Golf gives this dad many years of joy
My father, Hank Mundy, learned to golf at Fort Lewis.
The Army Special Services transferred him from Valley Forge, Pa., to Washington in 1950, and one of his first sights in the state were the massive firs that swayed over the golf course when the wind rose.
"To look up under those trees, with the sun coming through the branches, there was nothing like it," he remembers. Raised during the depression, he thought golf was a rich man's game. When he was 11, he helped his father make moonshine in the West Virginia mountains, left home at 15, and knew all about class differences.
But after World War II, in the military, he found that golf was almost an equalizer. On base, there were tony officers rec clubs, seedier enlisted and non-commissioned officer clubs. But on the golf course, there was only one clubhouse. If you could play, you could stay.
My father perfected his swing at Fort Lewis over the next two years At one point, he became such a long hitter with a straight shot that he considered turning pro. My mother did not think professional golf held much promise as a career move.
My dad can still describe each hole. The 18th hole, a par 5, about 580 yards, was a potential disaster. Gentle dogleg left, then trick shots up to the cup. If you overshot it, you either landed in the back bunker or in the clubhouse, which had windows overlooked the last green.
One year, my father was paired with the wife of the commandant, Maj. Gen. Burns. The general did not play golf. But Mrs. Burns, a tall, formidable woman, "had a hell of a tee shot," says my dad. That day, dad had a double eagle on No. 3 — 540 yards.
He and Mrs. Burns won the club pairs match. "I won a Dandy putter that I used for 30 years," he told me the other day. I looked it up on Google. Dandy nickel blade putters are still hot.
The Fort Lewis course has changed. Manager Jim Barnhouse says that No. 3 was shortened to make room for a driving range. The stone clubhouse was replaced with a modern building in 1995.
Most of the old plaques, ornate trophies and photos of men in 1950s' ghastly plaid jackets have been hauled off into boxes, gone. Some of the ancient trees have fallen, too.
But my dad still plays. When he was 78, he shot his age.
His distance eyesight began failing him, and the other in his foursome in Virginia took to sighting the green for him. They would point, he would swing.
He continued beating 50-year-olds. Sometimes, with new partners, he'd make a wager or two. They saw an old man uncertain how far the green was.
Then he'd take his shot. And call me about the fiver or 10-spot he'd won.
My honorable father had become a ringer.
Unfortunately, his close-up vision also began to deteriorate, wreaking havoc with his putting game.
His 14 handicap became a handicap. He campaigned to get the Fort Belvoir course pro to raise it to account for his lost putting stroke.
Two years ago, a couple days before his 83rd birthday, I got a call from the Fort Belvoir clubhouse. I feared the worst, then I heard cheering in the background.
Dad had just hit a hole in one, his first. It was 170 yards.
Last month he called to tell me he'd hit a tee shot 260 yards days before he turned 85.
I don't golf. It's hard when a parent excels at something. You're either in the shadow or out in front. My dad tried to keep me playing, but gave up.
He said, "You can teach someone how to hit the ball. But you can't teach someone the patience to play golf."
My starter clubs went to Goodwill. But golf is a code language for us. My father was of the generation that did not discuss personal matters.
We talk about World War II in the Pacific (he was a Marine then) or we talk about golf.
As an only child, I have spent hours sitting with my dad in front of the TV, watching young Jack Nicklaus, the Golden Bear, grow into the gray bear, and play his last Masters. That was what we substituted for our own discussion about the future.
My father played again this week in Virginia. He still loves it all: the camaraderie, the peacefulness, and the perpetual state of hope that golfers live in.
"Any day you play golf is a good day," dad says, and I hear what he is saying to me about being alive and accepting age with grace.
Fort Lewis gave my father a lifetime of joy. And me a life. I was born in an Army hospital on the other side of the world, my parents used to joke, nine months after a good round one weekend in May at Fort Lewis.
So on this Fathers' Day, thank you, Fort Lewis: for my dad's years of wide fairways, gentle roughs and sun-washed memories.