Maybe it was the times that Chris Hamill bought a dozen Molitor golf balls for $50 and charged them to his dad’s account. Or the time me, Peter Kiernan, Mike Lynch, and Ed Kieritz tried to dredge the drained pond on One center for the thousands of balls we saw plugged in the mud. Or was it the times we used to rifle two irons from 150 yards, yes two irons, at the employee dorm that was across the entrance road to the club? Actually, it’s all those memories and so many more that made the days of my adolescence growing up at Ridgewood Country Club pure joy. I had reasonably good intuition as a kid for a knucklehead and I knew without being told that I was beyond lucky to have an environment like RCC to spend every waking moment at, summer after summer.
As we bask in the longest days of the year and I see the kids immersed in junior clinics, the twilight golf leagues in full swing and the “buddy” trips at their gluttonous peak I am reminded of the summer crushes, but more than anything I feel downright melancholy when I think about my true summer love of my youth, the golf course.
No matter where you fell for the game, like a girl, you’ll never forget when you knew the game had a grip on you. At your muni, on a summer vacation with your parents at a golf resort or being at your parent’s club. I played every sport with a competency that instilled confidence in me that I could apply myself and flash some skill pretty quickly. Snow skiing, tennis, basketball, baseball, soccer, swimming were all pursuits, but golf was the lone passion. The combination of the time it afforded me with my dad was critical to the hook but it was as much the chasing of something that was elusive, singular and provocative that conjured similar feelings to the ones I had for Maggie Dailey, Sandy Casperson, Sandra Sullivan and Kim Elsas. My Mt. Rushmore of teenage crushes but they were simply sharing time in my mind with the game that took a hold of me and has never let me go.
I wish I had all the “chits” from my parent’s club bill that came rolling into the mail slot at 326 Grandview Circle every month. I’d love to know how many hot dogs, ice cream sandwiches and bags of Wise barbecue chips I posted from 1979 to 1985. It was a glorious run of consistency at the snack bar next to the pool and between 9 east, 1 center, and 9 west on the 27-hole construct of the AW Tillinghast design. After I cut away the lingering interests in the other summer endeavors I was of an age when I could carry one, and eventually two, sturdy golf bags to make some good cash as a 16-year old. In order to practice and play every day I was required to try to get a loop in the morning. The caddy yard at Ridgewood in those days was a two-tier system. The less experienced caddies, the kids, started up by the water tower away from the clubhouse and waited for the phone to ring like calling the bullpen. Once you were called down to the “yard” outside the bag room you were on deck to get a loop. The rite of passage that accompanied those days sitting with grizzled working men was worth the wait each day to carry a leather golf bag which likely included a ball retriever, three “gintys” and enough Pinnacles to last a summer. Average weight of a bag coming out of the bag room at Ridgewood Country Club in 1981 was probably one hundred pounds. Ok, I’m exaggerating it was closer to ninety-two pounds.
Carrying two leather Burton bags in the summer was akin to dragging bags of wet sand across the desert. Tom Boren was the best player at the club at that time and he was also the ONLY player with a small ping carry bag with stands. Getting his bag was like winning the lottery to take Cheryl Ladd to the junior prom. There was one bag I had nightmares over and I keep having those nightmares because no matter what I did, I kept being assigned the bag of Mr. Cardew. He was a delightful man and the father of the two best athletes in town, but he also had a RAM staff bag. Yes, the same one Tom Watson used when he chipped in on 17 on Sunday at Pebble Beach to win the U.S. Open. Mr. Cardew had a knack for chipping in as well… for triple. When I saw big red coming out of the bag room, I actually hid in the phone booth in the caddy yard. Glen, the caddy master, still ID’d me in the booth and gave me the assignment. Even carrying that coffin, which felt like it had a body in it, didn’t dampen my lust for the game. Once I pocketed some cash each morning the day was then mine to do what I wanted to do most. Pursue the game.
I had the patience to practice and since we were not permitted on the course until after 4 pm each day I did what all my friends and the best juniors did at the club. We hit balls, we chipped, we putted, and talked about the game. We also wanted to dress the game as well. My Dad was a clothes-horse and he traveled and played many of the top courses in the country, and as soon as I could swim comfortably in his hard collar Pickering shirts I was showcasing swag from Merion to Olympic Club. I couldn’t hang with Paul Antenucci’s game, the best player in North Jersey, or Dirk Fennie who eventually played at Colorado, but I was solid.
My glory shot was being the 16 seed in the club championship and facing the 1 seed in Ace Daniels. He was in his early 40’s with multiple car 
dealerships, his name embossed on his Macgregor irons, a Mark VII convertible and a blow-dried quaff that was impeccable. I had a Jones bag, had played Oliver in the junior high school musical and tipped out the scales at 116 pounds. I was also two up with three to play and the club was buzzing that a character from a Horatio Alger novel was on the verge of walking in “Ace”. I took the gas pipe and choked away the last three holes, but I have taken solace that I had the equivalent of Phil Brody from “Flamingo Kid” sweating me. The high point was winning the 1981 Father Son tournament over Pete Campbell, and his father, Pete Campbell. My Dad didn’t take kindly to the fact that Pete was my dad’s age and was a former club champion and his father was the senior club champion. Dad thought their entrance was a violation of the spirit of the competition for Dad’s and actual children. As he said to me upon finding out that the Campbells were in the field, “lets beat those sons of bitches”. No greater pregame speech has ever been uttered and we got it done. That trophy resides proudly in my office. I have never grinded harder to contribute on a golf course than I did those two summer days.
I don’t know if I had a better childhood than children of younger generations, but I know I wouldn’t trade mine for anyone’s. We called girls on our house phones and they answered not knowing who was on the other end which was a horrifying undertaking. I’m guilty of writing a phone call script but I learned quickly when Julie Cook didn’t respond with the line I anticipated that we were free-styling. I didn’t waste a moment in a pinball arcade and was totally disinterested in Atari and InTelevision – the most primitive forms of video games. I wanted to be on a golf course, talking to adults while carrying their Powerbilt irons and Palmer Peerless drivers. I wanted to listen to the beaten up but not down and out caddies for life who closed down “Esposito’s” the night before and smelled like a bottle of Dry Sack, explaining to us youngsters why Linda Carter was hotter than Farrah Fawcett. It was a compelling argument. I wanted my TP Mills putter to become my biggest weapon and therefore I rolled hundreds of putts a day on the majestic practice putting green at RCC. I wanted to spin the 90 compression Titleist balata balls like Jerry Pate and Ben Crenshaw and learn how to shape a driver around the corner on 3 Center. I wanted to start each day with the dew on my shoes and finish each day with the fading sun on my neck. I know that being lost can be unnerving and anxiety filled but I’ve never been more content than I was all those summer days lost in the pursuit of something I’ve loved ever since.