Golfing with Gramps

Ever since I began golfing as a young teen, I saved the scorecards of each new course I played. These keepsakes morphed into a collection, which twenty years later has culminated into about 250. The scorecards were collected as a totem for my round’s score and as a passport of sorts of each golf clubs’ logo and designs, but now I use these cards as a portal of where I was physically and spiritually at that point in my life. From my friends, dad, and other playing partners, I received so many life lessons on these courses, of which I see so clearly now.

The scorecard that made me reflect on one of my life’s episodes was from North Woodmere Golf Course in Long Island. I only ever played one round there, but it holds significance because that was the only round I would be joined by my paternal grandfather Joey. 

It’s March 13, 2006, a crisp spring day in North Woodmere, Long Island. I’m on mid-term break from my sophomore year of high school and have chosen to visit my grandparents - Joey and Savva - for a few days.

I’m staying with them alone, without the company of my sister or parents, so I expect an extra concentrated dose of doting. Whatever I want to do, they’ll make it happen. 

With respect to my lovely grandparents, they are a bit sedentary, so I’ll keep my requests humble. We’ll eat out at a Chinese buffet cleverly called U-8-2-MUCH, feed the ducks at Grant Park, and play card games like Go Fish and Gin Rummy, before capping the evening off by watching the Knicks or Islanders. 

My itinerary doesn’t account for golf, aka the sport that recently became an obsession. I began playing two years ago and lately, reading books about putting and practicing my swing in the television’s reflection passes my time. 

But given I’m in Long Island to maximize my time with my grandparents, golf wasn’t an activity I plan on. My grandparents, more importantly my grandfather Joey, haven’t pursued golf or even dabbled in it.

Joey’s younger brother Freddy used to adore golf as much as I do now. Thinking back on the stories of him playing three times a week or sleeping in his car at the Bethpage parking lots to wake up at 4 am to reserve a tee time, I can relate to the love and intention Freddy put into his golfing experience. 

Unfortunately, a decade earlier, Freddy suffered a stroke and no longer able to golf. While the sport never intrigued Joey, I’m sure the subject became extra sensitive knowing his brother could no longer enjoy his favorite activity.

So with his lack of interest in golf, Joey surprised me by offering to take me golfing. It was an offer I couldn’t refuse!

Before I take you to my round, I admit my memory is foggy in that I don’t remember bringing my clubs. Perhaps, hazy cognition comes with being an addict - in this case a golf addict. I potentially borrowed clubs from Joey’s neighbor or rented them on the course, but since I bring my clubs on every domestic flight I go on now, it wouldn’t surprise me if I packed them on this short drive from Connecticut to Long Island. 

Joey drove me to North Woodmere Park Golf Course, a county owned municipal course ten minutes from his home in Lynbrook. Playing at a mere 2282 yards, this 9 hole executive course could be played twice over for a full eighteen, taking less than three hours. 

I had the sub-three hours on my mind, because I thought Joey would be dropping me off and want an ETA for my pick up. But to my intrigue, he wanted to join me. 

For the first time in my life, he'd get to see me golf. After Joey paid my greens fee and I loaded my clubs onto our cart, we rode to the first tee starter. He gave me the scorecard and I looked it over. I had begun a scorecard collection, curious by the various designs, folds, sizes, colors, and fonts that made each course’s scorecard unique. 

This scorecard was as bare bones as can be. The scorecard only contained one color and the course layout looked like an eight year old’s napkin scribble. After all these years, it remains my most uninspired card. 

The course itself looked minimalistic, which is me using a nice euphemism for basic. It was after all a short parks & rec course.

Having just started tracking my USGA (United States Golf Association) Handicap index, I was also disappointed this course had no USGA rating and slope. Without a rating and slope, this meant that the course wasn’t USGA approved and therefore my score wouldn’t contribute to my handicap.

After I overcame my petty grievances, I realized this round was a treat from my grandfather, as he was going to join me on the golf course. We would have some rare one on one quality time for a few hours, and I was excited to see what was in store. 

As Joey rode the cart with me, I could feel the joy of a grandfather sharing in his grandson’s excitement. His proud shout of “Wowza!” when I hit a long drive or squeal of “Yippee!” when I sank a 12 foot putt were unlike any bursts of spirit I had heard from him before. Throughout my life, he frequently repeated how proud he was of me or, if I told him good news, he’d smile and say “That’s exciting!”. But here we were, on the course, reveling in my accomplishments together in real time. 

The more he watched me play, the more he understood the difficult assignment golf requests. Getting a tiny ball in a tiny cup 400 yards away in four swings is indeed an impressive feat and he understand why people, like his brother, get hooked to that feeling.

The golf course had become my happy place, but it about to become a domain for Joey to shine as well.

He was a natural-born schmoozer and wherever he met a stranger, from deli counter to DMV, he loved starting a conversation. He believed that people defaulted to shyness in strange situations to which his nature was to eliminate that discomfort. His mantra was akin to a lyric sung in The Simpsons, “A stranger’s just a friend you haven’t met”.

To his delight, he learned that a golf game typically requires four people to play together and if only two register together, the clubhouse will pair you with others. We were joined by one other gentleman named Dave, a shy nerdy 50-something wearing a plaid shirt tucked into his jeans. He booked a tee time as a single and would use a push cart for the round. An emblem of lonerism, Dave was perfect for satiating Joey’s gregarious disposition.

Joey didn’t know the social etiquette of golf, as in waiting a few holes so you can feel out a players’ vibe. I had played with plenty of stiffs - people who kept to themselves and didn’t want any interaction. But Joey didn’t know this and since being buried in one’s phone wasn’t yet a vice in 2006, Joey felt he had clearance to chat with this fella from the get go.

Joey chatted with Dave (or rather, to Dave) moving from first hole small talk to second hole kibitzing. By the third hole, Dave appeared engaged. They had found common ground both being from Lynbrook, so they chatted about their favorite bakeries and the public library. Yes, the library.

My golf game was ho humming along, as I bogeyed up and down dewy fairways and patchy postage stamp greens. But I took moments to appreciate Joey being in his element, finding comfort in a novel environment himself. Because Joey had a tough time walking, I kept the cart grumbling at 4 mph so he could talk to Dave in parallel.

As Joey and Dave discussed more Lynbrook-centric topics, they finally struck small talk gold, having discovered my grandmother was Dave’s elementary school teacher. 

“Mrs. Sheinman? She had red hair and a pet rabbit in the classroom.” 

My grandfather now felt permission to open up further, with questions like “Did you know so and so from elementary school? How’s so and so doing? Is the house on such and such corner still around? ”

As Joey continued to chat more, I was seeing a new side of him. I knew he loved to chat, but as a teenager I was learning about the importance of building rapport with strangers. Social life in high school - whether befriending the cool kids, talking to girls, saving face with teachers and counselors who write your college letters of recommendation - was a blend of being myself while still seeking approval. I saw some of that in Joey….he was himself, and was comfortable in his skin, but if you’re trying to make friends with someone new, aren’t you still seeking approval?

Joey continued talking to Dave, but this time he left his seat and started walking alongside him.

Without any clubs or golf gear, he strolled the fairway with his classic old man white New Balances squishing against the wet grass. Joey would walk from my drive to approach (while I drove the cart) and then once I let my ball launch towards the hole, he’d walk to the green.

I had never witnessed Joey walk unassisted like this. In family gatherings, an aunt or uncle would provide a helping hand; If he was moving through a large destination, like a stadium or airport, staff would provide him a wheelchair.

He was still able in mind, but his physical health was deteriorating. When I was 11, he took me to an Islanders game and as we walked up to our nosebleed seats, he fainted on the steps. I rushed to find paramedics and they took care of him as he regained consciousness. He toughed it out, getting wheeled into the handicap section for the remainder of the game (great way to get an upgrade!). But in my eyes, that moment signaled the end of unsupervised activities for just us two.

From then on, I never saw him walk more than four blocks by himself - usually from a parking spot to a restaurant. Considering he now owned a handicap placard, those four blocks had shrunk down to one.

He loved his fast food chains and oversized black & white cookies, always over ordered (remember that Chinese restaurant’s name 🙂? ), and after years of playing paddleball, he wasn’t able to move as well. Not to mention he was a Type 2 diabetic, his mind was much healthier than his body.

Yet on the golf course, about halfway into the round, something lit up inside his body. Here was my octogenarian grandpa, walking a quarter mile…half a mile…one mile. No cane, not even a 5 iron to assist his balance, just himself.

If you’ve ever seen the movie Willy Wonka & the Chocolate Factory, you’ll understand that feeling - when, coincidentally, another Grandpa Joe conjures the strength to get out of bed and join his grandson on an adventure.

One time, Dave and I had sprayed our balls to opposite sides of the hole and my grandfather was still walking by himself in the center of the fairway, in awe of this serenity. Trees, grass, ponds…this was his version of a hike in nature. 

He was getting his steps in, more than he had walked in years. Playing the role of grandpa or new friend could wait a bit longer, this was his time for himself.

Driving the cart, I kept golfing and as the holes accumulated - 13, 14, 15, 16, Joey just kept walking - finally speaking up with acknowledgement. 

“This walking is good for me. It’s been a long time.”

After I conceded the last gimme to Dave on the 18th hole, I told Joey the round was over and it was time to shake our playing partner’s hand. 

Joey shook Dave’s hand and thanked him for the great conversation. He also thanked him for the walk, which I thought was cute, but I knew it was gratitude directed for being part of this serene occasion. My grandpa got back in the cart with me as we pulled up the cart return zone.

Joey: “That was great. I hadn’t walked like this in nature in so long.”

Me: “Yeah, it probably was over a mile.”

Joey: “It was great. Did you have fun?”

As he got out of the cart to chat with the staff responsible for cleaning the carts, I took my scorecard.

Since I had played 18 holes on a scorecard that goes up to 9, I had to improvise, writing my front and back nines in the Self and Partner columns to maximize my cells. I wrote down the total score and handicap in the two Opponents slots to calculate my score over par, then circled the over par total of “17”.

But I also noticed that in the bottom right of my scorecard, someone had written my phone number. My guess was Joey, but I never confirmed with him. If he did write it down, then why?

Was this in case he needed to find me if I got lost searching for an errant drive? Was this a reminder to give Dave my number for some reason, maybe to stay in touch or play again?

All these years later, I had forgotten about that mystery. My grandpa has since passed away so that mystery will remain forever. 

We drove back to his humble brick home and Savva greeted him with a kiss. She asked how golf went, to which he beamed with a big smile - “Adam played great and I walked the course. It was a lovely day.”

Telling Savva I played great implied that I would be in a good mood. But he was also in a good mood. Everyone was happy.

Can a teenager truly know what makes their grandpa happy? I’m talking about knowing the deep desires of an elder who served in a war, lost his dad in his 20s, worked overnight shifts as a Fruits and Vegetable wholesaler for his whole career. What does that person desire?

There was writing him a birthday card or telling him a joke, but my rolodex of options on how to make grandpa happy was limited. He had been accustomed to his routine, living the retired life accompanied by his wife, his TV shows, and his weekly poker games.

Yet I could never have predicted that walking a local golf course would, for a few hours, nourish my grandfather’s soul.

It was the only round of golf I’d ever play with my grandfather and while I think back eighteen years to this round, wondering what he was feeling internally as he walked off the course, it wouldn’t shock me if the combination of conversation, walking in the sunshine, and being with his grandson was all he needed.