Dad — A Life In Golf

“Are you going to go round again?” I said to my dad as I lay down on the seventh green. I had struggled to push his cart up the world’s steepest hill at age ten in my first year as a caddie. It was a Wednesday afternoon, men’s day.

We were at the nine hole Interlaken Golf Club in Fairmont, MN. The seventh hole was a shortish par four of possibly 330 yards. However, as a player with never better than a 24 handicap, he rarely made less than six on the hole.

“We probably will,” he said, “but you can quit and head home at the end of nine if you want.” Not wanting to quit on my dad I would go the second loop around the small town course. I wonder now if it was because he always let me make the decision on caddying that kept me coming back and thus I developed a life long love of the game.

Born in 1914 John Simmons was a huge man for his day. “Big John”, as his buddies called him, was 6’ 3+ and weighed 225 lbs. His 14 D shoe size seemed only available by special order from Foot Joy and then only in a few styles. Thus he had a closet full of Foot Joy wing tips worn everyday including Saturday while mowing the lawn. With enormous hands and thick fingers developed from throwing bales of hay on the farm in Waukon, Iowa, one would think he would be able to pound the ball prodigious distances. Not so. Picking up the game in his late 30’s dad never quite understood how to create club head speed.

Flexibility is a vital part of being able to play well. Nearly all good players have a shoulder turn of 90 degrees or more and good flexibility in the hips and lower body. Unfortunately this giant of a man had the flexibility of a piece of steel.

As a grandson describes it, “He had a micro backswing.” It never reached further than his hip. How such a physically large and immensely strong man could not hit the ball more than 120 yards was a mystery. He was a good athlete in high school playing football, basketball and track. Apparently playing standing guard in basketball and tackle in football did not require long fluid flexible strides. And as for putting, he didn’t have a putting stroke but more of putting jab. After missing yet another four foot putt he would shake his head in disgust. When a miracle occurred, he would act as if he made each one.

His preshot routine found him rocking from heel to toe, leaning severely on the club causing the shaft to bow. How the club didn’t break was a testimony to its strength.

“Big John” or “The Senator”, as some called him because of his distinguished appearance, did not head to the golf course to shoot low numbers. That was not going to happen. He played to be with his buddies for laughs, to smoke cigars and sip adult refreshments. The game was just a vehicle for other sorts of fun.

After 18 holes of golf, steaks cooked up on the grill located just outside the small clubhouse were consumed along with several drinks in the blue haze of the dining room. This was mens night at the small town club in the summer.

Following a move to Minneapolis in 1961 my parents joined the Lafayette Club. Better known for tennis and the beautiful setting on Lake Minnetonka, Lafayette is a nine hole course with a par of 31. Rarely would he break 100 in 18 holes at Lafayette. It never seemed to bother him as he always had a smile and a positive comment about his game.

The first hole at the Lafayette Club is a downhill 180 yard par three. The circular entrance road cuts across the fairway at about 95 yards from the tee. Dad’s goal was to bounce his drive off the asphalt road and have the ball jump toward the green.

Playing for Lafayette dollars the Thursday Birds, as the group was called, would move promptly around the course twice in anticipation of getting to the bar for the real entertainment of the day. Lafayette dollars were dimes. The Thursday Birds were not big gamblers.

Following retirement my parents wintered in Scottsdale where dad played another shorter course, Mountain Shadows, an 18 hole course similar to Lafayette. Dad played it frequently in the winter.

One winter day he realized he had forgotten about grandson Thomas’s birthday. Dad was a clever, funny and frequent writer of poems and stories. Horrified at the oversight he penned the following letter:

Dad passed away in 2003, claiming to have never broken 100. While his golf game may not have been championship calibre, his love of golf was instilled in his three sons. He was a great guy who guided me in A Life In Golf.