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Community Corner

One Final Round

This tribute column originally appeared on New Canaan Patch's 'Local Voices' blog section.

It was a spectacular afternoon in May of 2008. The sky was a perfect shade of blue, void of any clouds. The air was crisp, clean, and intoxicating, thanks to the cool breeze off the Long Island sound which intersected with the fragrance from the Augusta-like flowers that lined the walking paths at the Westchester Country Club.

My Dad and I had made the 500-yard trek from the driving range tothe first tee a million times before. As a child, I used to be in awe of my hero hitting balls on the range, before walking down this path as he held my hand, ensuring both a priceless moment and his tee-time.

But this day would be different, unlike any other my father and I had experienced during our time together. The effects of Alzheimer's disease, had stolen some of his memory and his ability to play really good golf. However, the disease couldn't touch his love for the game or chip away at his happiness. Nothing could. His will was as strong as a blue ox, his desire as impenetrable as Fort Knox.

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But my father could no longer find his way from the driving range to the first tee without some help.  On this day, I was holding his hand, leading him to the first tee, realizing this was a moment that was priceless and to be cherished. The look on his face, mirrored the the one I must've had as a child going to play golf for the very first time. Excitement danced in his eyes, a mile-wide grin was splashed across his face.

That look vanished momentarily when we came to the fork-in-the roadnear the gateway to golfing heaven. Westchester Country Club had two meticulously kept and challenging courses for the adults and a par-3 course for the little kids. For nearly 30 years my Dad had teed it up with me and his good friends on the "big boy courses", which had become his personal playground.

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As a kid who didn't have two nickels to rub together growing up on the south side of Chicago, I don't think my Dad could ever have imagined being a member at a club like this. He had nothing but a desire to give his family the things that he never had, and an undying belief that he could be anything he wanted to be. It was through hard work and diligence that he got this opportunity and he would squeeze everything out of it that he possible could.

As we came to the fork in the golf roads, my dad saw many of his good friends and former playing partners that he had known for more than three decades. There were plenty of laughs and meaningful hugs. In many ways, they were long good-byes, as my Dad and his friends knew the end of a truly wonderful life was about to come to an end.

Instead of going down the path to one of the big boy courses, my Dad and I veered to the road that led us to the "Little 9".  Although still in great physical shape, my Dad's game was no longer suited for a course that was more than 7,200 yards long. We had no choice but to play the kid's course. It was a par-3 layout where all the dad's took their kids for their first round of golf. It's where they taught their children how to play, while burning the memories into their personal computer chips. It's where my Dad took me by the hand, showed me the direction to hit the ball, and where a good walk was never spoiled.

On this day, I was teeing the ball up for my Dad, much like he had done for me forty years earlier. I was showing him where to hit the ball and encouraging him, much like he had encouraged me when I golfed for the very first time. After he'd hit the ball, I'd pick up his clubs, then hold his hand as we walked to his ball for his next shot.

The moment wasn't lost on me. I remembered how much my Dad loved taking me out for a round of golf on this course before graduating to the big boy tracks. It was a special time for him. He liked nothing more than to play golf with his son. He had never so much as played catch with his father, much less takes swings on a golf course. It was always priceless formy Dad. And the memory floodgates started to open for me as we navigated our way through the "Little 9".

My Dad and I had laughed so much over the years while we played golf. We had  exchanged booming drives, traded barbs, argued like best friends sometimes do, thrown more than a few clubs, and high-fived each other after good shots. I never realized it at the time, but playing golf with me  was one his favorite things to do. And I sadly discovered, this would be the final time we'd ever play a round of golf together.

As our final nine holes progressed, there were plenty of laughs, bad shots, and a few thrown clubs. My Dad was still very competitive and that Irish-fueled temper didn't leave with the part of his memory hijacked by Alzheimer's. He loved to compete and even on this par-3 course, he loved to score well. There were grounders,  flubs, and shanks, but I still encouraged Dad as if he was on his way to a record finish.

We approached the final hole, hand-in-hand, which gave way to an arm around the shoulder, then a wish-it-could last forever hug. I wanted my Dad to know that he was truly loved, as his time on earth drew near. I wanted him to know that our bond could never be broken, no matter what happened. We were best friends and I wanted to make this last hole, the best one we'd ever play.

The ninth hole was only 90 yards, and with a solid swing, my Dad somehow, someway saw his ball roll up to the edge of the green. We almost sprinted down the fairway, like young kids on their way to a big Easter egg hunt. It was only a short distance to the hole, but I really wanted to make it last forever as we smiled, laughed, and chuckled our way down the alley of luscious green real estate.

Dad would chunk his second shot but it still trickled onto the green, stopping about five feet short of the hole. He lined-up his putt as he had done so many times before, studying it as if there was big money on line, and a green jacket to be won. With a laser-like focus and his tongue tightly wedged between his lips and teeth, a la Michael Jordan, Dad, who was always a great putter, stroked the five-footer with surgeon-like precision. The ball seemed to roll endlessly before clanking the iron at the bottom of the cup.

It was just a par for my Dad, but it might as well have been a Masters-winning birdie. We celebrated as if he had won the biggest tournament of his life. The smile on his face was genuine. The tear in his eye, priceless. We embraced like a pitcher and catcher do after clinching a perfect game. This was our perfect game, our perfect moment, our perfect final round.

 As we broke away from our hug,  I saw the smile on his face and the tear in his eye. The only thing I could say was, "Dad, I love you. This was great." He responded by saying, "I love you, too."

My Dad passed away just over a week later on May 17, 2008. I have never played golf on that course or at the club again. It's hard to top the perfect final round.

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