Maybe

The day before my shoulder surgery my son, David, and I played golf. I knew it was the last round I’d play for several months. I scheduled eighteen holes at The Villages’ Havana Country Club. I set it up so we’d start on the Hemingway nine and finish on Kilimanjaro because I’m particularly fond of the final four holes. They start with a parr three, followed by two parr fours. The final hole is a parr three that has a large drop from tee to green. It’s a pretty hole that can be visually intimidating.

David played the blue tees, and I played the green. When we first purchased a house in The Villages, I played the blue. That was twenty years ago. About a dozen years ago I moved up to the shorter white. I moved forward, again, to the green tees about four years ago.

Each move was based upon my declining ability. I’ve always hit the ball pretty straight but not very far. My distance has diminished with the continued deterioration of my shoulder. I was losing strength and flexibility but not desire. That physical decline, plus my age, helped determine my fate. I couldn’t perform as I once did. I still wanted to play so I modified my circumstances by moving forward on the course.

David and I discussed a multitude of things as we played: golf, his job, Brady and Eva, my impending surgery, and Ruth.

The sixteenth hole of our round, and the second of my favorite four holes, is a relatively short parr four. There’s water down the entire left side of the hole and the fairway runs that way. It’s best to aim right because if you hit it correctly, the roll of the fairway will help shorten the hole. I think about where I want to hit the ball prior to every shot. I can’t just blast away as some of the long hitters do.

Every time I play the hole, I recall a time when Ruth and I played that sixteenth. She hit a great drive and an even better second shot. Her ball hit the front of the green and rolled all the way to the back where the pin was placed. The slope of the green works like a sling shot if you hit it just right, and she did. Ruth was about six feet from the pin, and she made the putt for birdie. I don’t know if she remembered that shot, but I do, and I relive it each time I play the hole. My round with David was no different.

I hit my drive on September 24th just like I planned. My second shot fell short to the right. I decided to bump and run my third shot with a seven iron. I thought it would run like I’d seen Ruth’s ball run a few years prior. I failed. It fell short and stopped. I tried the same shot and, once again, I failed. I took out a wedge, knocked the ball towards the hole, and two putted for a seven. It was my worst hole of the day.

My shoulder surgery was the next day, September 25th. I was dreaming about that hole as I awoke from surgery. I had decided to hit a wedge instead of trying to bump and run with a seven. I just made contact with my club, and saw the ball travel towards the hole, when I woke up. I spoke of the shot to David and the hospital staff assembled around my recovery bed, and I tried to return to my dream to see my results. I couldn’t, so I’ll never know.

I’m not a student of dreams, so I don’t know if there’s an underlying meaning to dreaming about a golf hole that Ruth played so well. She never repeated her success on that hole and may never have thought about it when it was over. I do each time I play the hole, and I can’t explain why it’s stuck in my head. But it is.

The only hole I remember from my last round was my worst of the day, one of the best that Ruth ever played, and I dreamt about it during surgery. How does that happen?

Maybe Ruth was with me during surgery. I find that thought comforting.