Grandpa's Dream Vacation

Grandpa’s Dream Vacation

by

Burt Sage

It’s a bright and warm (for February) afternoon and the Haskell foursome of Dad, my golf professional brother Tim, my ten year old son Jim, and I have finished a rare round of golf together at the Eagle Valley Country Club. Tim has missed a tournament cut down south and come home. He wouldn’t miss the opportunity of a family round—Haskell’s just didn’t do that. Grandpa’s here, too, in his custom golf cart. But he doesn’t play anymore; he rides along and applauds as we play.

“When you can’t hit your drive farther than you used to hit your seven iron, it’s time to hang it up,” Grandpa always says. He uses a walker now, but his mind is as sharp as his putting used to be.

We’ve settled around a table on the club veranda. Tim is calculating his greens in regulation, fairways hit, and par saves statistics as part of his record keeping. Dad and I are coaching Jim on a swing flaw that we’ve noticed. And Grandpa is quietly sipping his Arnold Palmer, a refreshing combination of iced tea and lemonade named after his favorite golfer.

“You know what?” Dad says after finishing with Jim. “You know what we’ve never done as a family? We’ve never taken a golf vacation together.”

We all look at him kind of strange. “What do you think today was?” I ask. “Whenever we’re all together on a golf course, it’s a vacation.”

“Of course all of us being together is great,” Dad says. “But I mean something really special.”

“Knowing you, you already have something in mind,” I say. “So, let’s have it. What’s this golf vacation you want us to take?”

Dad smiles. “You know me better than I thought you did,” he says. “Two months from now is the Bay Hill Classic in Orlando, Florida. Disney World is there, too. I want us to fly down there for a week. We’ll spend the first five days enjoying the Disney resort and playing their golf courses. But for the weekend, we’ll get passes to the tournament. All the big names will be there—Arnie, Gary, Lee, Jack. We watch them on TV all the time. It would be great to actually see them in person.”

“Won’t work,” Grandpa says. “They don’t allow spectator golf carts at a tournament, so I’d have to use my walker. I’d love to give it a try, but thirty-six holes in two days with my walker? That’s way too much moving around for me. You guys go. I’ll get to hear your stories.”

Almost in unison, the rest of us say, loudly, “Nonsense!”

“We’d never do something like that without you,” Dad says. “You have two more-than-able grandsons who’ll be happy to wheel you around in your wheelchair. If I remember correctly you’ve never actually been to a tour event. It’s about time!”

Grandpa looks at me and Tim, and we’re nodding appropriately. “Well,” Grandpa admits, “It would be nice.”

Dad is really good at delegating, so he assigns me to take care of all the details. And I relish the opportunity. I’ll make it unforgettable.

The Haskell women are more than happy to see the five of us away on our own for a week. Grandma even corners me. “Now you take good care of your Grandpa,” she says. “I want him back safe and sound, you hear?”

“Of course,” I say.

We’ll fly in on Sunday and get settled. Monday we’ll see as much of the Disney theme park as we can. But the next four days it’s golf. Tuesday it’s the Palm course, Wednesday it’s the Magnolia course, Thursday it’s the Lake Buena Vista Course, and Friday it’s the Oak Trail course. We’ll pay for preferred tee times—teeing off just after nine to avoid the late afternoon showers that are prevalent some afternoons.

For Saturday and Sunday we’ll get passes to the Bay Hill Classic. We’ll follow our favorite golfers around the course. The next day we’ll fly home.

Over the next eight weeks Dad’s as excited about golf as I’ve ever seen him. He’s been playing now for some 40 years, yet he’s acting like he just discovered the game. “I’m going to have at least one round in the 70’s,” he boasts.

Then Tim says, “All your rounds will be in the 70’s. That’s the usual temperature there that time of year.”

We all groan. We’ve heard that joke dozens of times.

“You know what I mean,” Dad says. “I want a score in the 70’s.”

“In your dreams, Dad,” I say. “But I’ll be rooting for you. I’d like to have a score like that too.”

“And maybe, just maybe, I’ll get a hole in one,” Dad adds. “Never had one. At my age, I’m running out of time.”

We all smile. “Yes, Dad, that would indeed be nice,” I say.

I’ve never seen a plan come to fruition as well as this one. The flights are on time. The rental car holds all five of us comfortably and has plenty of room for our luggage, our clubs, and Grandpa’s wheelchair. The hotel reservations are in order and the rooms are comfortable. Even the weather cooperates with balmy upper seventy degree highs each day.

Dad gets his round in the seventy’s, shooting 78 the final day at Oak Trail. But no hole-in-one.

It’s Saturday morning. Dad’s driving us to the Bay Hill Country Club for the tournament when I spy a long line of cars ahead of us. “That’s the line to the parking lot for people attending the tournament,” I say. “We’ll catch a bus from there over to the course. It’s a long line—I wonder how long we’ll have to wait to park.”

But instead of joining the line, Dad moves over a lane to his left and passes the line of cars.

“Dad, you just missed the parking lot line,” I shout. “Turn around.”

Dad just drives on.

“Dad…” I start to say, but ahead of us is the main entrance to the Bay Hill Club. Dad pulls in, and stops beside the two men directing traffic at the entrance. He pulls a paper from his shirt pocket and shows it to the men. To my amazement, they wave us in.

There are two more men at the main club parking lot. Dad shows these men the same paper, and they point to an empty parking spot down by the cart barn.

Dad parks the car in the designated spot, and as we get out of the car, a young man pulls up in a golf cart. Taped to the hood of the cart is a sign that reads ‘Reserved for Ed Haskell’.

Stunned, I realize “That’s for Grandpa? How the hell is this happening? I didn’t arrange for this.”

“Any place we can’t go?” I hear Dad ask the young man.

“Just stay outside the ropes,” the young man says.

“Got it,” Dad says.

I corner Dad, but before I can say anything he says, “Not now.”

All five of us had planned to follow Jack Nicklaus today. But with Grandpa in a cart, we make other plans. Dad and Grandpa will follow Jack. I thought Tim and I would be wheeling Grandpa and walking with Dad. But not now. “I’m going to walk with my buddy Walt,” Tim says. “He’s tied for like sixty-fourth and I want to give him some moral support.”

“Tom Watson is leading,” I say. “Jim and I are going to follow him.”

None of us will follow Arnold Palmer today. We’re going to do that tomorrow.

After the last group finishes the eighteenth hole we meet at the car for the trip back to the hotel. We’ve all got great stories to tell, and we have a great dinner. But despite all the laughing and sharing of experiences, I still wonder how we got that parking spot and how Grandpa got that cart. That clearly wasn’t in my plan. I corner Dad again to ask about the parking and the golf cart, but he only smiles and says, “Glad you’re having a good time.”

The trip to the course the following morning goes exactly like the trip we took the day before. We drive up to the main entrance of the club and the guards let us in. We have the same parking spot, and the same young man arrives with a cart for Grandpa.

Today we’re all going to follow Arnold Palmer. As we expected, Arnie’s Army, golfers who root for Arnie and follow him around the course, has shown up in large numbers. For this day we, of course, are part of the army.

Arnie is six shots off the lead when he tees off, tied for fifteenth at eight under par. Tom Watson is leading at fourteen under par. Fortunately, even though the throng following Arnie is four or five persons deep, we have an advantage. We can stand on Grandpa’s cart and get a good look at the action.

Over Arnie’s first nine holes, the leaders struggle. The leading score is still fourteen under par. Arnie has picked up a couple of birdies, and is now tied for eighth at ten under par.

Arnie plays well on the back nine, but his putts aren’t dropping. Along with his growing army, we groan at each miss.

By the time we reach the seventeenth green, the army is ten people deep around the green. Arnie has a fifteen footer for a birdie, and once again it rolls past the cup. Arnie is still at ten under, and Tom Watson is still leading at fourteen under. Doesn’t look like Arnie’s going to win today.

As we’re making our way to the eighteenth tee, I hear a loud voice shouting “Paging Ed Haskell, Paging Ed Haskell.”

Dad shouts back, “Over here,” pointing to Grandpa and his cart. There is a commotion off to my left and a gap opens up in the crowd. I can’t believe my eyes. Arnold Palmer is walking directly towards us, stopping beside Grandpa’s cart.

“Ed Haskell?” Arnie asks.

“That’s me,” Grandpa says.

“Very pleased to meet you, sir,” Arnie says. “I understand that you’re kind of a legend at Eagle Valley.”

“Don’t know about that,” Grandpa says, modestly.

“You won the club championship twelve times, didn’t you?”

“Well, yes, I did,” Grandpa says.

“Look,” Arnie says, “I want you and your boys to walk with me down this last fairway.”

“You mean inside the ropes?” I ask, incredulous.

Arnie looks at me and nods. “Yes, inside the ropes.”

The crowd parts again and Arnie, along with the five of us, goes over to the eighteenth tee. We’re no more than twenty feet away from Arnie and his group as they tee off.

I’m in total shock. This is fantastic, but it’s not part of my plan.

After Arnie tees off, he hands his driver to his caddy and walks over to Grandpa’s cart and they head off down the fairway together.

“How long have you been playing golf?” Arnie asks Grandpa.

“Longer than you’ve been alive,” Grandpa answers.

Arnie laughs. “That long, eh?.”

Then Arnie says, “You should be really proud of your boys. I hear they have won club championships as well.”

“They have,” Grandpa answers, “And Tim is on the tour. He didn’t qualify for this event so he’s walking with us.”

By now we’ve reached Arnie’s ball in the fairway. I know Tim is watching very closely as Arnie prepares for his approach. The shot is typical Arnie. One bounce and stop, ten feet to the left of the cup.

Arnie hands his club to his caddy and joins Grandpa again. The noise from the crowd is getting louder now, but I can still hear Arnie talk to Grandpa.

“Tell me about your most memorable shot,” Arnie says.

Grandpa beams. “I holed out from the fairway on the final hole of the club championship. We were tied, and my opponent had just hit his approach to two feet. I’m sure he was already lifting the trophy in his mind when he sees my shot roll in.”

“Beautiful,” Arnie says.

I can’t hear any more of their conversation because we are approaching the green and the applause is deafening.

Arnie takes us to a spot just behind the green where we have an unimpeded view of the green. “Wait here,” he says. “I’ll be right back.”

Arnie makes his putt for a birdie, but it’s too little too late. He finishes at eleven under, three shots behind the tournament leader.

After sinking his putt, Arnie comes back over to Grandpa with his golf ball in his hand. He takes a Sharpie from his pocket and signs the ball and hands it to Grandpa. “Thank you for joining me today,” he says.

He shakes hands with all of us, with me being last. As he shakes my hand, I say “This was incredibly kind of you.”

Arnie just smiles and says, “It was my pleasure.” And he walks away.

We stay to watch the final groups finish. Tom Watson wins at fourteen under par. Arnie finishes tied for eighth at eleven under.

As we walk back to our car I am still in shock over the events of the last two days, especially the last two hours. I didn’t plan any of this. How is it happening? I did plan for a day of watching the final round of a PGA tournament. And for watching our favorite golfers in person. But for walking with one of them, inside the ropes, down the eighteenth fairway on the last day of a tour event???

We’re all in the car, ready to head back to the hotel. Grandpa is the first one to speak. “I don’t have a clue as to how you did it, and I will never be able to thank you enough. Going down the fairway inside the ropes talking with Arnold Palmer at a PGA tour event will be the highlight of my life.” Looking at me he says, “You were responsible for all the details. How did you do it?”

“I don’t deserve any credit,” I say. “I made some flight and hotel arrangements, and arranged for some tee times. But I had nothing to do with the parking spot and the cart and the conversation with Arnie. It must have been Tim. He’s on the tour. He would know how to get that done.”

“Yeah, I’m on the tour,” Tim says. “But there’s no way I could get that done. That would take infinitely more pull than I’ve got.”

All eyes shift to Dad. He finally opens up. “This is all Grandma’s doing,” he says.

“Grandma?” Grandpa exclaims. “Grandma?”

“Yes, Grandma,” Dad says to Grandpa. “This was her idea right from the beginning. She asked me to suggest the golf vacation. She’s been trying for years to do something special for you. She remembers all the times you said you wished you could walk down the fairway with a pro inside the ropes at a tournament. To make this happen, she pulled some strings in places where I didn’t know there were strings that could be pulled.”

Grandpa just bowed his head. It’s the first time I’ve ever seen him cry. Now I know why Dad didn’t tell me anything. For it to work, he had to be the only one who knew. It had to be a surprise for everyone else. I thought back about all the unexpected changes to my plans that made this vacation so memorable.

As we drive back to the hotel, I relive these last two days. “There’s only one way this could happen,” I say to myself. “Grandma must have gotten to Arnie. Nobody can say ‘No’ to Grandma.”