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<\/p>\nMy dad always said, \u201cThe Rules of Golf are the rules of life.\u201d He learned this early.<\/p>\n
As a self-described \u201cornery kid\u201d growing up in the 1950s and 1960s in small-town Iowa, Bob Longman was athletic, even if he was \u201ckind of a little guy.\u201d He quickly learned that golf was a sport he could excel at with practice, no matter how short he was. Wiry and with coke-bottle glasses as a teen, he got a small thrill out of it when people underestimated him. Then, he\u2019d beat them. \u201cConfidence without cockiness\u201d was his philosophy, and it served him well.<\/p>\n
He played golf his whole life. He won club championships and teed it up across continents, from the Philippines to Pebble Beach. He\u2019d work in retirement as a greenskeeper for the golf course he grew up on in Shenandoah, Iowa.<\/p>\n
When my dad learned he was sick with Stage 4 pancreatic cancer in January, he seemed to be the only one who understood just how little time he had left. My mom told me days after his diagnosis that she\u2019d read online somewhere how pancreatic cancer\u2019s hallmark was that \u201cby the time you know you have it, you\u2019re already dead.\u201d\u00a0But as someone who had beaten expectations and underestimations all his life, we wanted to believe that wouldn\u2019t\u2014couldn\u2019t\u2014happen to my dad. That he\u2019d beat the odds once more.<\/p>\n
After he told me about his diagnosis, I flew home to Iowa. We walked the dog together, and I suggested he\u2019d get out on the course again in the spring. Perhaps play a round with his buddies, or at least hang out at the clubhouse. I\u2019d hoped my words would bring comfort\u2014to him, and maybe to me, too. I thought of golf less as my dad\u2019s hobby than an essential part of his being. Just as you might plan your next meal, my dad planned his next round. I simply could not envision a world where he didn\u2019t play golf again. It was as impossible as imagining a reality without his playfulness, devotion, impish smile, sense of humor and encouraging words.<\/p>\n
But when I brought up playing again, he just said, \u201cMaybe,\u201d and quickly moved past the subject. He had other things he wanted to talk about. More pressing things. He seemed to know his remaining moments of clarity would be finite, anticipating the debilitating pain, Dilaudid drips, and doctors to come. He seemed to know this would be the last time we\u2019d walk the dog. That he wouldn\u2019t be around anymore in just a couple of weeks.<\/p>\n
Still, golf would remain a part of his life to the end, even if he couldn\u2019t hit a ball or roll in a putt. While he had it in him, he wanted to tell his best stories, stories that re-emphasized the many lessons he had shared with me during our time playing golf together\u2014from the first moment I could swing my tiny, pink beginner\u2019s club. Some were as simple as shortening my backswing. Others were bigger. They were about golf, but also about so much more.<\/p>\n
Months after his death, those lessons are what I have left of him.<\/p>\n
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Dad and daughter playing a round. (Photo courtesy of Molly Longman)<\/p>\n
Golf isn\u2019t fair<\/p>\n
When my dad told stories, he often prefaced them by saying he knew I\u2019d \u201cheard them all a thousand times before.\u201d In my teens, I\u2019d sometimes roll my eyes or tune out because, yes, Bob, I had. But post-diagnosis, I couldn\u2019t fathom the idea that, soon, I wouldn\u2019t get to hear them anymore. So I started recording them, suddenly wishing I\u2019d taped every word he\u2019d ever said to me.<\/p>\n
One of the few tales he had time to re-tell (one that I actually hadn\u2019t heard a thousand times) seemed to have a new double meaning. While serving in the Navy during the Vietnam War, my dad spent all his free time on land playing golf. Eventually, he qualified for the final round of the All-Pacific Naval Golf Tournament. He\u2019d gotten permission to play as far as he could go from his admiral. But then, \u201ca day or two before I\u2019m supposed to fly out to Hawaii to do this, I get orders to report to the USS England to go back out in the Gulf of Tonkin,\u201d he told me, in the short period before he died.<\/p>\n
It wasn\u2019t fair. He went back to see his admiral, who told him, \u201cSon, you’d better be on the dock at 8 a.m. tomorrow, or you\u2019ll be court-martialled.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cSo I said: Yes, sir.\u201d At this point in his retelling, my dad laughed, summoning the strength to do a little salute.<\/p>\n
Although the memory of his interrupted tournament must have still stung a little, all these years later, he had a sense of humor about it.<\/p>\n
The deeper lesson he seemed to emphasize was this: Life doesn\u2019t really care about your plans. We miss the shot. An unpredictable gust of wind carries our perfectly struck ball off course. A freak injury\u2014or a strict admiral\u2014cuts short our winning streak. One day, we\u2019re at the top of our game, and then everything falls apart. But you\u2019ll feel better about things if you can find the humor in the chaos \u2026 or at least get a good story out of it.<\/p>\n
My dad did just this with his diagnosis. I asked if I could borrow his Chapstick one day while driving him to the emergency room. He said, \u201cSure, but I hope you don\u2019t catch my cancer.\u201d Once there, the nurses complimented his T-shirt, which read: \u201cOutside of a dog, a book is a man\u2019s best friend. Inside a dog, it\u2019s too dark to read.\u201d<\/p>\n
You\u2019re only as good as your word \u2014 and your score-keeping<\/p>\n
At least 576 times in my life, my dad must have told me: \u201cYou have nothing if you don\u2019t have your integrity.\u201d<\/p>\n
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