“Life doesn’t come with
an instruction book.
That’s why we have fathers.”
H. Jackson Browne

My Dad enjoyed the game of golf. He occasionally watched television coverage of professional tournaments on Sunday afternoons. He spoke highly of his golf heroes, which included the legendary Ben Hogan, as well as Arnold Palmer, Jack Nicklaus, Ken Venturi, Al Geiberger, Sam Snead, and the lovable Lee Trevino. He spoke of them as if he knew them personally. I had the pleasure of watching Dad play golf on several occasions when I was just a kid. He hit a good ball off the tee, but like so many other recreational golfers, struggled with his short game.

Dad didn’t have the opportunity to play golf as often as he would have liked. He embraced the traditional paternal role of provider for our family, often balancing multiple jobs, which left little time for golf. During his years in the San Francisco Fire Department, he continued to work a variety of side jobs on his days off. And by the mid-1960s, he devoted countless off-duty hours to preparing for SFFD promotional exams. Opportunities to get out with his friends for a round of golf came few and far between.

I’ll never forget the day Dad invited me to caddy for him. He and some buddies were going to play a round of golf in Sonoma. I’m not sure if it was a summer day or if Dad actually allowed me to take a day off school, but I remember it as a special day. I was probably in fourth or fifth grade at the time. I’m fairly confident that it was on that day that I developed a genuine interest in the game.

Dad and I would occasionally spend an hour or two at the driving range at Harding Park in The City. On other days, usually in the late afternoon or early evening, we’d practice putting on the public practice greens at 19th & Wawona Street. I listened attentively as Dad would teach me both the fundamentals and the etiquette of the game. Eventually, I found the courage to venture out on my own. I began with several rounds on the 9-hole Jack Fleming Course, which is located in the middle of Harding Park. When I gained a bit of confidence, I was ready to take on the challenge of the big course, knowing full well that on the 18th tee, I would have to hit my drive over a corner of Lake Merced to reach the fairway. More than just a few of my golf balls found their final resting place at the bottom of the lake.

Strangely, I can recall only once when I played a round of golf with Dad. We played at Harding Park. By the time I was beginning to play regularly, Dad was dealing with significant back issues which precluded him from swinging a club. I know I caddied for him a few times early on, and that, on several occasions, Dad met up with me on the eighteenth tee at Harding Park just to check-in and watch me play the last hole. He also surprised me one day when I reached the 10th green at Lincoln Park Golf Course. He was standing there, just outside the back of the Palace of the Legion of Honor, with my son, Tom, who was about two years old at the time. Great memories, but I would have enjoyed playing more rounds of golf with him. 

Author Roland Merullo, in his entertaining novel, Golfing with God, wrote, “There are 8,187 golf courses in heaven.” Perhaps it’s not too late after all.