JimFormation

My grandfather built Bey Lea Golf Course. That’s right, built it.

He, my dad, my Uncle Pat, and a crew of hand-picked workers cleared the land, sculpted the fairways and greens, laid the irrigation system, planted the grass, and all that. Pop was in charge of it all.

I played a round of golf with Uncle Pat this summer and hit my ball behind the willow tree at the bottom of the 10th fairway. “You know, Uncle Pat. I always hit it behind this stupid tree. I curse God every weekend for planting it there.”

“Umm, Jimmy. I planted that tree,” Uncle Pat said. Turns out that he and the current superintendent of the course, my Uncle Gary, planted almost all of the trees on the course.

“Well then, Uncle Pat, I curse you. At least I can put a face to my misery — and, if I feel particularly vitriolic, I can call you.”

I think of Uncle Pat every time I play the 10th hole. And probably curse him every other time. I haven’t called him yet.

This morning I hit the ball under that tree. Of course.

I started telling the above story to Jack, our golf association’s resident Born-Again Christian. When I got to the part about cursing God, Jack says, “You know, I used to curse God to. But I came to realize that He truly loves me. If you had a personal relationship with God, you wouldn’t feel the need to curse him anymore either. He really loves you, you know. We are both blessed.”

“Jack, I don’t curse God anymore. Turns out my Uncle Pat planted that stupid tree. I curse him now.

“I appreciate your sentiment though, and your dedication, and your courage to take the opportunity to preach to me. I really opened myself up to the sermon, but you’ve done your duty and it’s out of your system. We can just finish the round now, right?”

Jack smiled, “Of course.”

All Jack ever wants is the opportunity to say his piece. We all let him, though he sometimes has to pay for it with good-hearted needling.

As far as evangelizers go, Jack is among the most pleasant and unobtrusive I’ve met. If I ever feel the calling to turn back to the Church, Jack’s is the first number I’ll call.

In the meantime, I’ll curse Uncle Pat for planting the damned tree at the bottom of the tenth. But I’ll curse God for the bad bounces in the fairway that put me there.