We spent the past few days in Michigan with my parents. My father is in his eighties and has always been amazingly robust, but lately prostate cancer and its treatments have diluted away most of his old rock-steady vitality. I'm forced to see, as he does in his good-natured grudging way, that he's getting old.
My father's historical good health is tightly entwined with his obsession with golf, something he practices every day he can. For years, each short visit has included a ritual round or at least a visit to the driving range -- my only exposure to this game that I've never really enjoyed except for the fact that it gets us outside and lets us talk. Sometimes, especially early on, I'd demur, resisting the boredom of the game and wanting to avoid my dad's inevitable chain of graphical tips: "imagine a plumb line...", "your torso and arms are cracking the whip". These tips would be meted out until, overlayed with so many mechanistic images, my mind totally short-circuited my body.
A couple of years ago, though, I had a change of attitude (and I think it was inspired by being a parent myself): this was the time and place for me and my dad to be together, and this was simply the ritual that took place then. My resistance fell away, and eventually I was able to just enjoy the whole thing -- the transfer of knowledge from father to son, the wish for improvement, being outside. I even managed to absorb some advice and hit the ball better.
This most recent time, we went to the driving range, and my dad was so weak that he had to sit down after every three shots, taking a few deep breaths. Nevertheless, he was able to keep up his usual end of the deal, parsing out his illustrious advice, which I did my best to absorb. I was thankful for it. I was truly thankful, especially now, that we have this thing we can still do together.
April 23, 2002 11:23 AM