Leftovers

Sometimes a moment sums up a lifetime.

My father is retired but works part-time at a local golf course so that he can play there for free. Even better, when he works, I can play free too.

He worked Sunday. I met him up there and he set me up with a golf cart and a bucket of range balls. After that, I'd go over to the club's par-3 course and play. I don't like to play the main course alone because it's too hard for me to track where my ball goes. It's the downside to the keeping the head down people are always telling you to do.

Sometimes after work Dad will join me and we'll go play the main course together. I asked if he wanted to do that Sunday. "No," he said. "I'm playing tomorrow and I don't like to play back-to-back days because I never play well on the second day." He was to play with a prominent local business owner and a couple of other people he knew from his working days. They play about once a month.

Not even thinking about it I said, "And you have to save yourself for the important people." There was nothing snarky about it. I didn't say it sarcastically or as a challenge. It was the simple truth.

It stung Dad some. "No, it's not that," he stammered. "I just don't like to play bad..." His voice trailed off. He'd had to stop himself from saying, "...in front of important people." I could tell.

The significance of the moment didn't strike me until after I had hit my practice balls and pointed the cart toward the par-3 course. In a hundred thousand years it would never be more important for him to play a round of golf with me than it would be to play well with his friends.

Here's the thing: In a hundred thousand years, I would not expect him to. I cannot fathom my father showing up sore to play with his friends because he had played the day before with me. I cannot imagine him hitting a poor shot and saying to his playing partners, "I might stink it up today. I played with Jack yesterday. He got the good round out of me. You guys get what's left."

I don't know when I realized it but I've known it for a long time. My father was never going to save his best for me. I -- and my mother and brothers -- were the ones who were going to get what was left, which was not inconsiderable. In many ways my father has made it possible for me to lead a fairly comfortable life. I'm grateful.

But knowing you're not number one in the minds of your parents has its effects. I never felt particularly neglected. Just second-rate. It's possible to get scars from wounds you never knew you had. I'm sure that's why I don't have as much self esteem as I should: I was never good enough. Why should I think I was any good at all?

So I played on the par-3 course while my father rested himself for the important people. I played pretty well. And I promised myself that in the highly unlikely event that I ever have a son of my own, I'll play with him every chance I get. He (and the woman I presume I will marry to produce this child) will get my best.

Everyone else will have to settle for what's left.