Trisha Ricketts

My dad’s golf hat sits on top of my kitchen cupboard reminding me how much he loved playing the game. He played with great enthusiasm, but not necessarily well. It was said he could execute his backswing inside a telephone booth. And I think he was the one who said it.

Self-effacing and funny, he was the only guy I ever knew who admitted getting a “wet three,” which was a hole-in-one after hitting his first drive into water. One in, one out, one in the cup. Wet three. No buying drinks required. Regardless, on each hole, he hoped he’d shoot well and that his drives would go farther than my mom’s.

One time, he was playing in a rather competitive tournament out in San Diego with some serious golfers. When they drew straws, Dad pulled the short one. You would have had to have known him to get the humor here: he was anxiety packaged in a quicksilver body. Kind of like Don Knotts without the shakes. So when he stepped up to the tee box, he executed that truncated backswing and totally whiffed. Immediately, he turned to the crowd and said, “Tough course!”

Just like Dad, I love the game. And I hope every single time I swing that the press will get a shot of me driving one 200 yards or that I’ll break a ninety-five. When I play, I see my dad in his favorite Point Clear hat—hoping for a miracle.