The Best Father's Day

My six-year-old son has developed an interest in golf. As you may imagine, this pleases me greatly.

His curiosity was mined from the same patch of grass that spawned my obsession - the driving range at Winter Pines Golf Club in Winter Park. "The Pines" is one of the busiest munis in Orlando, and the driving range is rumored to be among the busiest in the country. My dad used to take me there after work, where I flailed away with a set of Jack Nicklaus Golden Bear blades until I caught one flush and got hooked for life. Now, a quarter-century later, I take my son and his graphite-shafted US Kids Golf set to the Pines, where he whacks striped Top-Flites until it's time for the perfunctory lemonade-and-pretzel break. It's important to have a good practice routine.

Every time we go to the range, I get one of two reactions from the weekend warriors on the tee line. The most common is a wistful stare and a shake of the head, followed by this comment: "I wish I had started when I was that young." Makes me think I'm doing something right. Also makes me silently thank my Dad for starting ME that young.

The second common reaction is a comment about my son's address - he's left-handed. When he started eating, drawing, and throwing things from the port side, his mother and I wrote it off as a stage of development, reasoning that with two parents and four grandparents all playing from the right, he couldn't possibly be a lefty. But he is. Somewhere back in the deep end of our gene pool, somebody was a southpaw, and the kid got it. He's legit. His handwriting is impeccable for a rising first-grader. No way am I attempting to change him over. For one thing, it means we can face each other on the range, which allows me to keep an eye on his wayward shots. That's how Phil Mickelson got started, you know. For another thing, he can pitch in the majors until he's 45. My Golden Bear irons remain in the attic, awaiting his little sister, who will probably choose field hockey.

Like most dads, I'm terribly cautious about forcing anything on my kids. The surest way to breed resentment is to create an obligation. When he wants to hit balls, we hit balls. When he wants to drink lemonade, we drink lemonade. When he wants to watch the airplanes drifting south over the Pines on the way to Orlando International, we discuss the colors on their tails. Of course I want him to like it. I pray for it. I just don't force it. He's six.

So last week, I took the family on vacation to Amelia Island Plantation, north of Jacksonville. We spent a week there last summer and loved it. Couldn't wait to get back. Beach for all, 72 holes of golf for Dad. One of the assistant pros there, a nice young man named Matt, watches Sun Sports. Treated me well last year. When my son asked if he could bring his clubs, I figured, what the heck. Maybe he'll come out to the range with me once or twice while his mom and his sister kick up their heels in the condo.

On the third or fourth day - after Alberto had passed, giving way to clear skies and cool temperatures - he did exactly that. Went through his routine of whacking 3-woods off the tee in between sips of lemonade, while I tried to straighten out a disturbing hook. I was fresh off Brady Ackerman's charity tournament in Ocala the week before, where I was lights-out during the Friday skins match (me, Peter Tom Willis, Shane Matthews, and Judd Davis - good grouping) but very average during the event itself on Saturday. While I tweaked my setup and grip pressure, I noticed my son paying close attention to me, and to the other golfers on the range.

You have to understand this kid. He's a deep thinker. There's none of the typical six-year-old hysteria about him. He was the peacemaker in kindergarten, the smart, quiet one that all the other kids wanted to be around. I'm not sure if a six-year-old can be "wise," but he comes pretty close. On this particular day, I could see him chewing on something in his mind. His mother and I are powerless to resist when he moves into one of these reflective moods. He sets world records for sweetness. At those moments, it's anything he wants. And I thought I knew what he was thinking.

So the next day, with permission from The Mom, I rolled the dice.

I told him we were going back to the driving range. He was excited, but I could tell there was something he wanted to say. When we pulled up to the parking lot at Amelia Links, I played my hand:

"So, do you want to get a golf cart and go play nine holes?"

You would have thought I just told him that every day from now until November was his birthday. Wide eyes. Bouncing in his seat. "You mean PLAY GOLF? On the golf course? By the ocean? Wow! That's EXACTLY what I wanted to do, but I thought you wanted to go to the range! Yeah, Daddy, can we play golf?"

At those moments, anything he wants. Anything.

And what he did, was play golf. What I mean is, the boy - the six-year-old lefthander - dead solid PLAYED nine holes of golf. Tee to green, chipping, putting, racing to the next tee. I couldn't hold him back. We've played nine holes at executive courses before, but this was his first legit round, with a golf cart and everything, and he was absolutely geeked. I think he shot 150 for those nine holes - we're not quite at the "keeping score" level yet - but he showed no signs of boredom or fatigue. He was enthralled. The child was playing golf, completely of his own free will. My job was to stay the hell out of the way and enjoy it. It was the finest two hours of the entire trip to that point, and among the top ten in my lifetime.

Until he trumped it in the parking lot with this little gem: "Daddy, before the vacation is over, can we play 18 holes?"

I had the tee time booked before he finished his sentence.

Two days later. The Oak Marsh course at Amelia Island Plantation, a short-but-tough sojourn through the marshes of the Amelia River and the ICW. Nobody but us on the course. Daddy playing from the tips, Lefty playing from the reds. The only allowance made for his first 18-hole round was a promise from Mom that Dad would get him a snack after nine holes. Dad dutifully obliged. Chocolate-chip muffin and lemonade.

At the turn, I gave him an out. He was looking a little peaked, despite the 80-proof sunscreen his mother had lathered all over his forehead. I told him I would take him back to the condo if he was tired, or just let him ride for the last nine holes while I played.

"Nope. I want to hit every shot. I've never played 18 holes before."

Let it be known that while the best players in the world were slogging through the third round of the 2006 United States Open at Winged Foot, a six-year-old lefty was playing every single shot over 18 holes at Oak Marsh on Amelia Island. Every single shot.

My dad taught me how to play at Winter Pines. Coincidentally, he recalls that I broke 80 in a round of golf for the first time at Amelia Island, playing the Long Point course at the age of about 14. He's wrong.

It was Alaqua Country Club in Longwood, and I was 16. I shot 76. Dad was there, along with one of our neighbors, who commented afterwards, "that was fun to watch." I'll never forget it. Though my dad's memory of my first sub-80 round is hazy, neither one of us knows or cares about the first time I beat him over 18 holes. That kind of thing doesn't resonate much in my family.

Someday, my son will kick my ass. I can't wait. I'll cherish it. But not as much as I cherish the vision of 18 holes in the dying afternoon light over north Florida. The little lefthander, Red Sox cap pulled down tight, swinging from his heels and chasing after it. Catching one flush and seeing it soar off the tee box. Draining a long putt and cheerfully tromping all over my line, followed by him reprimanding me for stepping in his "imaginary line," the one that I explained to him only moments earlier. Happier than pigs in slop, both of us. A round that will never end.

While Colin Montgomerie and Phil Mickelson - the "other" Lefty - are drowning their sorrows over missed opportunities at the Open this year, I hope they'll take a moment to at least thank their dads for introducing them to the game. I'd like to thank my dad for doing it. And I'd like to thank my son for reminding me that it is, in fact, a game.

Happy Father's Day, Dad. And happy father's day to me. The lefty wants to play.