At it's core, Golf is a game of questions. It asks many, and answers few. There are questions about weather conditions, about turf, about distances, about equipment. And these are the easy ones. Golf also asks tougher questions. About character. About grit. About fortitude. It invites us to compete, and then demands to know why we showed up - who we think we really are? Golf holds up a mirror, and forces us to look at it. Not just a passing glance to see how our hair looks. Golf makes us stare, long and hard at the person looking back at us. And the game never blinks.
There is also another question that golf asks. It is a question that haunts everyone who has ever competed. It is a question, nay, it is THE question that is universal, and all encompassing, and yet also so frightening, that we spend most of our lives avoiding it. Parents, and then coaches from the youngest levels on up spend countless hours and untold energy trying to convince those in their charge that this question is not legitimate. It should not even be asked, much less ever answered. We ignore it, we denigrate it, we challenge its validity. And we are correct to do so, for the question is so powerful, so cutting, so polarizing, that left unchecked, it's horrible power could destroy lives. Other questions are more important -
Was it a nice day?
Did you spend time with friends and family?
Did you have a good time?
But golf holds up a mirror. And the question is there, like a cold specter, standing behind us, just out of view. It moves among us, dragging it's sharp talons across the back of our necks. It sidles up next to us, and whispers in our ears, and try as we might to ignore it, or shout over it, or laugh through it, or explain to it, the person looking back from that mirror will never blink, and eventually all must offer up the single word response that is demanded.
Tomorrow the question get its due.
DID...
YOU...
WIN?
Lest you think that such rhetoric would intimidate the rest of the field, my brother Joe sent this reply:
Destiny whispers in the warrior’s ear “you cannot withstand the storm.”
The warrior replies “I am the storm.”
Let the game begin.
So who won?
Who cares?!? I spent the day paddle boarding on Lake Calhoun with my sisters and a bunch of nieces and nephews!
Sunday was partly cloudy, with a slight breeze. It was enough to keep us cool but not enough to make the water choppy. We arrived shortly before noon and were surprised at how non-crowded it was on a beautiful Sunday.
The boys were hungry (of course) so I chose a table near the water while they went to order. There was practically no line at Lola on the Lake (it took the place of the Tin Fish, which lost it’s lease last autumn) so they got their food in less than ten minutes.
Margy and Katie didn’t get anything. They wanted ice cream but all Lola offers is kid things like push pops. No cones, no cups, no ice cream. The boys came back with tuna sandwiches because Lola offers no burgers.
No burgers and no ice cream? Boo! Either Lola on the Lake revamps her menu or I predict she doesn’t last two years. You can’t make me call Calhoun Bde Maka Ska* and you can’t make me eat tofu.
The guys finished their stupidly small tuna sammies and we went to rent paddle boards. Again, no line. Unlike the bistro, the folks renting water toys know what they’re doing. They rent tiny lockers for a few bucks so you can stick your phone, purse, wallet and prescription glasses in a safe place while you frolick on the waves. They have plenty of employees to take your money and deposit, rent you a locker, hand out life vests, fit you with oars and drag a board out onto the water. What could have taken a half an hour took less than three minutes. A+!
The kids headed for the middle of Lake Calhoun while the old ladies paddled under the bridge to the more refined waters of Lake of the Isles.
Despite the early hour and the lack of lines at the rental kiosk, the water was peppered with kayaks, paddle boards and even a few old fashioned canoes. The trees along the shore were filling up with hammocks while walkers, skaters, bikers and strollers were hitting the paths and parkways. Sunday in Minneapolis!
I’m happy to say that my core strength is still such that I felt no wobbliness on the board. I could sit down and stand up without fear of tossing myself into the weedy depths. I did surprise myself by getting a small blister on my right thumb, right next to where the callous starts. It doesn’t hurt.
We paddled and floated around on Isles for about forty minutes, then headed back under the bridge and found the flotilla of our youngsters, out several hundred feet from the sailboat buoys. They had tied their six boards together and were using it as a platform for diving. Margy’s youngest son had been one of the top divers in the state of Colorado while he was in high school and we could see him doing running flips off his board from a half mile away.
The wind and waves kept pushing our temporary dock towards the sailboats and eventually, my sisters and I left the kids to their fun and headed back to shore.
We turned in our equipment and collected our valuables and saw that we’d timed our excursion right: the line to rent boards extended all the way to Lake street!
Having been frustrated earlier at Lola on the Lake (boo!), we drove over to Lake Harriet and got the ice cream we craved. Again, there was no line! I can’t recall a time I could step right up to the window and order but that’s what we did. I gave the very young man at the window our order: two double scoop cups of ice cream and one single scoop cup. He explained to us that the single scoops were really big and the double scoops were practically triple scoops.
We stared at him.
Finally, Margy asked “Are you saying you don’t think we can eat that much ice cream? Because we can.”
And we did.
We ate our ice cream as we walked to the rose gardens. We actually finished that exorbitant amount of creamy goodness by the time we reached the beach. In all fairness, the kid behind the counter wasn’t the first to severely underestimate how much or how fast we can eat dessert.
The rose gardens was as big a disappointment as Lola on the Lake. The roses, which should be a riot of glorious color by mid July, are not. Row upon row of rose bushes and maybe a dozen blooms in the whole place. The back part of the garden is equally dismal; it looks less like the Jewel of the Grand Round than a hippies vegetable garden.
It was horrible last year, too! I don’t know who’s in charge of the garden but whatever their plan is, it’s not working. The Eloise Butler Rose Garden is an embarrassment to the city right now.
After several hours in the sun, we all headed to our respective homes to clean up and prepare for the party. I actually got some work done. I’ve been trying to squeeze it in whenever I have a few minutes these days. I can’t afford to take the summer off.
I got to my folk’s house at about 6:30 and the party was in full swing. In addition to the family, lots of friends were in attendance. The house was packed, the deck was too and it was loud, everywhere.
I got to see Kurt, who has been a friend since high school. One of my most vivid memories of that era (most of which I’ve deleted) is of Kurt’s 17thbirthday, he, JP and I, sitting in his back yard, wearing black arm bands and mourning the death of Elvis, which had just happened. Kurt’s dad had been our Uncle Pat’s partner when they were both young beat cops, so that makes Kurt family. He also played a huge part in the Turkey Trot tourney, the legend of which looms huge in family lore. Andy actually wrote the whole saga down a few years ago. Maybe someday he’ll publish it. It’s that good!
The whole Gator clan was there, too; including Little Man and his baby sister, who are too cute for words!
The winner of the tourney was NOT there. Billy’s buddy, Mike G. took the title for only the second time a non-Hubbell won the Open. I’m always happy when I can inscribe a name other than Woody’s on the cup. Mike Hubbell, Woody’s son, won the net. If Mike can put together two days comparable to the round he played on Sunday, I’ll be putting his name on that trophy very soon.
A wonderful time was had by all. Later in the evening, when most of the guests had left and Mom, JP and Margy had taken Dad back to the rehab facility, I asked the remaining men to please remove Dad's giant, hideous blue recliner from the house. I told them the new lift recliner would be delivered soon and we had to make room for it and Mom would be delighted to come home and find the blue whale gone. Even better, grandson Gus immediately asked his parents if he could have the old recliner in his game room. The only thing that made Mom happier than just getting rid of the old thing was knowing that someone else actually wanted it! So they put it in the back of Ty's pickup and delivered it to Gus's game room immediately. That was a win for everybody! *cultural appropriation |