her into going potty one last time, but along
the way she reminds me not to leave without her.
“Don’t worry, I’ll wait,” is my only
response. Does she think her dad is so heartless that he would
leave without her? It’s a typical worry for a kid, I tell
myself.
I grab a few snacks for the road while she hurries as fast as
she can. I help her gather her oversized set of junior starter
clubs and we’re on our way.
Outside, we’re smothered by the kind of heat and humidity
that you would expect on the fifth of July in the Deep South.
The fact that it is 9:05 in the morning means it’s only
going to get worse.
Never mind that. We’re off on our great adventure and
Mallory is brimming with enthusiasm. That is, until a sudden
panic attack strikes.
“I forgot my golf balls, daddy!” she exclaims from
the back seat.
“I’ll let you use mine,” I reassure her. The
panic fades. “Whew! Crisis avoided.”
We barely make it to the course for our tee time, and Mallory
is giddy over what she thinks is the greatest invention in golf
-- the golf cart.
That is, until we get to the first tee and she discovers something
even better -- the ball washer.
While AJGA staffer Tung Lee and his friend Lei and I tee off,
Mallory is busy scrubbing the dirt, grass stains and logo off
her golf ball. The round is off to a great start.
While Mallory knocks her ball around in the rough, we finish
the first hole and I tell her it’s time to get back in
the cart.
“We’re going home?” my crestfallen daughter
asks.
“No, we have 17 more holes to go,” I inform her.
“We’re going to be on the course for a long time.”
“Yaaaayyy!!!”
On the second hole, both Lei and I hit our balls into the bank
of a hazard, remarkably close to one of Mallory’s top-five
favorite animals -- a turtle (she likes snakes even more).
Things are going her way! That is, until the scared little turtle
jumps into the water and swims away from us. I collect the golf
balls and I’m ready to move on, but Mallory isn’t.
“We have to find the turtle!” she exclaims, fighting
back the tears.
“The turtle is scared of us,” I try to explain.
“So it swam away. I’m sorry.” After a minute
of her pleading to stay and look for the turtle, I persuade
her to climb back into the cart and we keep rolling.
On the next hole, Lei takes over as hero of the day when he
catches a dragonfly and gives it to Mallory in an empty sleeve
of balls. For the next two holes, Mallory shows little interest
in hitting her ball. Life now revolves around her new little
friend. (I eventually convinced her to let the dragonfly go
so that it didn’t die -- a rare victory for dad in the
battle of wills.)
On the fourth hole, I blade a ball into a bunker and Mallory
watches intently -- taking mental notes -- as I rake my footprints.
At the fifth green, sure enough, she finds the nearest bunker
and gets busy raking. (A future greenskeeper? Caddie? Beach
bum?) Why can’t I get that kind of joy from raking a bunker,
I ask myself. Without a doubt, next time I’ll think of
Mallory and I bet I will.
The round continues on, and Mallory occasionally takes a few
swings at her ball -- that is, when she’s not studying
bugs, chasing butterflies, scaring squirrels, washing golf balls,
raking bunkers, or picking up rocks for her rock collection.
(She had to return a 10-pound rock to the storm drain where
she found it.)
Catastrophe is avoided on the ninth hole, when Mallory --
a few steps ahead of dad -- hops into the cart and steps on
the gas. Terror strikes as I see flashes of a golf cart driving
into a lake or nose-first into a tree. But a five-step dash
and lunge into the driver’s seat thwarts any potential
disaster.
As we make the turn, Mallory’s red, sweaty face tells
me she is running out of steam. I finally convince her to
eat something -- a fruit roll-up, her first food of the day.
But she’s getting hot and has little left in the gas
tank.
Needless to say, dad has found his game and is playing fine
golf at this point. But she can only hang on until the 12th
hole, where I agree to quit and take her home.
Before we drive to the clubhouse, however, I offer her a deal.
Let dad play one more hole and he’ll treat her to ice
cream. She wholeheartedly accepts.
A driver, 6-iron and one-putt later, dad made his first and
only birdie of the day. The perfect time to stop!
We bid our farewells on the 14th tee, our mouths watering
as we think of our upcoming ice cream treat.
“Thank you for the dragonfly,” Mallory hollers
as we start to drive away.
And thank you Mallory, for giving your dad his most delightful
day on the golf course. You’ll always have a spot in
my foursome.
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