After we’d dropped Grandad off, Dad and I carried on to the golf course. We normally go in the morning, but Dad had been busy so he decided to fit in nine holes in the arvo.

I held the little furry hat while Dad addressed the ball on the first hole. I didn’t say anything but he still hooked the ball (or was it sliced?).

‘Bugger,’ he said, handing me back the hatless one wood. I dutifully covered its head and returned it to the trolley as we wandered off into the long grass.

‘So, how’s it going with your girlfriend?’ said Dad.

‘Well, it’s not going,’ I replied. ‘And she’s not my girlfriend. In fact, she still has no idea who I am.’

‘Yeah, but that’s bound to change after your talent competition.’

‘Knowing my luck, she’ll get sick like she did before the soccer game and miss it.’ I gave that statement some thought. ‘Or, knowing my luck, she won’t get sick and will witness the whole grisly road accident.’ I’d been having second thoughts about the talent show. I’d been having third, fourth and fifth thoughts, actually, and I suspected Dad was right. Destry would know who I was all right. A spectacular bozo, an idiot in search of a village and the undisputed laughing stock of Milltown High.

My self-esteem is not great at the best of times.

‘Confidence,’ Dad said over his shoulder, as if reading my mind. ‘That’s the key with women. Hey, you want any advice, just ask, okay?’

‘If I want to bust moves while chatting up Destry Camberwick,’ I said, ‘you’ll definitely be my first port of call, Dad.’

‘I’m serious,’ said Dad. ‘You may look at me and see a fat, bald, old loser …’ He found his ball in the long grass and gazed at it, like it was the ball’s fault for hiding in rough country, when it should have been nestled, like a good, obedient golf ball, in the centre of the fairway. I gave him the nine iron without being asked. ‘Hey, Rob,’ he said. ‘Don’t argue with my self-portrait, all right?’

‘Dad,’ I said. ‘You are NOT a loser. Fat, bald and old without a doubt – there’s no point hiding our heads in the sand – but you are definitely not a loser.’

Dad parted blades of grass so he could get a decent view of the ball.

‘Okay, maybe a bit of a loser,’ I continued. ‘Not much of one, probably …’ I fiddled with the remaining clubs in the golf bag. ‘Right, fair enough. I won’t argue,’ I said. ‘Fat, bald, old loser seems to cover it.’

‘You’re spending too much time with Grandad,’ said Dad as he took a practice swipe with the nine iron. ‘And that’s a worry.’

He hit the ball and even I could see it was a great shot. The ball rose sharply and cleared the crown of surrounding trees by centimetres. I moved a couple of metres to my left to watch as it hit the edge of the green and rolled agonisingly close to the pin.

‘Great shot, Dad,’ I said.

‘Not always a loser then?’

‘Oh, please,’ I said. ‘Don’t spit the dummy on me.’

We walked towards the green.

‘I wasn’t a great dancer,’ said Dad. ‘In fact, I was useless. When I look back on it, there’s no reason why your mum should have given me a second glance. God, she was a looker in her day, Rob! Don’t get me wrong, she’s still a fine-looking woman, but …’

‘So why did she? Give you a second glance, I mean.’

Dad whistled as we reached the green. ‘That was a great shot,’ he said. ‘Almost makes up for that hook off the tee.’ I handed him his putter.

‘I was a union organiser,’ he said. ‘I tell ya, those were the days, Rob. Strikes to improve our working conditions, addressing members, negotiating with employers, issuing media releases. Happiest days of my life when I look back on them.’

‘And …?’

‘And your mum fell in love with that enthusiasm. At least that’s what she said years later when I asked why she’d gone for me. “You believed in something and you fought for it,” she said. “There’s nothing more attractive than a passion for a cause, even if that cause is doomed. Maybe especially if it’s doomed.”’

I watched as he lined up the putt and sank it. I even gave a round of applause. He raised his club as if he’d just won the American Open and waved a hand at nonexistent spectators. I took the putter and put it back in the bag.

‘You’re trying to tell me something, Dad,’ I said. ‘I wish you’d just do it.’

He put a hand on my shoulder. ‘You’ve become vegetarian. You’ve bored us with the reasons why. No offence. We’ve heard about animal cruelty, greenhouse gas emissions and even though I don’t agree with everything you say – to be honest, Rob, I think my love of steaks overrules my conscience – there’s no doubt you’re passionate about it all. So …’

‘So I should persuade Destry Camberwick that I’m passionate by letting her know I’m vegetarian.’

‘Oh, no,’ said Dad. ‘That’s not what I’m saying at all. I’m saying if you feel strongly about something then it shouldn’t be kept to yourself. It should be a stamp on your personality, a definition of who you are, because if no one can tell what you believe in then you might as well not believe in anything at all.’

I chewed on this throughout the next hole and came to a startling and somewhat shocking conclusion. Dad was right. Trust me, it hurts to admit it. But now it seemed obvious. Trying to impress Destry with my beliefs would be as pitiful as trying to impress someone with the number of bank notes in your wallet. You might succeed, but, almost by definition, the person you’re impressing wouldn’t be worth the effort.

Being vegetarian. Supporting animal rights. Maybe it was time to stop treating it all like a shameful secret. Maybe I needed to stop feeding my low self-esteem. Maybe it was time to be myself and not worry what anyone else thought.