Gospel & Universe 🪐 Ars Moriendi
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.
In my mind's eye, I see him there on the 18th tee, standing unsteadily, sometimes not even sure if he’s on the tee or somewhere else, deep in left field or at centre ice, hovering uncertainly, above the ball with its million dimples.
I too will be there, tottering, just as his 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. He only encouraged me, as on the ice, the diamond, and badminton court.
I remember the pints of beer on the 19th hole with his friend Stan, who tried to tell him about the books he read, in his thin whisper of a voice. He 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,
and 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 him 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, to 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 my 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.
🪐
Next: Batter Up!
Table of Contents - Annotated Contents - Layout - Core Beliefs