Reed On The Greens, by Jeffrey Reed

When you reach the milestone of your 50th birthday, as I did earlier this year, you can’t help but to reflect on past achievements on the playing fields. My thoughts turned to Little League baseball with the Eager Beaver Baseball Association, and finishing my career in 2001 with the London Majors of the Intercounty Baseball League. I also recalled many memorable rounds of golf – I consider all of the friendships I have made on the links over the past 39 years much more memorable than any of my solid rounds.

As I began the 2012 golf season, I did what I always do before the first session at the range: I cleaned out my golf bags. The usual culprits – spare change, tees, bandages, my lucky shamrock ball marker, and yes, half a ham and cheese sandwich – hibernate in the countless pockets of my tour bag and cart bag.

But this golf season, I also cleaned out my father’s golf bag – a chore tougher than any I faced on the mound with the Majors. On March 23, my dad, Ken, passed away at age 74. He had suffered a stroke years earlier, bounced back enough to get in a few rounds with me at The Parkside Nine at Fanshawe Golf Club, but for the past few years was content to simply watch his beloved New York Yankees and the PGA Tour on his flat screen TV.

I’m still learning to accept dad’s death. Obviously, when my mother gave me dad’s golf clubs, I had to revisit memories of our times together on the golf course. In fact, earlier this year, as dad sat around the table at my birthday party, it hit me that he was always a part of my memorable moments in sports.

I still recall dad taking me onto the course for the first time in 1973, and three years later at age 14 beating him for the first time. Both rounds were played at East Park Golf Gardens. Using dad’s old Wilson Staff persimmon driver, and blade irons that were no larger than butter knives, it’s a miracle I was able to card a decent score. I remember as if it were yesterday hitting a 3-wood onto the No. 1 green and putting for birdie.

Dad, a lefty, boasted a golf swing which ended in the style of Arnold Palmer – like a pirate waggling his sword left and right as he twists his neck glancing for oncoming enemies. Although I golf right handed and swing more like Woody Austin (and some days more like Austin Powers), I did inherit my father’s Seve Ballesteros style of shaping golf shots.

For many years, dad and I played golf at Fanshawe Golf Club, joining my dad’s brother, my uncle Bob, and picking up a fourth player along the way. Later, my younger brother, Greg, would join us on the links. The last round the four of us played together was at Golfland Golf Centre (now London Golfland). It was here where dad provided me with my funniest golf memory. During a horrible round on a hot August afternoon, he proceeded to push his golf cart, bag and clubs into a shallow pond. Needless to say, I couldn’t hit a straight shot for the rest of that round.

My last round of golf with dad was in 2007 at Parkside Nine. Still weak from his stroke, dad was thrilled to have a golf club in his hands again, and to be enjoying some time on the links. I’ll never forget the smile on his face when he flushed his wedge onto the short par-3s.

Cleaning dad’s clubs before setting them in the corner of my office brought back many more memories, too. But I couldn’t just let his clubs collect dust.

You’ll have to forgive me, then, if you happen to glance at my golf bag this season and count 15 clubs.

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