John’s Story
This week I would like to step aside from the keyboard and share with you instead a lovely story about golf written by my friend John Lutter:
Today I played Keller with a father and son, Warren and Tom. By way of introduction, Warren told me that the last time he played Keller was in 1949. “That’s the year Sam Snead won here,” he said.
After teeing off, he observed that the first hole is the same as the last time he played, and he wondered how much the rest of the course had changed. One thing different since Warren's last round was the routing: What's now number 12 used to be number three, for example. Warren asked about the hole that follows, “the par three that you have to carry the hollow.” I told him that it is now number 13 and the hollow is still there. We all played from the white tees on the first hole, but thereafter Warren moved up to the forward tees. Somewhat apologetically he said, “That’s what we call them in Texas, not the ‘ladies tees.’ I can't reach the green in two from the white tees anymore.” I ought to mention that Warren is 85 years old and, at that age, nobody deserves any static about what tees he or she plays from.
Warren has been living in Frankston, Texas, since 1995 and plays Pine Dunes. He pointed to his hat and said, “This is where I play, the No. 1 public course in Texas.” He and his buddies get together on Thursdays. But judging from his game, he must get out more than once a week.
When we got to number four—the par three with the gigantic spreading oak in front of the green—I asked Warren if he recognized the hole. “Oh, yes,” he replied. “I’ve hit that tree a couple times, and I don’t think I’m going to be able to get over it today.” So he played a perfect shot under it and made his par.
The conditions were as close to perfect as I’ve encountered this summer. The temperature was comfortable, the skies sunny, and not even a trace of a breeze. The only negative was the pace of play. I expected all the hackers to stay home and watch the Vikings, but four of them jammed up the works for the rest of us who followed. It took us about two-and-a-half hours to play the front nine. Tom did the math in his head and said, “We're headed for a five-hour round.”
When we saw the ranger on the 11th tee, he apologized for all the waiting. “I can only get just so harsh with them,” he said. “This is a county course, and if people feel they’ve been yelled at too much, they call a county commissioner. As far as the commissioner is concerned, everyone who calls is a vote, and they want every vote they can get, so I wind up hearing about it.”
I told him I had to mow the lawn after my round, so I wasn’t in any hurry. Besides, Warren was keeping things interesting. About the time we were making the turn he said that when he was young everyone wanted to hit a 300-yard drive. “Maybe once a year if you caught one just right it’d go 300,” he said. “Otherwise, you had to settle for 280.” Settle for 280? Warren must have been quite the stick in his day. If his son Tom’s play was any indication, he probably was.
We played 13 without incident and then came to Warren’s favorite hole, where he hit his tee shot a little fat and came up a little short. I think he made his bogey, though. On number 14, the short dogleg par four, Warren pointed up the fairway to the weeping willow up by the green and said, “Sam Snead made eagle on this hole. He holed out from where that weeping willow is.” He continued, “You know, he got a check for $4,500 for winning. I was thinking about going pro, but not for that kind of money. So I got a real job.”
From there, the round wound down softly and quietly, like a perfect fall afternoon. By the end, Warren was moving pretty slow. More than once I noticed him leaning on his putter and wedge like a pair of canes after holing out. Tom was a model of patience and appeared to genuinely relish the experience. Not for a moment did it seem like he wanted to be somewhere else with anyone else.
A par on 18 allowed me to bookend an adventurous round in competence. It came courtesy of a nice approach shot from 180 yards out that drew praise from Warren. On the green, my 25-footer burned the right edge of the cup and I was left with a gimmee. “I was really hoping you’d make that birdie putt,” Warren said. “Finishing a round like that makes you want to come back.”
Had I been quicker witted, I would have said, that’s true, Warren, but meeting incredibly nice and interesting people will bring a guy back, too. Instead, I shook his hand and told him I never met a par I didn’t like and to not wait another 60 years to play Keller again.
Thanks for letting me share your story, John!
—Dee Forsberg



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