美文：Butterscotch（父亲节系列）ZT
What wisdom can you find that is greater than kindness?
~Jean-Jacques Rousseau
My father did not start playing golf until he was in his sixties. He used to practice putting balls into plastic cups and coffee mugs on the rug in his family room while watching the Sunday tournaments on television. He used to boast about how he had sunk fifteen of these putts in a row. I used to watch him perform these putting exercises and watched his concentrated eye focusing on the mug at the end of the room, taking two or three practice strokes, and then following through with mechanical precision, making only minor adjustments to his swing when the balls would careen off the edges of the mug. I did see him make about four or five in a row at one point, but unfortunately not fifteen.
My father did not have the best all-around golf game, but he did have an acute eye for putting. If he had started a little earlier in life, he might have even become a better and more complete player. But, his love of being outside in the sun, the long walks for exercise, and the competition we shared on the course were what really made him enjoy this game. Nonetheless, he would reward himself for any minor victory on the golf course with a piece of butterscotch candy. The candies were not only rewards for him, but for myself or anybody else who played a hole nicely. If someone sank the tough ten-footer from the rough or even just the two-footer to win the match, a butterscotch candy was his way of saying "Nice job." As long as something was done on the course that impressed him, a butterscotch candy was the victor's spoils.
When my father reached his early seventies, he developed Alzheimer's disease. His world and my family's were suddenly turned upside down. His concept of time had been wiped out, his memory was fleeting at best and his independent life was soon coming to a close.
In the beginning stages of his sickness, we would still make the occasional trek to the golf course. I did not know exactly what to expect at this point and really just characterized the memory lapses and spatial imperfections as symptomatic of old age. The frustrations of my father's illness combined with the challenge of the game made it a very tough morning.
"Dad, Dad, Dad! This way!" That's all I seemed to be yelling as my father, in the midst of disorientation, would face the opposite direction of the holes and begin to tee up. I had to physically grab him and turn him in the right direction at some holes. When I put my hands on his waist and turned him around I could feel how lost this man had become and how dependent on me he was. It felt at times like I was playing with a small child who had never stepped on the golf course before in his life.
I remember watching him walk, or better yet shuffle, around the fairway in a half-hearted attempt to find his ball, truth being he had no idea where it was. "Dad, it's over there!" I would yell and point, simultaneously waving ahead another foursome that was playing behind us.
The afternoon seemed to drag along more and more. The fifteenth hole was upon us and I had finally reached the green in about six and was prepared to putt. I had dropped a ball for my father in front of the approach just to speed up our play and let him poke it onto the green. I stood behind my ball waiting for him to chip. He had three weak digs at the ball before it finally scooted onto the green about six inches directly in front of my ball! He wore a little smile as he awkwardly shuffled around the green and waited for me to putt.
We stood and looked at each other almost comically for a few seconds -- then I lost it.
"Dad, mark your ball!" He still wore a face of delusion and disorientation as he meekly patted his pockets for a marker. He pulled out tees and balls -- but no marker. He sensed my frustration mounting and I started to let my impatience seep into my expression.
Eventually he pulled something out of his pocket. I watched him reach down and pick up his ball and replace it with one of his butterscotch candies. He put it down and did not have the slightest clue what he had just done. The candy stood right in my putting line, the circular candy only a little bit smaller than the ball itself, its shiny gold cellophane wrapper reflecting sun and sitting so stupidly on the green.
I looked up at him and he was not even looking back at me. He was just looking around at the trees, at other golfers, wherever. I looked at him and started to laugh. I laughed hard. He looked back at me, then he looked at the candy sitting on the green. He laughed too.
The last three holes we played that day were some of the most memorable ones I have had playing this game. We both still played lousy the rest of the day, but we had fun, and my father and I would both have small awakenings amidst the green. He was freed from the delusions and disorientation of Alzheimer's for a couple of hours, and I was freed from the grasp of taking this game way too seriously.
That would be the last time I would ever play golf with my father, but it was the best time. The game became simple and fun for me again and he gave me that. Now, there are no more temptations to throw clubs or curse out loud or come home after a weekend of golfing upset because "I lost my swing." From now on, I take my time and I have fun -- in all aspects of life. I carry a butterscotch candy on me whenever I play golf and when I realize I am getting terribly frustrated with this game I reach in my pocket for the butterscotch and remember that day on the course with my father -- and laugh. I now enjoy golf and I am better at it. I am a pretty good putter now, too. I sank fifteen in a row in the coffee mug just a couple of days ago. Really, I did.
