Of fathers and sons and golfing for life

Some people play golf for a living.
Some play it for life.
Count me as part of the latter. As I've already noted here, I took up the game when I was 14; now I'm 47 (hold on, let me get a calculator ...)  that's 33 years I've been chasing that little white ball around big, green pastures. And, oh, has it been fun.
It's funny, though. For years I felt golf was a great escape for me. Even though I wasn't that good (and I'm still not) I'd get out on the course and the cares of the world would drift away like a hard slice off the 1st tee (if you've played with me, you know what I mean). For the next few hours, even if I wasn't playing well, life was pretty good because even bad golf beats a good honey-do list on a Saturday afternoon.


But this year, things have gotten even better.
See, even though I love golf, I love being a father even more. And while I've been a dad for 23 years now, it's only been recently that I've been able to forge a golf connection with my youngest son.
He's 14 now and as most parents will tell you, that's a tough age. Teenagers are naturally defiant, often lazy and perpetually in a bad mood thanks to hormones, high school and homework.
For the most part, my son, Tyler, has beaten that stereotype. He's a pretty happy kid, which, believe me, I count as a blessing every night.
But I can't help but think golf has helped play a role in his -- and my -- happiness. Why? Well, he started playing golf a few years ago, but it wasn't until this past summer that he really gained a passion for it. He played in a weekly league at a nearby course and actually competed very well, which only served to fuel that passion even more.
Whereas I used to play once a week in a local men's association, I scrapped it for a regular Friday afternoon round with Tyler.
At first, I regularly beat him by several strokes. And for a while, I'd try to go easy on him, figuring if I whipped him too badly he'd begin to lose interest. The funny thing is, Tyler caught me by surprise. One day I was taking it easy on him, the next time out I found myself trailing him by three or four strokes after just a few holes. For a while I was happy for him but by the end I was scrambling to catch up. Heck, I think I even tried to get inside his head with some good-natured smack talk.
He didn't care.
He wound up beating me and from then on our games have become fun, but highly competitive. The part of me that gets mad about losing to a 14-year-old is dwarfed by the part that swells with pride for the boy who couldn't break 50 (on the small "executive" course we often play) just a few months ago.
Over the Thanksgiving holiday, my family and I traveled from our home in northern Utah to my parents place near St. George, Ut., about five hours to the south.
We were only going to be there a few days, but Tyler, me and my oldest son, Grant, decided at the last minute to bring our clubs. Within an hour of arriving and saying hello to my folks, the three of us were on a nearby course called Dixie Red Hills.
It was late in the afternoon and it looked like we might, with a little luck, be able to finish a 9-hole round before the sun set. Turns out we weren't so lucky.
We were put behind a very slow twosome to start and by the 7th hole the slow twosome joined up with four others who were even slower. Yes, we finished -- in the dark -- behind a sixthsome (that's not even a real word, is it?).
Afterward, when my boys and I stopped for a bite to eat, Grant shook his head in amazement as he whispered to me how Tyler kept repeating the mantra, "I've gotta beat dad. I've gotta beat dad."
By the way, we finished in a tie that evening. As darkness began to fall, I hit a really nice approach shot on the 9th hole and was in position to birdie. Instead I missed the putt and had a 4-footer coming back the other way.
I asked Tyler if I was in "gimmie" range and he smiled and said, "Nope."
I missed the par putt and settled for bogey as my boy failed to mask his elation.
Something tells me he's going to golf for life.