It’s often said we should let go of life’s regrets, which can be as toxic to our emotional wellbeing as spending our holiday in Chernobyl would be to our physical health. While I heartily endorse the advice, I readily admit there is one unfortunate turn of events in my past which — if I’m honest with myself — I will likely carry with me to the end of my days.
Where, oh where, did my first golf club go?
The object in question was a miniature 3-iron that my grandfather had custom made for me when I was just 7 years old. I’m not talking about some plastic here-today-gone-to-the-landfill-forever child’s plaything. This was the real McCoy: pure blade head, True Temper steel shaft and Golf Pride grip, each component scaled down to fit mini-me.
It’s the club with which I took my first real swings, no doubt to my father’s dismay as I gouged my way around his well-kept garden. And though I can’t recall the precise moment I crossed the threshold, it was the conduit through which I fell deeply in love with a game that was destined to leave an indelible imprint on the rest of my life.
Actually, truth be told, I owe my very existence to golf. My parents met because their parents were members of the same club in Ohio. So, this die was cast long before I had any conscious say in it.
And that’s what makes the loss of this club so heartbreaking and unforgivable. My grandfather didn’t merely gift me with a physical expression of his passion. He passed that love on to me through it. And I, somewhere amid my careless youth, let it slip through my grasp.
When I was old enough to set foot on a real golf course (not the one my childhood friends and I created from one yard to the next), I vividly recall using it as my first putter. I had to employ an exaggerated Lee Trevino-like forward press to offset its 20 or so degrees of loft to make it work. But when I did, it imparted a surprisingly sweet roll that — in my selective memory — quite often kept my ball on track to the hole.
But then, when I’d earned a bit of spending money mowing neighbors’ lawns during the summers between my teenage school years, I purchased a shiny carbon MacGregor Ironmaster flanged blade — the same model of putter brandished to legendary effect by my childhood idol and fellow Buckeye, Jack Nicklaus. That’s when the peewee 3-iron was banished from my bag, in keeping with the biblical admonition: ‘When I was a child, I spoke as a child, I understood as a child, I thought as a child. But when I become a man, put away childish things’.
Poppycock! I would give anything to have that sliver of a club back.
This ache is not merely nostalgic. For me, that 3-iron was the linchpin that connected me to my grandfather and, now that I am a grandfather myself, could have connected me to my new grandson. I could have bequeathed it to him and perhaps proven the theory that the golf bug skips generations in my family. My grandparents? Yes, big time. My parents? Couldn’t care less. Me? That should be clear by now. My children? Stubbornly immune. But my grandson? Only time will tell.
So, yeah, I deeply regret its loss. And, no, I will not let this one go.
But perhaps there is a way to ease my pain. What if I followed in my grandfather’s footsteps and found a custom club builder who could replicate the wee weapon? And what if I were to present it to my grandson when he’s ready to take his first swings? Might lightning strike twice?
I have to hope it does, for the sake of my golfing soul. To right the wrong. To repair the breach.
If only my younger self could have known that something so small would have meant so much.
Terrific piece Dan! I’ll get to Goswick yet!⛳️