Phares O’Daffer

At my dad’s funeral, in March 1950, as the shock of the farm accident that took his life was waning, people talked about how much he loved to play croquet. No, not the little league game of lawn croquet, but the major league game of court croquet! 

The court, which was surrounded by a 6-inch high concrete wall, had a hard, very smooth clay surface, covered with a thin layer of sand, with 1-inch diameter iron arches. Using a decorative short-handled mallet and a hard rubber ball that barely went through the arch, this was a game of true shots and creative skill.

Even though money from farming was short, my dad somehow found a way to pay someone to make him a beautiful, high quality, mallet. It was his symbol of the exquisitness of the game.

Croquet tournaments were becoming popular around the Midwest, and my dad had always talked about him and me playing in one.

Sadly, his  bucket list wouldn’t be completed. When I started to play again, I wondered if I should use his mallet, instead of my cheaper, youth mallet.  Somehow, it didn’t seem right.

But over a year after he died, in August 1951, I decided to honor my dad by using his mallet in a croquet tournament in Clinton, Illinois. I couldn’t do anything wrong. Every shot was perfect. I won the tournament going away! 

It seemed like my dad was hitting the shots, not me. And maybe he was.