The Dream Catcher

I made the drive to the Currie Park Golf Course on that morning along the Menomonee River Parkway in the dark.  It was 4:25 a.m.!  A slight ground fog hovered just above the lush, dewy, grass.  I drove through the open gates and made my way up the sparsely lit driveway, pulling into the empty parking space that was closest to the clubhouse.  “Rock star parking,” I thought to myself as I put the vehicle in park, before turning off the lights and ignition.  It was very dark except for the yellowish glow of streetlights that hovered overhead.  Mine was the only car in the lot.  I walked to the rear of my SUV and opened the rear hatch to gain access to my golf clubs.  I sat on the back bumper and put on my shoes before walking across the circular driveway that leads to the cart path.  Because I never use a golf cart, I carried my bag over my shoulder and the clubs rattled in the bag with each step. The rattling and my own breathing were the only sounds within earshot.   I continued on past the small, brick, clubhouse, which was dark and empty.  Seeing that no one else was there, I proceeded directly to the first tee.  “I’ll pay when I make the turn if I play eighteen holes, or after I’m done if I decide to only play nine,” I said to myself.

My mind--like my life--was in turmoil.  The pressures of work and the challenges of raising two young children were weighing heavily on me.  I was chasing the American dream and losing by a rather large margin.  It seemed as if nothing made me happy.  I felt like everything that I did failed completely or turned out wrong, despite my best intentions.  I was continually asking myself; who am I, why am I here and where am I going?  I was not getting any answers--no matter where I looked.

“What is the secret to life, to success, to happiness?” I whispered, as I pulled the forged titanium Fat Butt driver from my golf bag and removed its black knit cover, with white lettering on it, from the club’s oversized head.  Standing alone in the dark, I expected no response, and heard none, so I approached the first tee box, leaving footprints where I’d walked in the well-manicured grass.   On the tee box, I stood between its white markers and I gazed for a moment at the fairway, which was illuminated by a large, silvery moon that was hanging in an unusually low position in the springtime sky.  It seemed to light everything as would a fluorescent light--good enough to see, but not well.  Behind me, the floodlights in the doorway of the clubhouse cast a much warmer glow, throwing my twenty-foot shadow down the tee box in front of me and into the rough cut of grass between the tee boxes and the fairway.  The light ground fog distorted all of this as it rose like steam from the shimmering, wet turf.  The scene was devoid of color and reminiscent of a poorly focused, old, black and white photograph--ghostly in a way.

The smell of damp, freshly mown grass filled my nostrils.  I love the smell of a golf course in the morning!

It was warm in those early morning hours, and a trivial breeze slightly moved the air, barely stirring the leaves of the trees that lined the course.

It was so quiet.  Not even the occasional sound of light early morning traffic on the nearby freeway broke the silence.  This morning, there were no sounds of rubber tires whooshing on dry pavement in the distance.

I teed up my ball and stood over it, steadying myself for the first shot of the day.  “This is for you, Dad,” I said, before breaking the silence with the cracking sound of my driver making crisp, clean contact with the ball.  It sailed down the fairway with what appeared to be uncharacteristic straightness, before disappearing into the predawn sky.  Only faith that it had been a well-struck ball convinced me that I would reunite with it somewhere in the middle of the fairway.  I picked up my black bag, with Precept written on it in white letters, and walked into the misty darkness; soft moonlight illuminating my way.

The first couple of holes were uneventful and painfully typical.  They were filled with the usual errant shots and missed opportunities, but I was golfing, a sport that I had grown to love despite my frequently frustrating and inconsistent play--and I was alone with thoughts of my dad.

Somewhere around the middle of playing the third hole, a 527-yard par five, I glanced over to the previous fairway for just a moment and noticed a lone gentleman apparently playing the hole.  I could see him because the course made a switch back after the second green in order to begin the third hole.  The man was dressed in a light, beige windbreaker that was zipped nearly all of the way to the top.  He had on navy slacks that seemed slightly baggy.  He was wearing a white cap; not a baseball cap, but the same bucket style hat that the senior golf pro, Jim Colbert, wears with a Calloway logo on it.  The brim, which wrapped around the entire cap, was down and slightly covering his face.

He walked with his left hand in his pocket, while his right hand pulled a red golf cart, which had a nylon navy blue bag mounted on it.  Although I noticed him, I paid little attention, even though he didn’t really appear to be playing at all.  In fact, I never saw him tee up a ball, remove a club, or even give the appearance of attempting to take a shot.  It seemed as if he was just taking his clubs for a walk--a morning stroll!  “Maybe he is waiting for better light before beginning play,” I thought to myself.  Nothing else about him, or his a