Clubbing

In celebration of another year of my son Nathan's life, we're taking our annual golf trip together.  He's fifteen now and all he's ever asked for his birthday since he was eight years old -- not a party, not a new gadget of some kind -- is just a two day golf trip with his dad.  So, what can I do?  Sometimes it's tough being a father, but if you've got to suck it up and spend a few days doing nothing but playing golf with your boy, so be it.  You do what you've got to do. 
 
As I anticipate this trip with the usual childlike giddiness, I'm remembering a round of golf I played with Nate when he was seven years old.  We were living in the D.C. area at the time and Nate and I returned from a family trip one day earlier than the rest of the family on December 31st.  It was about 33 degrees outside, but there was no snow on the ground, so Nate wanted to get out and play some golf, which, of course, we did. 

After hitting a spectacular drive on the fourth hole, Nate was faced with a second shot over a small pond to get to the green.  He had just got a brand new club for Christmas -- a 9 iron -- and desperately wanted to use it.  I knew that even if he hit it well, that particular club was not capable of hitting the ball over the pond, so I, in my fatherly way, advised my son to hit a different club, but left the choice to him.  He looked at me, and with the confidence -- nay hubris -- of youth, declared that he was going to hit his 9 iron.  He in fact put a beautiful swing on the ball; it soared right at the flag, but it was apparent to me that it was going to fall short and land in the pond.  Right as I was turning to give the young and impetuous little guy a look that would instantly communicate a loving, but emphatic, "I told you so," the ball disappeared and then bounced off the FROZEN pond and ended up about ten feet from the pin -- which was followed by a smile from Nate and an equally emphatic "I knew that was the right club."