It’s Hard To Believe It’s Been 20 Years Since That Phone Call At 3 AM…

Twenty years ago today, at around 3 AM, my phone rang. As if the early hour wasn’t enough to have me anxious, the voice on the other end said “David?”

Only people I grew up with in Norfolk call me that. I’m “Dave” to the rest of the world. So I pretty much could guess what I was about to hear.

I was then told at the age of 86, my father had passed away.

I think about that middle of the night call every year on this day, as well as other notable memories about the old man. The one I think of the most involves a bunch of golf balls, and now that I’ve just turned 70, I realize he may have inadvertently ended up teaching me a lesson on how to handle old age.

You see, my Dad loved golf, although he wasn’t very good. He grew up in the Depression, fought in the Pacific in World War II, and spent 20 years apiece in the Navy and civil service before retiring. He thought golf was a rich man’s game, so in his 30s, he decided he wanted to learn the game. He never took lessons, but he and his Navy buddies would go out on Naval Base courses like Eagle Haven and Shorty’s in Norfolk, and public courses like Ocean View and hack around together.

When I got to a certain age, I started playing with him, and when I got out of college and started to become successful in business, I started to notice the state of his equipment. He was a poor boy from Altoona who didn’t know or care what the latest brand names were, but bit by bit I’d buy him a new driver, a new bag, even some new golf shoes so he could have something to brag about when all the retirees got together to tell old war stories.

Over time I became a bit of a snob when it came to golf balls, always playing Titleist and because a customer told me 100 compression balls go farther, only bought that version. My Dad conversely was not encumbered by his son’s snobbery, and one time when looking for a ball he had driven deep into the rough, I found one with no brand name and just a logo that looked like an elk.

“That’s mine,” he’d say, sparking a conversation about exactly where he procured his golf balls. “I find them,” he said. “When I lose a ball, I go find more.”

I then emptied my bags of all the new balls I had and forced him to play a new ball on every shot. It pained him. “I need to save those for special times,” he argued. “Playing with your son IS a special time,” was my answer, “and when you lose all of these, I will buy you more. You don’t have to worry about what they cost because to you, they’re always going to be free.”

From that point on, every Father’s Day, every birthday, and every Christmas, I sent him a dozen golf balls. When we’d play – usually once a year – I put several sleeves in the cart and insisted he had to use them. He’d whine about losing perfectly good golf balls, but he did as I asked.

After I hung up the phone 20 years ago, I tried to go back to sleep but couldn’t. A few hours later, we got dressed and drove to Norfolk for the funeral. I delivered the eulogy, said goodbye to everyone, and drove back to Ashburn all in the same day, knowing I’d be coming back in a few weeks when the family was figuring out what to do with all his things.

It was then I saw an old Navy steamer trunk in a closet we were cleaning out. I opened it, then sighed. In the trunk was about 25 boxes of golf balls, roughly every one I ever sent him. He had saved them for a special day…a day, I might point out, that never came.

It’s a lesson my Dad taught me long ago that I still think of today: Enjoy what’s right in front of you, appreciate the blessings you have and don’t put off something until tomorrow when you could enjoy it today. Tomorrow, after all, is not guaranteed for anyone.

Since his passing, I think the old man would be proud to see what’s happened to those golf balls. I too had become quite frugal when it came to holes over water hazards, but I decided until they were gone, I’d hit a new ball on every shot, just as I had insisted my father do. An old friend I’ve known since my high school days in Norfolk named Rick volunteered to hold me to it, and every time we play he asks “how many are left?”

Rick and I played a couple of weeks ago and I was down to the final two dozen. With a little work and some typically errant tee shots, I should be able to finish depleting the inventory by December.

So Pops, I’ve returned just about every one of those balls to lakes, ponds and deep rough all across this country, just as you would. I may have taken a little longer than you would. But the task has been completed.

One day we’ll play again. Then we can lose them all together 🙂