Links To The Past

“Y’all golfers?”

It seemed such an odd but innocuous question and, I certainly hadn’t expected it. I and my four golf buddies had just finished eating a great country breakfast at Big Daddy’s Café in Fayetteville, a small town in central Alabama. The small café was somewhat busy. I suspect that since it was nearly 9:00 AM that the normal breakfast crowd had already eaten and were now on their way to work. A few regulars remained, drinking coffee and finishing off a serving of eggs, ham and biscuits.  They were easy to spot. Some wore overalls or jeans and tee shirts of varying shades. One even wore camouflaged trousers, which seemed appropriate considering the location.  On the other hand, the five of us were dressed sharply.  We were attired in neatly ironed Dockers, Izod or Adidas shorts. Our knit shirts bore various brand names and logos. Our caps were Titleist, Callaway and Taylor Made and two bore the name of the now defunct Heatherwood Country Club. We stood out in direct contrast with Big Daddy’s regular customers.

I turned to the patron who asked the question. He was a black man and appeared to be middle aged, perhaps a bit older. A weathered hat adorned his head. His face was unusually smooth and appeared none the worse for what I guessed was a lifetime of labor outdoors. He grinned beguilingly, as if he were hiding a secret.

“Yes, we’re golfers.”

“Y’all going to play at FarmLinks?”

Was this a trick question? FarmLinks Golf Club was minutes down the road from the cafe and was the only golf course within 20 – 30 miles of Fayetteville. Where else would we play?

“Yes, we’re going to play FarmLinks,” I responded, and then added, “I’ve never played the course but I’ve heard a lot of good things about it.”

I wasn’t sure my words were of any importance to the man. He seemed more concerned with what might be on his mind rather than mine.  I really thought he could not care less about golf. He just didn’t appear to be a golfer. Nor did he seem the type that was interested in the sport.

He grinned even wider. “I was born and raised on the land where the seventh tee is.”

“Really?”  I feigned interest and I wasn’t sure why that bit of trivia might be important to me but I didn’t want to appear rude and ignore him.

“When you’re up on that tee and getting ready to hit your ball, think about that.” He paused, taking another sip of coffee from the Styrofoam cup he held in his weathered right hand.   “Just think about it,” he commanded.

I nodded and studied his face for a moment longer. My eyes locked on his. I realized that I was indeed being rude by staring at him. I abruptly averted my gaze.

“I sure will.” I wished him a good day and walked away.

Within minutes we entered the impressive gate to FarmLinks. I was excited to finally have the opportunity to play the course. I had heard so much about this course located in an area which cannot, in any way, be described as a golf hotbed. FarmLinks is a research golf facility and attracts golf course superintendents from around the world to study some of the golf industry’s most advanced resources and technologies. The facility also attracts golfers from all over with the unusual offer to play unlimited golf for a daily fee. I had heard of the fairways with different types of grass on each and I’ve been regaled with numerous stories of how well the staff treats its guests.  Today, thanks to the Southeastern Seniors Golf Association, I would finally play the venue.

After paying the tournament entry fee at the SSGA registration table, I went to the practice range. Like many senior golfers, I need several minutes, if not more, to warm up before playing. I hit perhaps thirty balls with different clubs and then spent ten minutes on the practice green. Before proceeding to the first tee, I stopped at the practice bunker to hit a few sand shots.

I felt good, if not a bit nervous on the first tee. I was playing in a threesome with two men whom I had met just that morning. They were exceptionally nice and were the type of golfers I wouldn’t mind playing with in the future. But, as is the case whenever I play in a tournament and especially when playing with strangers, I had the first tee jitters. My shoulders tightened a bit as did my hands and legs, a sure sign that my nerves were in control of my body. This was an indicator that I would slice or hook my first drive. Somehow, despite my nervousness I hit a decent drive.  Although my drive was shorter than Wally’s or Rusty’s, it came to rest in the middle of the fairway.

Seniors often play at a leisurely place.  Since I was riding alone in the golf cart, I allowed my mind to absorb the experience and the spectacular views. A golf course can be quiet and peaceful and FarmLinks was no exception. I took advantage of the pace of play and made the decision to simply enjoy the moment and the scenery.

The course starts in a valley. The fairways are generously wide and forgiving. In fact, it takes quite a slice or hook for one’s ball to find trouble. The greens are fast and most are contoured which makes for challenging putts. If you stay below the hole, generally the putt is easier. If your ball comes to rest above the hole then the speed and contours of the greens can exact a toll on one’s scores.

The highlight of the front nine is the par 3 fifth hole. From the fourth green to the fifth tee box, the elevation rises 170’. The tee box on the fifth hole offers a panoramic view of the distant hills and the valley below. The green is the largest on the course but it certainly doesn’t look so large from the tee box. The scene is postcard quality. Many golfers, including myself, capture the beauty of the hole by taking photographs from the tee box. I was grateful that my cell phone has a camera option.

It took nearly two hours to complete the first six holes, but I was content just soaking up the experience of FarmLinks.  We pulled up to the seventh tee and after waiting for the group ahead to clear the fairway, I teed my Callaway ball and stood behind it. I selected a target and tried to visualize the shot I wanted to hit. With the shot firmly visualized in my mind, I addressed the ball.

“Just think about it.” 

The intrusive thought and voice from within seemed real. I was startled. It was as if the gentleman from Big Daddy’s was standing behind me, nudging me and demanding that I do as he said.

I backed away from the ball. Slowly, I scanned the area, taking in the scenery. The bright lush green fairway stood in contrast with the one foot tall fescue borders that beckon wayward tee shots.  The fairway bunkers, with meticulously raked sand seemed ornamental rather than penal. I could see the green over three hundred yards in the distance, much too far for me to drive.  I tried to imagine what the land looked like 30, 40 or 50 years ago, long before a golf course had even been considered. Had it been farmland or had it been a southern pine forest? I’m sure that whatever it had been, it was beautiful. I don’t know if the land that now serves as the 7^th hole had been tilled for crops or was simply dense foliage. It probably didn’t matter except to the family that claimed it as their own.  Now, the land had been transformed from its natural state to perhaps an even more pristine state that still honored its humble past. For a moment, I could sense the man as a child running around, playing with siblings and friends and enjoying this modest parcel of land for everything it was worth. Now, I had the opportunity to share, in some way, what he had known and what he obviously had revered.  I felt privileged and blessed.

I returned to the task at hand. Once again I selected a target. My focus became sharper as I saw, in my mind, the shot I would hit. Addressing the ball, my limbs became relaxed. I waggled the driver twice and again glanced at the target.

I now knew what the black man in Big Daddy’s Café wanted me to know. He was as much a part of the golf course as were the fairways and greens. He was proud of his family’s stewardship and he was sure that the new stewards would take pride in their contributions to the land.  Change can honor the past.

“Thank you,” I whispered quietly.  “Thank you.”



© June 2009
William J. Charles