Teeing Off
Long before 2013, my dad's balance became so unsteady that he had to stop golfing — the one activity that got him out of the house and into the world of sport he loved so much.
Teeing Off (2013)
Dad, in my mind's eye I see you there on the 18th tee
standing unsteadily
sometimes not even sure if you’re on the tee
(or somewhere else
deep in left field
or centre ice
hovering uncertainly)
above the ball with its million dimples
I too will be there, tottering, just as your father was
and his father before that
and his father before that
all the begats of England and Scotland
back to the links course in Saint Andrews
with its wooden clubs
and its whiskey on the 19th hole
I remember how uncertain I used to be on the first tee
back in the 90s.
You only encouraged me,
as on the ice, the diamond, and badminton court.
I remember the pints of beer on the 19th hole
with your friend Stan, who tried to tell you about the books he read
in his thin whisper of a voice.
You would sit looking at him, smiling, as good as deaf,
next to a bowl of peanuts, chips, and Canterbury beer.
I remember the holes in between
especially the one with the cliff on the left
and the ocean beckoning the golf ball like a siren
into the waves that spread out across the horizon
like a million dimples
And I remember the next three holes
with the ocean surrounding us
with the salt air
and the green turf beneath our feet.
It seemed we had all the time in the world.
Yet now, like Hamlet, I know not seems
and at my back I truly hear
Time’s wingéd chariot hurrying near*
Blinded by the sadness of the moment
I can only think of the 18th hole
and how painful it will be
to watch you zigzagging to the green
I'm deaf to the wisdom of Shakespeare
But you must know your father lost a father
That father lost, lost his ...
ad infinitum
past Saint Andrews
through Stonehenge and Sumer
all the way to Olduvai Gorge
I grit my teeth
suppress the tears that keep blurring the screen
and focus on the tee
which is also the drop of the puck
the ball flying downward from the mound
and the feather bird slipping between the fingers
I imagine us on the 18th tee
myself in the skin of my father
as he once was, as I am now
as he is now, weak and fragile, as I will be
and swing
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* hurrying near — from "To His Coy Mistress" by Andrew Marvell (1621-78)
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