Godfrey and the Golf Course

Godfrey Gunther Goldberg had a passion for a game
That was very controversial; with its somewhat mixed acclaim—
Some said it was elitist, others said it caused pollution,
But Godfrey loved it anyway, despite the retribution
That awaited him come springtime, from his daughter, son, and wife,
For, to them, it was a hobby, but to him, it was his life.

What is this game, you ask me? Oh, I guess I’ve been unclear—
It’s a game of tiny, dimpled balls, and metal clubs, and beer,
That consumes the lives of lawyers, doctors, teachers, and stock brokers,
It’s less violent than football, but more physical than poker.
So now that I have dropped some hints, I wouldn’t be surprised,
If the answer to this riddle, you’ve been able to surmise.
The game, of course, is golf. Although it may appear benign,
Godfrey Goldberg was addicted, and he suffered all the signs:
From the walls in his law office, flecked with small, club-wielding men,
To the shelves of books and tapes—“If You Play Golf, Then You’re My Friend”;
Quipped the famous Harvey Penick, with unfortunate surname,
Who preached the word like Gospel—a religion of a game.

But Godfrey was a giving man; you’ll soon become aware,
And he knew deep in his heart of hearts, that great things should be shared,
With his children, Glen and Greta, who were three and six years old,
And little kids are malleable, and do what they are told.
So, he’d watch the U.S. Open and the Master’s tournament,
And sit them down to join him, with a very strong intent
Of fostering a passion for the game he loved so dearly,
For, he yearned so much to bond with them, he wasn’t thinking clearly.
If his children could be golfers, then just think of all the fun
He could have on summer weekends, with his daughter and his son!

Once the children outgrew toddlerhood, could walk and run and speak,
Godfrey saw an opportunity, ephemeral and unique.
For, the children were still young, but their abilities had grown
To the point where they could learn to play, with small clubs of their own.
So Godfrey walked with gumption, to the good old “Green Machine,”
And with one deft and decisive stroke, he wiped his savings clean.
He purchased plastic golf clubs, measured just to children’s height,
And marched up to the pro shop desk, and begged with all his might;
“Please enroll my kids in lessons, so their golf careers can start,
Although they’re only six and three, I simply must impart
The wisdom of a wedge shot, and the pulchritude of putting.”
And so, the golf pro acquiesced, with minimal “tut-tutting.”
For Godfrey was a regular, his love of golf immense,
Although, at times, that passion could erode his common sense.

And so, a fortnight later, on the fateful Saturday,
Godfrey woke his kids at sunrise—it was time to learn to play
The game of golf, his raison d’etre—he’d waited for so long,
But he couldn’t have predicted it would go so very wrong.
Glen and Greta groused and griped that they were missing their cartoons,
A marathon of violence, from six a.m. to noon.
They yearned to feast on Alpha Bits, and animated dreck,
But when they voiced these sentiments, their father gave them heck!

“You children are so privileged, cartoons will rot your brains!
But the game of golf will open up a world of social gains,
Move you up the corporate ladder, as you drive down the fairway,
For, I care about your futures—you’ll be CEO’s some day!
But we must get started early, so you learn to hit a ball,
And, TV will be here all year round, but summer, spring, and fall
Are the only times when we can play, for one can’t golf in snow!
So, put on your collared ‘wiener’ shirts, because we have to go!
I know that I seem cruel, but you will someday realize,
That your father always knows best, so we cannot compromise.
This decision’s non-negotiable, so march your spoiled behinds
To the back seat of the car, because I will not change my mind.”

Feeling chastened by their father’s speech, the children then complied,
But the journey to the golf course was a dismal, silent ride.
As the country club drew nearer, with its’ buildings pristine white,
And Technicolour greens, young Glen piped up, “This isn’t right!”
Said Greta, “I agree with him--there’s no one here our age!”
And her tiny, gap-toothed face scrunched up in disillusioned rage.
Godfrey dragged his grumbling children from the chocolate-brown Mercedes,
And warned them to behave, or they would face the wrath of Hades.
Despite their father’s threats, the children’s fears were soon confirmed,
And when they saw their classmates, Glen and Greta balked and squirmed.

With giants in their teens, the children’s class was populated,
For, unlike gung-ho Godfrey, all THEIR moms and dads had waited
For their kids to fit the standard clubs, not made by Fisher-Price,
And get the ball airborne, although they’d sometimes hook or slice.
The kids were matched unequally, it soon became apparent,
But despite his children’s faltering, their father thought, “I daren’t
Let Glen and Greta quit right now, they must learn to persist,
For, Tiger started at their age, just think what he’d have missed
If his father hadn’t pushed him, so I know that I am right.
So he watched them keep on swinging, with all their childlike might.

The children begged to stay at home, each dreaded Saturday,
And then, all of a sudden, Godfrey found another way
To teach his kids the game of golf without intimidation,
All it took was empty soup cans, and a big imagination.
Godfrey gathered up the cans, and sharpened up the garden spade,
And within the afternoon, a tiny golf course, he had made.
He looked back at his handiwork, beamed up and down with pride,
And called his kids excitedly: “Glen! Greta! Come outside!
I’ve made you your own golf course. You can train and hone your skills,
To catch up with your classmates, so you’ll understand the thrill
Of a perfect drive, a birdie, an elusive hole-in-one!”
And all that afternoon, the children had a lot of fun.
They swung and chipped and putted in the comfort of their yard,
And realized that the game of golf was really not that hard.
Their enthusiasm blossomed as day became twilight,
And they thought for just a moment that their father could be right.

But when the sun bid Guten Nacht, their plans were blown asunder,
When Godfrey heard the worst—a savage, rumbling clap of thunder!
The wind began to whistle, and the trees swayed left and right,
As the heavens opened up and wept, that angry, soulful night.
With raging, rotund raindrops, the whole Earth was saturated.
The world had craved this summer rain, for too long, it had waited.
After days and weeks of brilliant sun, the grass was parched and brown,
And it thirstily drank up the nourishment that pelted down.

But although poor Godfrey knew this rain had brought rejuvenation,
At Mother Nature’s timing, he was wracked with consternation!
“My project will be ruined, and I worked so very hard
To provide my son and daughter with a golf course in their yard!
I wanted them to have a place to practice, and to learn
The joys of golf, in hopes that maybe someday they could earn
A position in the PGA, and make their father proud!
But now I have been thwarted by the evil, scheming clouds!
Who rained upon my handiwork. I left out one detail—
I forgot to punch the drainage holes. I can’t believe I failed
To remember such a simple thing. I have a law degree!
I thought I was much smarter. I don’t want my kids to see
How massively I messed this up.” But by then, it was too late,
The children bounded out of bed, because they couldn’t wait
To play another “eighteen holes” of golf, that perfect morning!
So they ran outside before their dad could give them any warning.

The children played contentedly, ‘till Greta sunk her ball,
And no sooner did she cheer with joy, then Godfrey knew downfall
Was imminent. He watched his daughter reach her little hand,
For her plastic ball that swam inside the rusted metal can.
It was bathed in insect carcasses, and slimy, viscous guck,
And at that, young Greta dropped her ball, and loudly cried out, “Yuck!
My hand is gross and dirty, flecked with katydids and flies,
And this moment’s an epiphany—for I now realize
This game of golf? You call it fun? You think you can delude
Your children into thinking that? How ignorant, and rude!
First, you forced us into lessons, where the others are all grown,
And now, we’re plagued with slimy bugs, when playing on our own!
I’ll never play this game again, from this day on, I quit!”
But to Greta’s declaration, Godfrey said, “I won’t permit
Such a hasty, rash decision, for you’re only in grade one!
You must give golf a proper chance, it’s really lots of fun!”

In the months and years that followed, Godfrey’s golf campaign persisted
With private lessons, scramble leagues, and outings. He insisted
That every new attempt would help his children see the light,
But they saw it as oppression, and persisted in their fight
To make their own decisions, choose their hobbies, find their calling,
And he found his kids’ ingratitude abrasive and appalling!
For, Greta was fourteen by now, she swam and volunteered
At the local Y. And as for Glen? He very firmly feared
That playing golf would brand him as a misfit at his school,
So he stuck to playing basketball, in order to be “cool.”

Godfrey felt he’d failed at fatherhood, and all his dreams were shattered,
And so he threw the towel in—he didn’t think it mattered.
For, his golf campaign was futile--he'd been trying for eight years,
And despite his valiant efforts, his kids had made it clear
That golf was NOT their passion, as per Greta’s declaration,
And to force them to play anyway would only cause frustration.
So Godfrey let the matter drop, with sorrow in his heart,
For his children, though not golfers, were still generous and smart.
They went off to university, with unencumbered minds,
And Godfrey knew from watching them, his gesture had been kind.
He’d stopped pushing Harvey Penick, Tiger Woods, and chipping shots,
For, he didn't want to force his kids to be what they were not.

Now Glen was a philosopher, and Greta was a poet,
And Godfrey came to realize, “I’m glad I didn’t blow it,
For, fatherhood’s a challenge, ‘cause my kids aren’t lumps of clay,
Instead, they’re individuals, who grow and change each day.
So, by forcing them to hit the links, I gained a scramble team,
But all three of us would lose out, if I’d bulldozed all their dreams.
I meant well with the plastic clubs, the soup cans in the yard,
But the lesson I have learned from this—no cheque or credit card
Can finance a happy childhood, though it may greenline golf classes,
I’m glad I was a realist; cast off my rose-hued glasses.
Besides, it isn’t over—Greta’s getting on in years,
And so, before much longer, my grandchildren will be here!
I still have the childrens’ golf clubs; they’ve been barely used at all--
If golf skips a generation, then I’m sure to have a ball!