Todays Helping of Chicken Soup for the Soul

[Guest guest]

Corky's Wedge

By Mike Corcoran

It was one of those moments that makes a golfer rejoice in the fact

that

the game is a part of his life, a moment only a golfer would be silly

enough to

get sentimental about. The prelude to the moment occurred when I was with

my

children at my parents' home, the house I grew up in, which borders a

public

golf course. The course, in suburban Philadelphia, was built by two

members of

the famed Whiz Kids, the 1950 Philadelphia Phillies. As a kid, the owners

were

nice enough to let me go out onto the range at twilight and hit all the

balls I

wanted, as long as I hit them at the flag in the center of the range. That

little spot of land is where I learned how to strike a golf ball with

approximately the same lack of skill I do now.

I was in the house with my parents when I happened by the kitchen

window

and saw the three children with golf clubs in their hands. My parents are

not

golfers in the sense that they play a lot. Typically, they play a few

times a

year, mostly when they go to Florida to visit my mother's sister and my

uncle.

Nevertheless, the garage of the house on Fairway Road still has a lot of

clubs

scattered about, remnants of the days when the five brothers who lived

there

claimed any club, ball or bag offered to us by someone at the club where we

caddied. The kids had found a few rusted old weapons, grabbed a few muddy

balls

from an old bucket in the garage and were now giving those balls what-for

in the

backyard.

As you might imagine, the ground was getting it worse than the balls.

With

little two-handed chops at the ball, only the oldest, my ten-year-old

daughter,

was making occasional contact. The other two, a girl and a boy ages seven

and

five, were doing a proper job of tilling the soil. It was the first time I

had

ever seen them with clubs in their hands, though I suspected their actions

were

born more of boredom than genuine interest.

It was an admittedly odd moment for me. Because the game means so

much to

me, and because nearly every minute of my working life has involved the

game in

some manner - be it as caddie, editor or writer - I had long ago made the

decision that I'd let my children decide for themselves if they wanted to

play

golf. I knew I couldn't be objective and feared I'd become one of those

tennis

or Little League fathers who becomes obsessed with his child's golf game.

It's

uncommon, but that type of person does exist in golf. I occasionally

encountered them as a junior, and once saw a man bring tears to the eyes of

his

very talented son during a match in which the boy was whipping me handily.

It

just wasn't good enough for the father. You never forget things like that.

Once in awhile, somebody will bring up that boy's name (although I suppose

he's

a man now) and mention that he is a very competitive amateur in the area

around

Philadelphia. I automatically think of his father. I realize now that he

was

probably a good man who just lost sight of the true purpose of the game.

Back

then he simply seemed like a mean guy.

" Why don't you go out there with them? " asked my mother, and so I did.

I

sat on the back porch and said things such as " Way to go " and " That's a

great

try, buddy. " And that was it.

The moment happened the following way. We were at our home in rural

Bucks

County, Pennsylvania, and we were packing up our possessions to move to a

bigger

house just a mile or so away. My oldest daughter found an old wedge in a

closet

she was cleaning out, a wedge that had served me faithfully for years.

Fact is,

it wasn't actually a wedge. Years ago I discovered I was a lousy bunker

player

and decided it was because the flanges on sand wedges were too big for my

liking. About that time, I stumbled upon an old 9-iron in my parents'

garage.

It was a Spalding Bobby model, with a rather large, offset clubhead,

and I

noticed when I hit it full bore it only flew about 110 yards. It had a

wonderfully thin sole, so I wandered out onto the course and hit a few

bunker

shots with it. Perfect - for me at least. So I went back to the garage,

cut

about an inch off the top of the shaft, put a new grip on it and had the

wedge

I'd been looking for.

As time passed the already dilapidated club became even more battered

looking, but that just added to its appeal. The club was the one constant

in my

bag. I changed drivers, irons and putters every few years, but the wedge

was

with me wherever I traveled. It launched me out of the fearsome bunkers of

Pine

Valley, it (not I) executed the best recovery shot of my life from a steep

hillside at Royal Dornoch, it bailed me out from desert lies in Phoenix and

Palm

Springs and the thick rough of Baltusrol and Westchester Country Club.

Once in

Florida, from the driveway in front of a clubhouse, it hit a beauty that

landed

two feet from the hole and stopped like a dart. I could even remember a

shot

from the fairway it played, to the 1st green at the Old Course. Even I

couldn't

miss that fairway. And then it ended up in the farthest reaches of a

remote

closet for a few years, an ignoble end to its career, no doubt initiated by

one

of my kids.

I was immersed in those moments as my daughter stood before me with

the

wedge. " Daddy, could you make this shorter so I could use it? " she said.

'Could I make it shorter? Voluntarily destroy a link to my past, a

landmark

tool in my personal golf history? Are you insane, kid? Bad enough you

lost it

in the first place. Now, you want me to ruin it?' " Sure thing, kiddo, " I

said. " We'll do it tonight, right after dinner. "

And so we did. In the last breaths of a late summer evening, when the

only

sound to be heard was the Delaware River on its slow but relentless march

to the

sea, Michelene Corcoran, with a little help from her old man, made her

first

golf club. Take care of it, I told her, and she assured me she would.

The next afternoon I saw the grip end of the club sticking out of the

edge

of our fish pond. I pulled it out and found a rope tied around the

clubhead.

It appeared someone had been trying to hook a big one with the club. 'Oh

well,' I thought, 'as long as they were having fun.'