Groundhogs, and a Rant

I have a long-standing relationship with groundhogs.  Most people have never seen one.  I've seen too many.

I may have mentioned some of this before, but it started when my Dad was teaching my younger brother and I how to hunt.  We had been to "marksman classes" at a local shooting range and shown that we could handle guns safely and hit a target with some skill.  Visiting my paternal grandparents in NH when I was 13 (14?) Dad brought us to a field where groundhogs lived.  We sat around for a few hours waiting to see one to shoot at.

This was before I was old enough to stop killing animals for sport.  We saw none.  But just before we left, Dad whistled in a way he had learned to attract attention from groundhogs.  And one stood up a long way away.  I aimed carefully and shot my .22 rifle.  It dropped.  Dad said I missed it,  But I insisted we go find out.  I WAS a good shot.  But Dad never thought I could do anything well, s he laughed and said I missed it.

To his complete surprise, I nailed the groundhog right between the eyes.  To my comfort these days, it probably never knew what happened.  But I remember it mostly because Dad never even said "good shot".  I expect he assumed it was luck.  And besides, he thought I would miss it, so he SHOULDN'T be wrong.  Had to be luck, then.  No children were ever "competent" in Dad's eyes.  He always made it quite clear.

A sad metaphor for our relationship the rest of our lives.  His message to me was always "you are not as good at anything as I am".  I could defend his attitude as challenging me to be as good at everything as I could possibly be.  But I won't.  He was just a mean son of a bitch!

Golf was another problem.  He made me play it.  At 5'6", I am not a natural golfer.  I lettered in golf twice and soccer once in high school through sheer force of will (barely).  Soccer was more natural for me, but I got no support for that.  I was good enough at golf.  But I didn't have the same swing as Dad and he was always on me about it.  He had a classic swing, and I had a baseball bat-grip swing.  It worked for me.  In high school, I broke 90 often.  Not impressive, but good enough for the last slot on the team.  Dad kept messing with my swing.  When I went to college, I got down to 85.

Now, I have to say, Dad was a really good golfer.  When I was young and only caddying, I admired the way his tee drives started out low and rose to land straight down the fairway.  He had a handicap of "0" at one point.  He what what he was doing!  But I couldn't do that with my proper swing on the best day.  So I developed my own.

It worked for me.  A good swing is whatever works for you.  I once got an "eagle"  on the hardest hole on the army base course.  And Dad started messing with my swing again.  I should have ignored him, but, hey, he was my DAD!

I started driving up to NH to participate in the Member/Guest tourneys in the early 1980s.  It had a quota system.  Something about every score below your handicap per hole, you gained a point.  We lost every year.  Dad had me using nothing but 5 irons on every shot through some idea he had.  It was horrible!  His game was about consistency; mine was "go for broke".

It ended when I was facing a pond out in the fairway and pulled out my 4 iron.  Dad said to use the driver because I couldn't possibly reach the edge of the pond.  I stayed with the 4 iron.  And landed in the pond on the fly.  He gaped.  The pond was 250 yards away.  When I hit the ball right, it is awesome, and I knew that.

From that moment on, I ignored everything he told me.  I was pissed!  And guess what?  We won.  He played his exact usual good game precisely meeting his quota, but I obliterated my quota by like 10 strokes.

That was the last time I played golf with him and the last time I played golf period!  I was so tired of all the demanding pressurring crap that I had no interest in the game afterwards.  I proved my point.  I could play the game NOT his way.

End of angry rant.