Chapter 8

Dad went through many a golf cap in his day. This is his last. It hangs on the wall in my study.

“The plan to raise golf pros”

Dad liked to play golf. (Hey, I promised it would be more pleasant than the last chapter.) You might say that Faris Hayter was a passionate golfer. Not all that good, but passionate. He liked the game so much that he’d watch it Sunday afternoons on TV. I’m not joking. Watching people play golf is, well, not all that fascinating… for me. Oh, I preferred it to listening to one of Brother W’s “going-to-hell-in-a-basket” sermons, but then I preferred a boil on my butt to one of those. And, as a kid, I got plenty of ‘em... but boils.

But, let me steer away from “graceless” sermons and boils on butts, and get back to Dad and golf. Sam Snead was Dad’s favorite golfer. He was his favorite even after Arnold Palmer and Jack Nicklaus became big names. On Sundays, they had a show where Sam Snead would play golf with a different player each week. I don’t remember all the names of the great golfers… other than Chi Chi Rodriguez. I liked to watch Chi Chi play with Snead.

I could watch the two-man golf matches, ‘cause there was always some humor involved. Snead was not only a great golfer, but he had a super personality. You get him and Chi Chi together and it was like two comedians out on the links. I could watch that, uh, when there wasn’t anything else to do.

Dad enjoyed it when Dennis and I would sit down and watch golf with him. Sam Snead would always give golfing tips as he played. Dad wanted us to pay attention to the tips, ‘cause he envisioned us becoming professional golfers. I’m not kidding! Dad planned for Dennis and me to be good enough to get on the high school golf team, then get a college scholarship to play golf and then turn pro.

I was too scared to tell Dad that he was nuts. Thought it best to show him. Fathers and Mothers can dream way too big when it comes to their children. It can take a lot of emotional bumps and bruises for them to settle down and accept that the fruit of their loins is just as common as anyone else’s offspring. I think some people cling to the dream a bit too long.

I can’t say that Dad’s dream of Dennis and me being professional golfers was all that long lived. He had to know pretty quickly that we didn’t have the right stuff. The first time he took us to a driving range, he showed us how to hold the club all weird with over-lacing thumbs and fingers and all. I don’t mean overlapping, either. Those appendages were laced together. Most awkward.

After a couple of hearty swings and misses, I decided to go with the ol’ baseball bat grip. A grabbed hold of that club like I was gonna send one over the center field fence. I reared back and sent that club flying. That two wood must’ve gone up about a mile or two, hung in the air for about three seconds, made a narrow arc and then started down. As much as I hated the going-up part, I really hated the coming down. Sure as the world, the club was headed in the direction of the long line of people swinging clubs. I looked at Dad. It was the first time I ever recognized the look of uncertainty on his face. It wasn’t a good look for him. He looked at the line of people and then he looked up. He looked at the people one more time and yelled, “FORE!”

In golf, when someone hollers “FORE,” you’re supposed to duck and cover. However, each time I witnessed a “fore” call, the first reaction for everyone in the vicinity was to look up. Try to catch a glimpse of the thing before it smacks right in the face. When you’re at a driving range, the reaction is somewhat different, because everyone is swinging in the same direction. No way could anyone smack a ball towards spectators and participants unless they were trying to. So, when Dad yelled “FORE” most people just looked straight at him. It was like they didn’t believe what he said. It had to be a joke. A few people looked at the person right next to ‘em so they could exchange weird looks and make fun of whoever was yelling fore. A couple of people were just way too focused on what they weren’t doing and paid no attention to Dad. Turns out, the two wood came down in the direction of one of those two men.

PLUNK! That club landed two feet from a guy who was just finishing up on his back-swing. Could’ve killed him. Can’t tell you how relieved I was that it didn’t. While I always hoped to get my name in the paper for something, I never wanted it to be for terminally beaning a golfer with a two wood. So, instantly I felt a great rush of relief. I like the ol’ relief rush. Always have.

Unfortunately, the relief was followed too closely by embarrassment. That happened when Dad looked down at me with a look of ultra-disappointment and told me to go pick up my club. The walk to the club seemed to be about mile. Everybody was staring at me. I don’t remember anyone laughing out loud, but there was a lot of grinning. Hey, Dennis was even grinning, the big goob.

As I stooped to pick up the club, I apologized to the man. I could not look at him, though. I was too scared. He didn’t say anything mean… if he said anything. My hearing wasn’t all that acute at the time. I was pretty well engulfed in a fog of shame.

I always believe that God saved me from killing the man. I believe God showered me with some grace that day. And, He also gave some grace to the man I almost killed. Showered him big time. It was grace time for the both of us. For, Dad, too, I guess. That day he narrowly missed being the father of the boy who killed the golfer at the driving range. Missed it by two feet. Grace? God was just rich with it. I don’t think Brother W. noticed it all that much. And, I don’t think God liked Brother W’s sermons any more than I did. What I think.

After that experience, I never again tried to hold a golf club with a baseball bat grip. I intertwined my fingers around the club just like Dad told me. When it felt could and awkward, I knew I was holding it right. Weird sport.

Dad had the greatest golf cart in the world. His clubs were in a perfect line, and there was a place he could sit to wait while I hunted for my golfball.

After I managed to hold onto the club for a few more swings, Dad took Dennis and me out on the course. When Dad went golfing he went to one of three courses in the Houston area. One was the Texaco course, east of Houston just off Federal road. I liked Texaco. It was good and wooded and had some great-looking water hazards. We sunk many a ball in the waters of Texaco.

The Humble Golf Course was south of town just before you get to Clear Lake City. The first three holes were practically treeless, when we played there, but starting at the fourth tee, there were some magnificent trees that skirted the fairways. The course was very well kept. To me it looked like one of the courses we had seen on TV. I was always proud to go there.

Brock was another of the courses. It was located—You know, I don’t think I could find the place with a GPS. Not sure it’s still there. It wasn’t as well kept as the other two courses. Might’ve been only nine holes. Sand traps were bad, the fairway not all that glamorous, and the water hazards too fishy. I don’t like fishy water hazards.

Did I say, three courses? I forgot about the course at San Jacinto Jr. College. The San Jacinto course was the cheapest one around. And, for good reason. Whatever trees were out there, had only recently planted. Just little stubby things. There was very little variance in the terrain and absolutely no shade. It was like playing in a mowed field… except when it needed mowed.

Wherever we went, we went early in the morning. Dad wanted us to be the first golfers there, so we could zoom through our game and not have to wait on people. I liked going early, because there wouldn’t be as many people watching me. I hated for strangers to look at me swing a club. Do I need to mention the driving range incident again?

A big disadvantage to an early morning round of golf is the dew. I have never started a round of golf without the ground being soaked with the stuff. By the time I chased my first ball into the rough, my shoes and socks were soaked. I spent a lot of time in the rough.

Our golf foresome was made up of Dad, Dennis, me and either our big brother Larry or one of Dad’s friends at work. Maybe Sivel or Junior Bradley. I never knew Sivel’s first name. Can’t even be sure how to spell his last. That’s always the way I saw it in my brain. Sivel. Dad never took time to spell his name out for me. It was just Sivel this and Sivel. A nice guy. Dad had nice friends. It was the same with Junior Bradley. A perfect gentleman just like Sivel. I don’t know they were so nice to me and Dennis out of respect for our father or just ‘cause were such great kids. That’s probably it.

Both Sivel and Junior Bradley were better golfers than Dad, but, even when they smacked a ball poorly, they never used bad words. Dad didn’t either, of course, and he certainly had more cause. I’m sorry, Dad, but you did.

At no time during our golf outings with Dad did we ever rent a cart. We walked the whole 18. A time or two we played 27 holes. I was generally really beat after 13. That’s because I had to hit the ball more times than anybody else. The constant bending and lifting of the golf bag after each wayward smack or duff or skull. A skull is when you just hit the top of the ball and it takes a hop about six inches from the tee. And rolls for a few yards. A good skull can really mar a ball. Make it look like it’s wearing a frowny face. A duff is—I don’t know what a duff is. I know that a duffer is a bad golfer, so I guess a duff is what a bad golfer does to the ball.

In our early days, Dennis and I used the same clubs. We’d take turns being the caddy. Dad would pay for one green fee for us and we’d take turns playing the holes. Dennis would play the first hole and I’d play the second. Or, Dennis would play the first nine and I’d play the back. We did that ‘cause it was so expensive for Dad to have to pay for both of us. I thought it was perfectly legal to do that, but a guy got real upset at Dad when we were at Texaco. He thought Dad was trying to cheat him. After that experience Dad paid for both Dennis and me to play. An expensive sport, golf. Don’t know if you knew that. And, that’s without renting a cart!

I am such a lousy golfer that it’s pathetic. I remember on the first hole out at Brock one morning, Dad had just instructed me how I should hit my driver. He told me all about keeping my eye on the ball and how to do my swing and all that. Assured me no one was looking at me, so I was to relax and swat that bubba. Well, I came back slowly with the club and then beared-down on the swing. That ball went flying to the right towards the parking lot. It took several bounces over a couple of cars and about a dozen golf carts. Ended up on the little practice putting green. I thought Dennis never would catch his breath from laughing.

I don’t know how good at golf Dennis and I would’ve been had we had a good teacher. Dad would tell us how to play, but he couldn’t show us to save his butt. He always warned us not to try to kill the ball. “Just keep your head down, meet the ball and follow through.” Then he’d step up to the tee, rear back and try to clobber the ball. He’d swing so hard that his left leg would leave the ground during his back swing. His follow through was too often an abrupt stop. One time, during the later years, he swung so hard that his false teeth ended up on the ground next to the newly abused turf. Dennis and I knew Dad well enough to know when it was safe to laugh at something he did. In the case of the false teeth, we cast our fate to the wind and just burst out laughing. Couldn’t hold it in. When Dad realized how cracked up we were, he had to laugh too. I don’t think anybody could’ve looked and Dennis and me and not laughed. There’s something about somebody losing it that’s just funny.

Dad had a bad slice. Don’t know if you knew that. Could’ve been a bad hook. I don’t know which is which, but dad’s ball generally made a massive turn to the right. He was never able to correct the slice or hook, so he just positioned himself sideways when he addressed the ball. It would look like he was aiming 90 degrees from the pin and the ball would curve around and as often as not land in the fairway. I tell you, that man could really clobber the ball.

I never developed a permanent hook or slice or skyball (I made that one up) ‘cause I seldom did the same thing twice… or consecutively. I remember on one occasion when Dad, again, had just instructed me how to properly direct the path of the ball, he stepped over about 10 feet from me to where he was facing my face. He was going to watch as I kept my eye on the ball and sent that buddy soaring to my left… his right. Well, I reared back and swung with my eyes pointed to the stratosphere. I smacked that ball right on the edge nearest me. That sent it flying at 90 degrees from the direction of the fairway. Sent it right at Dad. It missed him by about a foot. I didn’t know it was possible to hit a ball straight ahead of you like that. I don’t think Dad did either. Larry and Dennis started laughing instantly. Then I started laughing. Eventually Dad joined it. I was so glad he did.

I’m pretty sure that was the moment when Dad gave up on me ever becoming a professional golfer. When a kid doesn’t take the sport any more seriously than that, well he’s not made of the right stuff. It was the last straw on a whole pile of bad straws.

I have saved the best golf laugh for last. It was a humdinger. After his tee shot on Number 15 at Texaco (Hey, that’s just a guess. It could’ve been any of the holes in the teens.) Dad’s ball landed about 18 inches from the edge of a huge bayou. More like a river with a real steep bank. Dad studied the ball’s position and then grabbed a five iron from his bag. He planted his left foot just at the edge of the creek’s bank, gave a couple of stomps to make sure the ground would hold. The plan was to knock the ball over the “U” of the twisting bayou and end up right on the green.

I positioned myself right behind Dad so I could keep an eye on the ball in case it went nuts on him. It did that a lot. Dad reared back and pounded that Titlest 2. . It was probably the best follow through he ever had. I noticed his follow through, because he completed it while in the air. You see, the minute Dad made contact with the ball, the shift of his weight made the ground give beneath his left foot. This sent him creekward. The bank was so steep that I lost sight of him. But I did catch sight of his left hand. Just before Dad’s feet touched water, he reached and gently laid the five iron on the lip of the steep creek. Then he was gone. All I heard was the splash. He didn’t yell, scream or struggle. He just disappeared. A second later I saw the spray.

For all I knew, Dad was dead. Dennis and Larry came running across the fairway to help save him. I walked to the edge of the creek and looked down. There was Dad standing in waste-deep water looking up at me. If he had been packing heat and ordered me not laugh, it would’ve done no good. I was on the ground. Could not catch my breath. Dennis and Larry hadn’t had as good a view as I had, so their laughter was more from imagining how Dad ended up down there. I had seen it. I’m telling you, Dad laid his club on the edge of that creek just as gently as could be. Graceful he was before passing out of sight.

It wasn’t easy getting Dad back on dry land. If we got too close to the edge, he would’ve pulled us in with him, so he was more or less on his own. When he finally surfaced, he managed to join us in the laugh. I mean he wasn’t bent over laughing or anything, but he got in a pretty good laugh. Played the last few holes half covered in mud.

The times Dennis and I spent with Dad on the golf course were among the best. Whether we were with our big brother Larry or with Syvil or Junior Bradley, we each had so much fun. And, the enjoyment didn’t end on the course. After every game, we went to the nearest hamburger joint.

Back then the Hayters only got burgers once every two weeks. That was right after payday. But once we started playing golf with Dad, a new tradition was born. After each game Dad bought us a burger, potato chips and – get this – a chocolate malt. I couldn’t believe it either. It was the only time I ever got a malt with a meal. Dennis and I knew it wouldn’t be right to order something that cost more than what Dad ordered. It wasn’t a written or spoken law, it was just sensed. As kids we did a lot of sensing. The first time Dad took us to a burger joint after playing golf, he ordered a malt with his burger, so Dennis and I followed suit. Same thing after every game. A chocolate malt, a burger and chips. It took a few years for french fries to catch on big, but when they did, we traded the chips in for the fries. Among the best of days.

If Dad was overly disappointed that Dennis and I weren’t golf pro material, he never let on. No matter how badly we played the game (I never broke a 100.) Dad still took us out for a burger. And, when our youngest brother arrived, Dad tried to make a golfer out of him, too. I think Alan even got a lesson or two. But, it didn’t matter. Al, too, turned out to be a bad golfer… just not as bad me. Turns out, I’m the only Hayter who ever sent his club into a massive stratospheric arc. About killed a guy. I think it warped my playing days forever. Warped something.