When I opened my eyes, I was sitting behind the wheel of my car. Fierce light shone through the front window, and I had to shield my face from the glare.
I glanced at the clock on the dash. It was three in the afternoon. How long have I been sitting here? I looked around the parking lot, and it was almost as empty as it had been when I arrived over five hours ago.
Masters Sunday, I thought. Everyone was probably at home glued to their television sets, watching Greg Norman and Seve Ballesteros battle it out for world golf supremacy.
I took a deep breath and whispered the last thing I could remember about my round with Dad. “I forgive me.”
Then I smiled. I noticed that my keys were in the ignition, and I cranked the car to life. I pulled out of the parking lot, going over everything I had learned over the past four days.
Self-control . . . In order to stop beating yourself, you have to learn and practice self-control.
Resilience . . . Be resilient in the face of great adversity.
Belief . . . Believe in yourself and go after what you want.
Forgiveness . . . Forgive the people who have caused you the most hurt. In my case, my dad . . . and myself.
I drove home on autopilot, remembering the smoothness with which Bobby Jones had swung the golf club and the haunting eyes of young Bobby in his hotel room in Scotland before he had gained control of himself. I thought of nine-year-old Ben Hogan, following his father into his parents’ bedroom and watching Chester Hogan shoot himself. Next I saw Arnold Palmer, smashing his opening drive toward the first green at Cherry Hills and charging electricity though the crowd with the boldness of his play and then sitting in the cockpit of his jet. Finally, I remembered my father’s blue eyes.
As I pulled into the driveway, I thought about the Masters. It was the final round, and everyone knew that the Masters didn’t really start until the back nine on Sunday. Which the leaders should be playing right about now . . .
I parked behind Mary Alice’s station wagon and sighed, hoping that my wife wouldn’t be mad at me for essentially disappearing for six hours. But as I walked toward the front door, I was greeted by a surprise. The door shot open, and Davis gazed at me wild-eyed. “Dad, where have you been?” Her voice was breathless, and I saw sweat beads on her forehead.
“At the club. Why? What’s the matter?”
“Randy, you need to come in here right now.” It was Mary Alice. She sounded almost giddy.
“Dad.” A smile lit up my daughter’s face. “You’re not going to believe it.”