The article reflects on the author's father's relationship with golf, characterized by his poor skills but deep passion for the game. It explores how he first took up golf during his military service at Fort Ord, where rounds on the base helped him cope with the traumatic backdrop of preparing for war. This seemingly Sisyphean struggle continued throughout his life, shaping his identity and reflecting a broader story of suburban fathers in the late 20th century.
He first learned to golf while stationed at Fort Ord during Vietnam. A day off meant a round or two at Bayonet or Black Horse, the twin golf courses on the base tucked into the unexploded ordinance and scrub and dunes of the Seaside landscape.
But like many of his age and ilk, it was this self-imposed struggle that I realized - perhaps not until the end of his life - was the thing he loved most.
The hollow clap and rustle of a tree trunk taking a direct hit or branches, not yet at the end of their natural life span, cascading down onto the fringe.
He knew it. His friends knew it. And after five minutes on the course with him as his 8-year-old 'caddy,' I knew it, too.
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