A Golf Story
It’s just a story. There are probably thousands like it. But it is a reminder of how life is just one big circle and how in some, golf plays an important role. For me it is a constant reminder of why those of us who play the game love it so and how it humanizes us. It begins in the spring of 1965, with this young lad wandering the halls of Cathedral High School, a bag of golf clubs slung loosely over my shoulder, hoping it would fi t into my locker. Tryouts for the golf team were to be held this day and myself and childhood friend Bill Barry were freshman, eager to display our games. Tryouts meant not only getting out of school early; it also signaled the opening of the golf season for most of western Massachusetts. As it turned out, all the practice and playing we did between caddying for our dads at their country club paid off as we both made the team taking up the 5th and 6th spots on the roster. It was the start of four years of friendships and championships and little did I know at the time a journey that would come full circle some 40 years later.
The year 2004 was off to a difficult start. One of my younger brothers died suddenly. He was the fourth of seven, and third boy of our clan, the other two being my parents who passed on at fairly young ages. Blaise, was a happy-go-lucky guy. At his memorial in Port St. Lucie, Florida, my four sisters, all still residing in Massachusetts, and younger brother from Utah, wanted to follow up with a service back in our hometown of West Springfi eld. Since half my heritage is Italian, you can imagine the turnout. What is it they say about weddings and funerals? Besides family I had not seen for years, many old friends from the neighborhood stopped by to pay respects. While weddings are joyous occasions of celebration, I think funerals are reminders to stay in touch. As the evening wore down I realized that I needed to get up here and see my sisters, relatives and friends more often. While chatting with a couple of old buddies from high school, we decided that in the fall I would come up and play with them in our school golf fundraiser. It was there that the story takes another turn.
Cathedral High School, like most private parochial schools relies on fundraising for survival. One of their events is an annual golf tournament which I had received fl yers for over the years. Most of the time, I just put them aside with the thought – maybe some day. Well, some day had fi nally arrived. Little had changed at the Franconia golf course where we played our home matches. A lot greener maybe and grass tee boxes. They were just rectangular dirt patches back when. As I approached the putting green, there stood four of my 1968 championship teammates. Handshakes, embraces, memories. We spent hours after reminiscing and catching up. As we prepared to head off, I said it would be great if we could get the team together again and play. Other than myself, most of the guys still lived in the state so I said I would take the lead in getting us together the following year. Luckily, our team’s third man, Mike Bailey, was the director of golf at Brae Burn Country Club outside Boston. “Get them together and I will host you all here,” was his reply. So I spent the better part of the next six months tracking everyone down and was able to get all the ’68 guys together but one (we are still searching) and most of the other guys who played over my four years at the school. It was a grand and glorious reunion. Lots of laughs, a few stories of time well wasted and maybe one too many beers. Now we do it every year and dedicate it to our beloved deceased coach, Father Peter Loughran, the cigar-chomping pastor who got us to our matches and tournaments. This past September 16, 2011, once again we came together at Ludlow Country Club, a Donald Ross layout to renew our quest for the Loughran memorial trophy. The circle renewed all over.
I played on the Cathedral team from 1965 to 1968. It was a time when golf was a walking game. A time when young men came of age and talked about what the future would bring. We became fast and close friends but like many drifted off into adulthood with careers and responsibilities. Yet those years remained a piece of our fabric and created an enduring bond of brotherhood that brought us back together again as the greatest game often does. It is truly the game of a lifetime.
One final note on how golf creates lifetime bonds. I had not seen Bill Barry since high school… some 40 years. Fortunately, the Internet came through with his address and phone number. I left a message about our fi rst reunion on his answering machine. The next day my cell phone rings and the first words I hear are,
When we were young lads caddying for our dads, “Where can you get the best hot dog in the world.” the 13th hole at Springfield Country Club had a snack shack run by old Mr. MacDonald. Every caddie looked forward to getting to that spot for one of Mr. Mac’s dogs. We chatted as though we had just been together the day before. In the fall we played like old times, needling each other and remembering those summer days at Springfield anticipating number thirteen. As I said, it’s just a story. You probably have one like it.
