Golf Fore the Good

How quickly the last year has passed. Now, once more over a championship weekend, we suffer again - and all too soon - the loss of a special member of our golfing community. George Medeiros, a dedicated golfer and longtime member of Dennis Pines, has passed away. He will be missed by many.

We are like family: we, the golfers who play, day after day. We are family by choice, not by chance or by blood; like a chosen partner or an adopted child, we are family by choice. Family made so by a special tie that binds, by our love for golf.

Perhaps not everyone at our course will recognize George’s name, but surely his face would be familiar to nearly all of the members who pass in and out of our clubhouse on a regular basis.

There was George on the putting green, club in hand, waiting to grab a game. There was George, zipping in or out of the golf course parking lot – often in his little sports car - coming from or headed to grab a game. Or there was George, stopping by the clubhouse for a quick hello, “in brown,” dropping in after work for a moment with friends. There was George, always, and always with a golf cap on and ready for a game.

In the eleven-plus years I have played out of Dennis Pines, he never failed to bid me hello or ask about my round or give a quick wave, each and every time I saw him. I was not privileged to know his home life, or close enough to know his first hand battles with the cancer that complicated his life - the cancer that he battled longer than most anyone imagined he would – or could. What I know most about George was this: George loved golf.

I played golf only a few times with George and each time was memorable and pleasurable. To play with him was to be immersed in the game. He was analytical but not overwhelming. He was enthusiastic and helpful but not overbearing. He loved the game, pure and simple.

There was a Thursday night, years ago, that stands out in my mind. It was Twilight League, when the league was still hopping and run by the pro shop; when we’d poke the score sheet back through the drawn gates of the pro shop long after dusk; when there was someone to do the paperwork for individual low gross, and low net, and all the little nuances that made us love the game even more.

Teams were chosen and lead by the low handicappers, and that evening George was my captain. Until that afternoon, I didn’t know there was a golfer alive that could overanalyze a shot more than my husband. The wind, the lie, the slope, the grain, the weather, the time of day; you name it, they’d factor it in. Somehow, George did it all without getting in your head, assisting in a decision but letting you play your own game.

Whatever he did that night worked for me. I was a high-teens handicapper at the time, shooting the nine of my life. On eight, I poked a massive drive, to a place I’ve still never been again. By this point George was nearly more into my round than I was. “What are you thinking? What’ll you hit? How far do you hit that club?” my captain queried. His excitement for me was palpable. He talked me through each and every shot of my final few holes.

On nine he turned to me and quietly said, “If you make this, you’ll get low gross.” My mind could not compute that, I thought he meant low net. “Low gross,” he repeated calmly and somehow transferred his composure to me.

I am not usually one to stay calm under pressure. I’ve blown more good rounds by thinking too much than anyone. I made the shot and he was right; low gross, however unlikely, was mine. I owe that one to George.

They say golf is a game for life and is certainly was for George. As his illness escalated, so did his handicap, but it did not diminish his enjoyment of the game. When he could no longer drive himself to the course, his regular playing companions made sure he had a ride and a match. Such is the beauty of golf; a few extra strokes here and there and we’ve still got a game.

In all the time I knew George, I never heard him complain about the nasty kick that life had served him. He fought his long battle with cancer privately and with dignity. Only once did I see him angry, and it was with true passion that he railed against the unfortunate circumstances that had undermined our golf course organization. Having served on the tournament committee, he wanted only the best for the golf course and for his friends. Everything else, it seemed, he took in stride.

There are many golfers who played regularly with George, and who shared many memories and matches and knew him much better than I. Still, I wish I could play one more round with him. In that regard, I am far from alone. He packed a good lot of golf into his last week of life, finding real enjoyment and true friendship on the course even at a very difficult time.

May the golf gods bless you, Georgie, and may your spirit fly high, where eagles and birdies soar.