All in the Family

The day after Thanksgiving is traditionally a very crowded day on the golf course. I managed to get hubby to agree to play with me and I was able to snag the last available late-morning tee time which would allow us to get in 18 holes before dark. We were paired with a 30-something guy and his 12-year-old nephew who was so adorable it made my ovaries hurt. The boy was small for his age, but he swung the club with a natural, child-like abandon that often resulted in shots better than everyone else’s. His uncle, on the other hand, was under the tutelage of a golf buddy, who was either a terrible golfer or giving out bad advice as a joke. When the uncle addressed the ball, it looked like he was squatting to take a poop. But he was a nice guy who explained that he only played golf a few times a year, whenever he and his family got together for the holidays. He pointed to the foursome ahead of us. “That’s my family over there. Dad, brother, brother-in-law, and my other nephew. Dad’s the real golfer because he’s retired and has the most time to play. He’s good, but he gets kind of angry if he doesn’t play well.”

As the round progressed, I could see that anger kind of ran in the family. Whenever the uncle would hit a bad shot, which was almost every time, he’d fling the club at the dirt and mutter a self-admonition to himself, such as, “Really? Again?” What was interesting was that the nephew picked up on it, imitating the club-flinging and self-flagellating comments, although not as often since he didn’t hit as many bad shots.

It didn’t help that my hubby outdrove the uncle by about 100 yards. After nine holes, the uncle must’ve cried uncle, because he shook our hands and said he and his nephew were going to switch with two other family members at the turn.

So the uncle and nephew were replaced with the uncle’s brother and the other nephew, in other words, a father and son. It turned out the father was also a pastor, and for a pastor, he sure cursed up a storm. (Call me Pollyanna, but I consider “dangit” a curse.) And he liked to use golf clubs to kick up dirt too. I asked him what kind of pastor he was, and he said “nondenominational,” which is probably why he didn’t say “Jesus” as a curse word. His son was two years older than the other son, i.e. the nephew I’d played with on the front nine. His hair was shorn close to his head, which gave him a forlorn look. He didn’t need to look so sad, since he had a decent swing. But he cursed and threw the club at the ground too, as though those learned behaviors were part of the rules of the game.

Occasionally, I’d hear a very loud, annoyed, “Goddarnit!” emanating from the group ahead, and there was really no question who it had come from. Like father, like uncle, like brother, like son.