Golf has been a Sunday tradition in my life for a long time. Our pop never held a golf club in his hand to the best of my recollection, but his priest brother, Father John, played once a week for most of his life. When our uncle made his regular Sunday dinner visits to our house, our dad would instruct one of us to find whatever golf tournament was on TV. We were his remote control in those days. The hushed tones of the announcers, the polite applause from the galleries when a golfer dropped a birdie putt — or the sympathetic groans when a golfer put his ball into the water — mixed with the sounds of my mom preparing the family dinner.
I often think back to those lazy Sunday afternoons and can easily reimagine the sight of Father John sitting in the corner of our couch, a pipe or cigar in his mouth as he read his Office. Every now and then, he would look up at the TV to see how Jack Nicklaus was doing and, after being satisfied with the outcome or disappointed, returned to his breviary.
All of these sensory memories in the recesses of my brain often rise into my consciousness like a knock on the door from an old friend. I went from a passive golf watcher — because on a Sunday afternoon that was all I was going to watch on the one family television set — to an avid participant. Father John took it upon himself to teach me the game when I got a little older. He was a man of inexhaustible patience, and I was a golf talent of apparently limitless mediocrity. But I will always cherish those times when we shared the “quiet” of a golf course and I got to spend time with a man who remains the most profound and important priest in my life.
Golf is different now. Everyone in the galleries seems to be on their phones, and there is a contest about who can scream the loudest like “YOU’RE THE MAN” or “GET IN THE HOLE.” Even the golfers are more likely to be caught cursing on a hot mic. A long way from Arnold Palmer sneaking a puff on his cigarette before whacking a 3-wood down the middle of a fairway.
Then, there is the Masters golf tournament. It is truly a throwback tournament that wears its traditions and “old-fashioned” ways like a Congressional Medal of Honor. If people shout after a golfer’s swing, they are asked to leave. If you bought every item on the snack stand at the Masters, you would pay $77. You pay a lot more just to park at SoFi Stadium to see the Rams. Announcers are not even allowed to refer to attendees as “spectators” — they must be referred to as “patrons.”
It is always held in April, and depending on the vagaries of the Lunar cycle, it either falls just before, right after, or a few times, right on the Triduum. This year, the final round landed on Palm Sunday. I think of my uncle at almost every Mass I go to and pray for him as I hope he is putting a word in for me. I cannot play or watch golf without thinking about him and I know the Masters must have had a special place in his golfer’s heart.
I did not realize at the time, but when I was making a mess of things on a golf course during some of those rounds we played together, my uncle was doing his priestly ministry. He was teaching me things about frustration and how we can harvest life lessons out of bad outcomes if we know how to look for them. My uncle was an expert in extracting wisdom out of folly, and every errant shot I ever saw him make on a golf course did not result in an angry outburst, but a self-deprecating chuckle.
The Masters has come and gone, and Easter season is here. Next year, they will both return. The golf tournament will remind me of the man who, after my parents, was the most important actor in my faith formation. I will watch all the golf next year with him in mind, and then I will celebrate Easter, the day that same man inspired me to embrace with all my heart. It may sound mawkish, but one of the more famous areas of Augusta National Golf Club, where the Masters is held, is called Amen Corner. For me, that’s about right.
