Humility In a Golf Ball

Proof positive that you only learn life's lessons when you are good and ready.

I knew what the word humility meant as a kid, I even knew that it was a virtue to be striven for, but I didn't really get it until my dad took the opportunity to teach me on the golf course. I was in my early twenties at the time, and had been forced into being a golf junkie by some of my work buddies. It is, after all, the only instance where it is perfectly acceptable to drink and get behind the wheel of a motorized vehicle. They even bring it around in these motorized coolers, usually driven by quite attractive beer bi.... ummmmm, ladies. I had gone from an average score of something like, oh about a billion strokes, to the mid seventies over the course of a year of daily $5 all-you-can-play-till-its-dark outings after work. For those of you that have not been infected by the degenerative and incurable golf disease, a "perfect" score, or par, is around 72-74 strokes for 18 holes. Hats off to the pros - I never did get a round of under-par golf. Anyway, Dad and I would go to the practice range, talk about strategies, go over techniques and the like during my golfing journey. He seemed pleased that I had taken an interest in something that he enjoyed also and had made the time and effort to get better at it. Notice here that I didn't say good at it - more about that later.

Strangely, in all of the time we spent together, Dad and I had never actually played a round of golf together. He decided (I suppose) that it was about time that we cleared that little situation up. He invited me to one of the more swanky courses in the metro area that we lived in, and in truth, I looked forward to the day that I would be able to show off my considerable skill and aptitude at at this game. Visions of the PGA tour were dancing in my head at this point, holding up the trophy, getting the Green Jacket, and big fat checks (I know, just let me have my delusions of grandeur for just a moment here).

We arrived at the course and strolled out to the first tee box. We spent a moment or two warming up in the cool morning air. Now it was the time to decide who teed off first. Dad was gracious enough to allow me the first stroke, but then he asked "You wanna make this a little more interesting?" Huh? "What do you mean by that?" I responded. "How bout 2 bucks a hole - I'll spot you a stroke on the front nine and one on the back nine". Now usually, I am okay with a good bet, sometimes I play pool that way, but this was my dad. There was no way I was going to take money from him. "Just for fun" I said after a moment. A rather strange smile crossed his face and he gestured for me to address the ball.

The first hole in this particular course was a par 5 and had about a 90 degree bend in it at about 160 yards or so. I thought about it a moment, then pulled out my 5 wood, and figured that if I could cut the corner a little bit, I would be in the middle of the fairway with another 140 or 150 yards to go to the green. Cool. I took a nice easy swing and watched as the ball shot down the fairway and landed just about where I wanted it to. Cheers and applause were roaring in my head.

Dad didn't say a word, a puzzling smirk crossed his face as he pulled out his driver and addressed the ball. Driver? My dad was in his early sixties by then, but I knew from our trips to the practice range that he could still pound a ball 220 or 230 yards or so. That would put him over the fairway and into the woods on the other side. "Ummm, Dad?" I said. He just glared at me with his best "shut up" expression. Okay, I thought, do it your way then. He took a nice easy swing and launched the ball like a bullet. I smiled inwardly, "too strong" I whispered. "Watch." was his only response. Then the most astonishing thing happened. Imperceptibly at first, his ball began to curve.  As I tried to work out in my head what was happening, the ball rounded the corner and somehow flew straight down the fairway. After the bend. It rolled to a stop about  70 yards further up than mine and smack in the middle of the fairway. I stood there speechless and looked at him. Still smiling, he said "I may have taught you how to play, but I didn't teach you everything I know. Some things you'll just have to learn on your own."

In the end, I was thankful that I had not taken him up on his offer. He finished with a three-under-par 69. I finished with a 9-over 81. I was crushed. I found out later that my dad had emptied the local golf pro's wallet on more than one occasion, and that in his younger years, he was on tour and sponsored by a big name transportation company. To further put this in perspective, at the time we had our little lesson, he had already had one foot amputated because of diabetes, was suffering from the early stages of Alzheimer's, and had a surgery to fuse two vertebra in his neck. And he beat the pants off me. Since then, I have never assumed that my abilities or skills were any better than anyone else's.

Some lessons are harder to learn than others.

Up In Flames

Sometimes it just seems that things happen around me.

I recall the time that I did my first major upgrade to my first car. I junked the old 2-barrel carb and intake and replaced it with a 4-barrel system. I had my how-to book out and followed the pictures (since big words like torque and manifold confuse me). When I got everything back together, the damn thing would not stay running. It would cough and puke and finally stall. I looked at the picture in the book and then compared it to the engine compartment. Ditto - same, same, same. Checked the plug wires. Good. Checked for gas. Good. Checked for spark (NOT at the same time as I was checking for gas - I do have my bright moments). Good. Now my head hurt from thinking so hard.

At last I called my buddy and fellow partner in automotive crime to come over and see if he could figure this one out. He did, after all, have a much larger head than I. After much huffing and puffing and crawling around the car, he announced that this mystery was beyond him. Everything appeared as it should. Unlike me, he could actually read the captions to the pictures in the book so he had a much better understanding of what should be going on. He asked me if it would run long enough to get it to his house so that his dad could look at it. A little explanation here - his father was a Lt. Colonel in the Air Force and an expert mechanic. Well, as long as it was a VW. A VW bug that is - he had like 10 of them and forced them on his children to drive, what a nightmare. Anyway, I told him that sure, it could make it the half block to his house, he could push and I would steer. Picture a frowny face here.

We did manage to get it in his driveway (his house was thankfully downhill) and explained to his dad what was going on. His dad repeated our investigations without turning up anything obvious. He didn't even need the book - what a master! By this time, he was fiddling around with the brand spanking new carb I had just put on the engine. He had actually crawled up on top of the engine and was moving the throttle back and forth to see if the carb was working the way it should. I was sitting in the driver's seat hunched down peering at him through the gap between the open hood and the cowling. He looked at me through the same opening with his big military issue glasses and commanded me to try to start the car. Well, okay, but nothing good can come of this I thought. I turned the key to start and just let it crank, then looked back to see what he was doing. The engine coughed and sputtered like it had been and he leaned toward the carb to get a better look. Just at that moment a huge gout of flame erupted from the engine bay and his whole head disappeared in fire. The accompanying sound was like a train whistle going off. Horrified, I quickly released the key to stop cranking the engine and stared back at him.

He had not moved a muscle. Not a twitch. He was still staring down into the carb. Smoke was wafting from his eyebrows and hair. He slowly clambered down from the engine bay and sat down in the lawn chair in front of my car. Still smoking. Not a word. My buddy and I looked at each other open-mouthed and then back to him. He had a little flash burn on his face too - sort of an inverted raccoon thing because of his glasses. "Get me a beer" he said softly, followed by "I know what your problem is". Silence from both of us. Well, me, because my buddy had already made his escape on the pretense of beer-fetching. "Your distributor is in backwards". I'll be damned. I hadn't thought of that. More to the point, there was no picture in the book that would have lead me down that path. My buddy returned with the beer and handed it to his dad, who was still quietly smoking.

We popped the distributor out and righted the issue in about five minutes. I left. Quickly. That man never again helped me on any of my other cars, never did figure out why.

It Can Happen...

It can happen. I never thought it would happen to me, but it did. Unfortunately.

I have worked in all kinds of shops since high school - auto shops, personal garages, manufacturing plants and the like, sometimes with equipment that could maim or kill you. It would kinda hurt to drop a 20 ton girder on your head, hard hat or no hard hat. I always try to be aware of my surroundings and what is going on around me (I do like having fingers), but I did learn that all it takes is a split second.

I had just finished final welding this particular item, and it looked pretty good if I do say so myself. I thought maybe just a few swipes with the buffer would make it really shine. I had all of my PPE equipment on, hood, jacket, gloves, and boots, so I thought smugly that I was being pretty responsible in the safety corner of things. I reached for the air hose to plug up the buffer - something I had done a thousand times before - but I didn't actually LOOK in that direction. I gave the air hose a yank to pull it down, and as I did turn my head, I noticed this shiny gold object coming at me and thought,

"Gee... I wonder what that is?

The next thing I know is that there was this loud THUNK. My first thought was

"Umm... what just happened?"

Then I realized that the cool looking shiny thing that was coming toward me was the brass coupling on the end of the air hose. It had hit me right in the forehead directly between the eyes. Somehow that damn thing had found the little space between my hood and safety glasses and decided it would teach me a lesson right on that spot. My next thought as I looked around was,

"Did anyone see that?"

I would never hear the end of it if they did. Nope - everyone was head down, hood on, working - I was safe from ridicule. I picked up the buffer to go back to work, but then I thought,

"Gee... I really am sweating on the forehead. Someone must have turned up the heat."

I wiped the sweat away with back of my glove. Umm.... the last time I looked sweat was not red. Well damn. Time to go to the first aid station and let the safety manager know what happened. It turns out that instead of the hose being properly stored away after the last person that used it, they just tossed it over some pipes that ran along the wall. When I pulled it, the end whipped around and smacked me right in the forehead. It opened up about a one inch cut just above and directly between my eyes. It could easily have been worse if it had hit me in the nose or jaw. I do like eating (especially with teeth). It just goes to show that no matter how many times you do a particular task, or how safe you think you are, all it takes is one moment of inattention to get hurt. Apparently the line leads had a REALLY good laugh discussing the event at the next safety meeting, judging by the snickers and smirks the threw my way every time one of them passed by. My good friends on the line never missed an opportunity to remind me of that incident - even to the point of threatening me with the end of the air hose and giggling like little girls the whole time.

No respect. No respect at all....