Fore!

I grew up next to a golf course, Lebanon Valley Golf Course. It's a pretty unique neighbor to have.

My Dad, my brother and I all played golf, although we never bought a golf ball. We found more than enough in our yard. Everytime we'd mow the yard we'd pick up a couple more balls.

I have been hit by a golf ball while playing in our yard. I tried to get out of the way but it took one bounce and slugged me in the shoulder. I also watched as our dog Casey took a hit from a ball one day. Both of us were a little bruised but fine.

To actually hit a ball in our yard you had to be a pretty lousy golfer. Our property ran along the 11th hole fairway. The hole dog-legged away from our yard. So if you were over in our property you hit your drive really, really, really in the wrong direction.

Golfers would occasionally ping a golf ball off of our house. That took a really terrible shot and was pretty rare. Once a golfer hit a ball so poorly that it ended up in our garage wildly rattling about. I was always somewhat amazed by that feat. Now that's a lousy golfer!

I remember once we came home to find our car windshield cracked, obviously from a golf ball. My father went down to the clubhouse and sought out the owner. Before my Dad could get out a full sentence, "A golf ball cracked a windshield on my car and . . ." the owner spouted off in angry babble. "You knew there was a golf course here when you built your house!?!?!? What do you want from me?!?!?"

"Nothing," my Dad said. "I just thought someone may have left a note or a phone number."

That's what my Dad would have done.

The owner of the course was a short, overweight, dirty, unshaven, mean make of a man.

And no one had left a note.

In the winter time the golf course turned into a sledding fantasy land. This golf course happened to be interlaced among several large hills. The sledding paths were endless and provided extremely long, exciting runs. Both my sister and my brother lost their front teeth sledding that golf course.

I often wonder if I ever would have played golf if I had not grown up right there beside a course. I probably never would have played. But it was right there. How could I not play?

As a young teenager I would go out on summer days, pay the $2 green's fee, and play all day long. I walked the course, carried my bag, and the most rounds I ever played in one day was three. There were no spikes, no ball markers, no golf gloves, no funny hats. It was just me in cut off shorts, no shirt, and ripping that little ball long and down the middle, enjoying the pristine, well-groomed nature around me.

One day when I was about 14 I took off on one of my all day golf outings. I played the first four holes very well with three pars and a bogie. An elderly gentleman was keeping close pace behind me. After I hit my drive on the fifth tee he caught up to me and yelled, "What do you say we play together?"

I grumbled to myself. I didn't want to play with some stranger. Who was this guy? And I was off to such a good start. He was going to make me all nervous.

"Sure," I said. I was raised to be respectful.

As we played on together my game even got better. I was playing out of this world. Every shot I hit was magic. The elderly gentleman gently cheered me on. It was almost like he was an ancient Irish golf spirit sent to oversee my game.

I shot a 76. To this day that is the best round of golf I've ever played.

I never saw that man again.

Once when I was out and about in the yard I saw the owner of the course riding his cart down the 11th hole. He looked over at me and suddenly turned the cart onto our property speeding toward me. I stood frozen.

He slammed the cart to a stop right beside me, stood up next to me, grabbed me by the shirt collar and started to shake me about. "What did you do to my brass sprinkler heads?" he yelled.

Now fortunately my Dad was working in the planting beds around the house and upon seeing this scene quickly ran over. He broke me free from the grip of the golf course owner and gave him a few firm fingers to the chest. "What do you think a kid wants with a sprinkler head?" he asked.

He was right. I had nothing to do with the disappearance of a brass sprinkler head or anything else. I never stepped foot on that golf course unless I was a paying customer or unless it was covered with snow.

My Dad sent the owner packing. Both were left grumbling.

Later that night I was in the yard near our walnut tree. It was a pain in the butt of a tree. It wasn't much to look at and every Fall it dropped golf ball sized walnuts all over the place, which were a serious hazard to the lawn mower.

I thought I'd help my Dad out by picking up some of the walnuts. Considering the circumstances of the day I felt the best place for the walnuts was down on the 10th green, just an easy toss away.

I must have covered that green with over 100 walnuts. I couldn't help but laugh. It wasn't nice, but it was harmless. And I owed it to my Dad who stood up for me.

Thanks Dad!