“I love Sundays,” offered the handsome and lanky college kid. “I play golf with my dad.” This heartwarming statement came from my nephew about his father, my brother.
It came on a warm Missouri day during a golf tournament to raise money for youth sports in Raytown, Missouri. Long ago, when your scribe grew up there, youth sports were vibrant. A community super glue. Like everything, things have changed and a dedicated group is trying to transform youth sports’ participation in the Kansas City suburb. We all know from experience, it’s good for kids and community. Through Victory’s fledging Another Team project we’re trying to accomplish the same thing in gang-influenced parts of Denver.
Anyway, on Father’s Day 2015, while flying back to the Mile High City from Kansas City and a fabulous weekend that included the golf outing, mom’s 80th birthday celebration and other cool stuff, cranium kept wandering to nephew Nick’s “I love playing golf with my Dad” comment.
History was repeating itself. This young man’s father, younger brother Matt, had a similar history with our father, the late Marvin “Mac” McIntosh. After our parent’s divorce, the youngest of four kids, now a successful Minnesota-based businessman, husband and father, began playing lots of golf with the McIntosh clan’s patriarch.
The three older kids, this knucklehead included, were away at college or beyond. A bond between father and son was forged over forged irons, metallic woods and fond memories. A love affair that now involves a third generation of that limb of the family tree.
Being the ever-growing sentimentalist, tears of joy moistened thy face as we cruised down the fairway in pursuit of tee shots. Also in our foursome, the before-mentioned brother and Uncle Al, dad’s brother. A wonderful man, now 81-years-old and the only surviving sibling of my father’s generation.
Heart yearned for another round of golf with, as buddy’s called him, “Hacker Mac.” We had much fun at the course. Heart swelled with pride knowing younger brother and his son were keeping the McIntosh golfing spirit alive. I get to play with them. Yay me.
The memories aren’t about unbelievable shots or lucky bounces, but of time together. Dad would open up on the golf course, or in the clubhouse bar afterward. Share the struggles and joys of a guy, oldest boy in a brood of six kids, forced to grow up fast, become a man and face life with an amazing spirit of turning lemons, the heck with lemonade, into sweet and savory margaritas.
My old man was respected. Adored. My younger brother is a chip off the ol’ block. Those traits are filtering to Matt’s two sons. As the father of two amazing kids, I feel a genetic pull to keep Hacker Mac’s spirit alive too. It’s touching the next generation. Now it gets personal, Dad, those who called you “Grandpa.”
Perseverance. Optimism. Character. You embodied them and many other admirable traits. You’re gone but will forever, especially from golf carts rolling down fairways, be remembered. Pops, thanks for showing the way.
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