Golf and Religion
June 2004
Frank McGuire Stories
“You wouldn’t think it would be possible to lose a golf club
in broad daylight in your home, “ Frank said after hitting a very serviceable
drive down the center of the fairway.
“No, you wouldn’t,” I replied.
“I had just taken it out of the bag to see I if could still
swing it. I could.” “I put it down and then it was gone.”
“I looked down and I couldn't see it, so I started looking
around.” “I looked on the grass and
under the carport. I even looked in the
wood shed, though I knew I hadn't gone out there and I don’t believe that golf
clubs can fly.”
Frank walked back to the golf cart, put away his club, sat
down on the passenger’s side and continued.
“Well, maybe they can, but I haven’t seen them do it . . . at least not since I was younger and helped
them fly.” “I used to get mad when I
couldn't make the shots, swear and even throw clubs after a particularly bad
shot. Then one day I decided I wasn't
good enough to get mad at the game.” “I
haven’t thrown a club since.”
It was a sunny June
morning. We were playing golf at RiverRidge, a fine 18 hole course near Eugene .
Pop had known for a month that I was coming and had called a couple of times to
make sure that he had the dates right. I
had called on my cell phone that morning on my drive down from Portland. We
agreed to meet at the golf course. This
was one of my quick 24 hour trips to check up on him. Pop is 85 and is
gradually going blind from macular degeneration.
He still cuts fire wood in the National Forest in eastern Oregon . He cuts dead trees. It helps prevent uncontrollable forest fires
and provides firewood for his customers. He drives over the Cascades to eastern
Oregon ,
leaving home at 3 am to
avoid having the morning sun in his eyes as he crosses mountain tops.
“Which club was it?,” I asked as we drove down the path to
our balls. Playing from the forward
tees, he had managed to out-drive me again.
“The Callaway Big Bertha driver,” he said. “The one you boys got me.”
He continued, “I really
haven’t played since last October.” It’s
not much fun playing in the rain, even on a par 3 course, if you can’t see the
ball. Clancy doesn’t much like being a
seeing eye dog, so I haven’t played recently.”
“Well,” I said, “you don’t get any more strokes just because
you don’t have that club, especially after that drive.”
“I looked for it again.
I looked in the truck and in the house.
I even looked in the cupboards, though I knew a golf club couldn't
actually fit in the cupboard, especially a driver.” “It was gone.”
“I even invoked the aid of the Church,” he said, reaching
for a sip of his coffee from his scarred plastic coffee mug. “What?,” I asked. “How did you do that?”
“I have this friend Vi
who is Catholic and I asked her, ‘Don’t you have a Saint who is in charge of
things that are lost? What’s his name?”
“She said, ‘St.
Anthony
“So I asked her, ‘how does it work?’ “What do you say?”
“She told me. I said to her, ‘Well, would you mind saying
it? I’m not a Catholic and I’m not sure
it would work as well if you’re not.’”
She agreed.
“What did she say? “ I asked.
In a stage voice, Pop chanted:
“St. Anthony St. Anthony
“Something
is lost and must be found.”
Then he said, “I thanked her for help. I told her that if
the golf club came back, I probably have to convert.”
I stood behind him as he addressed his ball. He swung.
“Good shot,” I said. The ball
started right and curved back into the fairway, following the familiar path of
one of his patented hook shots.
I called out the path of the ball. “Started right. Coming back. Landed short. Still rolling. In the fairway, just short of the green. Chip and a putt.”
“Why did you say it was a good shot,” he asked. “If it had been a good shot, it would have
been on the green.”
We drove up to the green.
I handed him his pitching wedge and his putter. He walked over to his ball and looked at the
pin. He was wearing his Stevie Wonder
big frame sunglasses to help his pale blue eyes from the bright sunlight. He had told me earlier, “The left eye is
gone. It just sees light. The dark glasses to seem to help some, when
the sun is bright or after the drive home from the woods. My eyes get tired after two hundred miles.”
“ Well, it wasn’t a bad shot,” he said. With the wedge, he made his next shot from
thirty yards out. Soft touch, quick release.
With a high loft, it landed firm, rolled a bit and stopped.
“Below the cup, four feet, slight break, right to left,
about a cup’s width,” I called out.
He walked up. I took
his wedge and hand him his putter. He lined up his putt and then stopped. Cupping his hands around his eyes, he looked
toward down on the green toward the pin, as if to see the line and the
break.
”I don’t see it, but I believe you,” he said. “You wouldn't lie just to win . . . or would you?”
He stroked the putt and listened for that satisfying rattle
when the ball rolls into the cup.
He leaned over the cup, pulled out the ball, and walked to
the cart. I replaced the flag and caught
up with him.
“Well?,” I asked.
“Well, you were right this time, even though you are a
lawyer.”
“Yes I was and I am,” I said. “But what about the golf club and
religion?”
“Well, it didn't show up and I didn't convert,” he said, as
he sat down in the cart, ready to be driven to the next hole.
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