Play the ball as it lies, play the course as you find it, but, if you cannot do either, do what is fair. (USGA)
“What are you doing, are you free, do you want to play a round of golf?” He asked. It sounded like we were doing the same thing for years but, in reality this would be our first meeting.
The familiarity was comforting but my nerves were shot. I was going to meet my father for the first time, four hours just him and me. Five hours if we have a bad game. Maybe I will have a bad game? No way, I'm too competitive; I would like to beat him.
You see, I am adopted and I have reunited with my bio family 50+ years later. That's what it's called "reunion" such a hopeful word. In reality, it's just a label; it doesn't mean that it is going to go well. Maybe this meeting will be different.
I need to think of a more appropriate label for “reunion” I don't think my words can describe the experience.
Reunion is felt, not heard.
My bio parents were in their early twenties, children of Sicilian immigrants with their whole life ahead of them. They met in high school and went off to college. In 1958, they married and moved to Swampscott, Massachusetts from San Jose, California after my mother became pregnant.
Basically, Swampscott is the farthest point away from San Jose, any further you will fall into the Atlantic Ocean.
Swampscott is a seaside town more gentile than Lynn the city next door where I grew up with my adopted parents and brother.
“Lynn, Lynn the City of Sin never come out the way you went in."
That's what we recited as kids. Lynn is a city with a chip on its shoulder. Gritty, blue collar not as peaceful as Swampscott.
Lynn people wear their home town as a merit badge. "I made it!" worn proudly as if to say, don't mess with me because there are no guarantees I can control myself.
"You don't want me to become a MASSHOLE do ya?
WELL DO YA?
I didn't think so!"
I judge people I meet. I say I'm from Lynn if I get a bad vibe. They stop talking. The conversation usually goes something like this:
Them; where are you from?
Me; Massachusetts.
Them; oh, I lived in Massachusetts; I lived in Beacon Hill, Martha’s Vineyard, Swampscott, etc.
(That's code for I'm really not from Massachusetts so I lived in an area that I read about in travel magazines or history books.)
Real people live in real places Brockton, Chelsea and Lynn we don't go to Harvard and we don't live on Beacon Hill. We don't have summer cottages on Martha's Vineyard or Nantucket.
We go to Lynn Beach and drink beer until the cops take it away.
Me; I’m from Lynn.
Them; oh!.... (silence)
Works every time.
If I think people are OK, I'll say I'm from Salem.
That's where my husband and I lived when we got out. He is from a similar city on the south shore of Boston. We secretly conspire to make people squirm; we know the code. We're kindred spirits. We have been together for 18 years and each day is better than the next. We have lots of codes. So be careful and be real because we are a force to be reckoned with!
My parents went back to San Jose several months after my birth and added to their family with three children, one son and two daughters. My siblings. They didn't know about me until I told them. Well to be truthful, my parents told them about me because they weren't sure if I would tell them.
So basically, I was the reason they were told.
I don't regret that, if I were one of them I would want to know. They do not see it the same way.
In their world they know and follow the rules.
"I never considered anything else," my mother said to me.
"You were always going to be put up for adoption." She explained, "My sister gave birth out of wedlock and I didn't want to put my mother through that again." she said.
Has anyone ever counted the amount of sentences we say by the time we are twenty years old? I bet it's about a million. One thing I know for sure is that some sentences have more consequences than others.
My father is loyal to his wife. I like loyalty. I like truth better.
My father has been described as nice, whatever that means. I know he is soft spoken from our phone call and he cautiously thinks about his answers before he delivers them. He is in his late seventies and still active. I saw on line that he scored an 82 in his local golf tournament. I am going to have to play really well to keep up with him. Will he share his story? I suggested the golf game a while ago hoping that his guard would be down when it was just the two us. Maybe he would be more honest. I was shocked that he called with the invitation.
He looks like me or rather, I look like him. Same smile, same mannerism, it’s unbelievable. If he didn't look like me so much I would have said that I had another father, that’s what all the lying and secrecy is about. That my mother became pregnant by another man, but no way, I am his daughter; there is absolutely no question about it.
I stepped onto the course, the grass was greener.
“Are you satisfied with your life, did you have other dreams on how things were going to go for you?” I asked as we stepped up to the first tee.
“Dreams get in the way of reality,” he said. “Think about responsibility and obligation versus what could be, the what ifs in life don't count.”
Crap bad start. I need to have a different tactic so he will share his story. Take it slow I recited in my head. Make him feel comfortable.
The trees are different here in San Jose; the trees back east are lush and green for a few months in the late spring and summer but, in the fall they turn different colors red, yellow and orange. Eventually they turn brown and fall off the tree. Most of the year the trees are barren I thought. It's like a deception, you expect things to be the same, to see the same bright summer colors but, colors fade. Feelings change.
“You know you can't find your golf ball this time of year when the leaves are on the ground,” I blurted. Lame get it together. “Did you play golf when you were in Swampscott?” I tried to engage him; they would have been there through the fall of 1958. I was born a few months earlier in the spring.
“No, we didn't have time we were busy, making an important decision.”
Damn I'm blowing it. Take it slower.
“When is the first time you played golf?” I asked. “I was a kid in San Jose, he said, “I took my father’s clubs to the apricot orchard that my father owned; I hacked, and whacked until I could get the ball straight down the row of trees. That's the objective,” he said, “hit it straight and get to the end with the fewest shots, I became pretty good,” he bragged. I wanted to beat him more than ever.
The game progressed, the sun lowered and the light was fading fast. I wanted to mirror his shots so we could walk together. He was really consistent not too far right, not too far left. Exactly down the middle, always on the fairway. Like he was shooting down the line of apricot trees.
It wasn't normal, how can he not want to push things, hit it harder and farther maybe risk missing the fairway to test his skills, to try something different? He never tried more than was necessary. A man that didn't take chances.
“Do you ever take a Mulligan, you know, a do over, one more chance to do it right?” Everyone should have at least one don't you think?" I asked. “Nah” he said, “I play the ball where it lies, if you hit it down the middle all the time you never have to face the consequences. Why would you want to try to hit around a tree and not succeed?” he asked. I nodded and didn't need to ask any more questions.
I thought about the fall in Lynn when the leaves fell off the trees and would cover your golf shot.
You thought you were safe as you walked up the middle to where your ball should have been but, it's not there. You could look for a really long time kicking around in the leaves hoping to see the ball. Sometimes you just have to accept the consequences to keep moving forward.
As we were about to say good bye I said, “Do you think we can do this again?” He said, “We’ll see.” As he waved his hand goodbye and walked away.
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