Mary ThompsonUWRT 1103January 25th, 2015Some Things Take a Lifetime

Rainbows, those atrocious sandals that were briefly in style for elementary aged girls, he was wearing those when he told us he was leaving. I wasnt focused on my mothers tears on my shirt or my brothers head in my lap, or even the fact that my entire world was about to crumble. I was focused on the fact that he was wearing Rainbows. It was that clear day in late April 2009 that I realized my father and I had absolutely nothing in common. That day, that moment, I decided that the only way I was going to keep my dad around was to force something common between us. I had tried guitar, but as he reminded me, failed miserably. I had tried music but frankly there were only so many Dire Strait songs I can listen to on repeat. The only thing left to save my relationship with my father was golf. That moment when my father walked out of that emerald green door in his water-stained Rainbows was the moment I decided to learn the game of golf. The first and only time I have ever gone out to dinner with my father was three weeks after that moment. He brought me to Sweet Tomatoes which was more or less an upscale Golden Corral. The conversation was about as stale as the bread so I decided to bring up my revelation. I have decided to pursue golf. It will look good on my applications for college. I think that is a good idea. He replied, moving his fork about the olives in the salad.Ok. I replied, disappointed by his lack on enthusiasm. That was usually how our conversations went, and then quickly ended. He surprised me with pink golf clubs two weeks later. I hated pink but I realized that was the first thing my dad had ever given me that actually made him smile. I got over the pink. He gave them to me at Tee-to-Green, my new destination for golf lessons a few miles down the road. It was owned by my dads friend Rob who I personally thought was sleazy. He cared too fondly for younger women and had been divorced three times after caught cheating (each time). I got over that too. I couldnt complain considering I didnt know the difference between and iron and a wood, or what a bogey, birdie, or par even meant. I was damn determined to learn though.I picked up the club for the first time, rotated my hips, kept my wrist straight, kept my eye on the ball, and swung. I missed that ball by a graceful foot and a half. I tried again and grazed the top of the ball and sent it pathetically rolling four feet to the right. Rob came behind me and tried to show my how to hold the club. As he reached his hands around mine I accidentally slammed my foot into his toe. I told him I suffered from muscles spasms and that maybe he should just tell me from a distance. I swung that club at least 100 times that day and only hit three balls. Only one got off of the ground. I remember the anger that built up inside of me after every miss and the tears that would build up in my eyes. All I wanted was to be noticed by my father, to understand him, to connect with him. The summer of 2010 was one of the worse summers I could remember. Hades had arrived on my front step, I was stuck with my dad alone for two weeks while my mom was on vacation and my brother was at the beach. I had continued to take lessons from Creepy Rob and had progressively gotten better. I decided that day was the day I was going to prove to my father that I could play, that I could hit a club with grace and confidence. He was coming through the kitchen and glanced out the window as I lifted the club, kept my head down, and swung. Your feet are too far apart, your rotating your wrist, and your head it too far down. My father mumbled disappointed. I really dont know why you thought this game would be a good idea. It takes focus and dedication.Those werent exactly the words I was hoping to hear. I cried for hours that night but the next morning woke up with a spark lit inside me. I wasnt going to let this break me, I was going to prove him wrong. If you could imagine a movie training montage right now that would've been me. I started reading books on the rules of the game and the names of every club you could have. I practiced every night in the backyard; two hours when I woke up, three more in the afternoon and after dinner. I watched tournaments on TV, examined their swings and listened to the announcers talk about their techniques. I watched Caddyshack, The Greatest Game Ever Played, and Tin Cup on repeat for a month. I knew that if I failed, I could at least know that I tried everything I could to succeed.That August I decided to join the team at school; the coach was too scared to deny anyone a spot so everyone who tried out made it. I started to take lessons from the coach at a competing high school who coincidently knew my father. Dona was someone that could make you laugh, cry, and sweat all in one lesson. She knew why I started to play and she understood my drive to succeed. I had finally found someone to not only learn from but to talk to. Before each lesson she would have me sit down on the range and talk to her about home, the team, my coach. Dona was the first person to believe that I could learn this sport and the language of it. She was the first person to give me hope. September 3rd was the first ever tournament I played in. Carrie Thomas was sick with the flu and coach needed an alternateI was the last person left on the team to fill her spot. The day before coach told me I was playing and couldnt wait to tell my dad. I knew he would be excited that I was finally playing for something that counted. Dad! Im playing in the tournament tomorrow! Its a Lockmere, I was hoping maybe you could come watch a couple holes. I exclaimed. I cant. Im busy. Maybe next time. I wanted to tell myself that he would instead but I knew he wasnt coming to that match and in fact, I knew he would never come to one. I realized then that he didnt care if we had something in common, he didnt care for me much at all either way. In that moment I realized that I was done learning this sport for him, in fact, I was learning it for me. As we pulled up the Lockmere Country Club, coach turned to me and said, Dont worry, youre only the alternate, your score doesnt count. He was never the best at pep talks. I drug my pink and grey golf bag across the lush putting green towards the golf cart that was supposed to drive me to hole 3. Hi, Im Alice. A girl stood atop the cart with long blonde curls and aspiring bright blue eyes to match the bow in her hair. I go to Panther-Creek, is this your first match? Its mine and Im scared out of my mind.Max, Apex High, and yes. Im terrified. I replied. Well then, I guess that makes us friends. She stated. As terrifying as that match was, Alice lessened my fears. She cheered for me when I hit the ball well and looked for the ones I lost in the marsh over hole 8. She and I laughed at the fact that we were so terrible and gave the girls that were actually great players snarled looks. By the end of the tournament I wasnt terrified, I simply rejoiced that for once I found this game to be rewarding. I knew what to call it when I was two-over-par and I knew the name of each club in my bag and hers. I knew I wasnt allowed to take a practice swing in the sand trap nor was I supposed to step in someones line on the green. I understood the rules and the language of golf. Maybe I didnt execute the playing part so well but I spoke the language. I was officially a golfer (more or less). That match I ended up placing ahead of two girls on my team and played in the rest of the matches for the season. I progressively became a better player however my father was remained dreadfully unsupportive. I had wanted his support and approval, I even believed I needed it; I didnt. I had not only learned to play and understand the game of golf, I had also learned that my father and I were never going to be alike. I learned that he, much life golf, was complicated. He possessed a different language and rules that took time and effort to comprehend. I realized that learning golf and learning about my father were two very different things. While I had succeeded in learning one, I accepted that building a relationship with my father wasnt going to take a year, it could very well take a lifetime.