SIMPLE LIFE
Mysteries of the golfing universe
A Gentle Nudge by JIM DODSON illustration GERRY O’NEILL
N
ot long ago, the host of a popular golf radio show asked me who I most enjoy playing golf with these days. We were discussing the various golfers and assorted eccentrics I’ve met, interviewed, and written about over a long and winding career. “These days, I like to play golf with old guys,” I said without hesitation, “like my friend Harry.” “So, who is Harry?” he asked. Harry, I explained, is a gifted artist and nationally known cartoonist I’ve known for many years. He has a wry sense of humor, a beautiful tempo in his golf swing, and a refreshing take on life. Harry is 76 years old, deaf in at least one ear, losing bits of his eyesight, and battling a rogue sciatic nerve in his left leg that sometimes makes swinging a club difficult. He was once a splendid single-digit player who now aims for bogey golf, and never gets too rattled by whatever the game gives him. He accepts that bad breaks happen and are simply part of this maddening game, not worth fretting about. So are aging body parts that can’t propel the ball the way they once did. Instead, Harry plays for the occasional fine shot, the rare good break, and the fellowship of his companions that includes a good 44 | WALTER
bit of affectionate needling and laughter. He’s never had an ace, but holds out hope of someday shooting his age, the proverbial goal of every aging golfer. Though I’m almost a decade younger than Harry — he jokes that I am in pre-geezer in training — I love playing with him because he’s a model of what I hope to be in the shrinking years ahead: a man who’s loved the game since he was a boy and loves it just as much, though differently, as an old man. He’s living proof that the game can grow sweeter as the clock runs down. Golf has been part of his life since he was 10 or 11 years old and an uncle allowed him to pick a club from a barrel of used irons. He chose a battle-scarred 7-iron and the set that went with it. “It was a set of Dalton Hague clubs, really beautiful. I played with them for years bragging that I owned real Dalton Hague signature golf clubs.” He pauses and chuckles. “They turned out to be Walter Hagen clubs that had just been beaten to death. But oh, how I loved those clubs.” We often meet late in the afternoon for nine holes at a beautiful municipal course set on a wide lake well out of town, surrounded by mature hardwood forests with no houses, streets, or power lines visible anywhere. We often pause to watch the action
