Apparently when my dad and I sat there and watched all 19 interminable hours of the US Open yesterday (okay, more like six and a half...you say it was just three? Wow. Really?), I was witnessing the biggest choke in the history of all golf chokes. All I know was Phil Mickelson had to try to golf from some crabgrass next to the hospitality tent and his first shot went thonk! right back at him off a tree. It was probably the most interesting thing I'd ever seen happen in golf, which basically puts it at just slightly more interesting than watching my fingernails grow.
I've written about this before. I just don't "get" golf. I refuse to call it a sport. Even the apparently most exciting, unpredictable thing ever ever to happen, which is what I was told happened yesterday right before my eyes, managed to make me a little irritated that there wasn't any baseball on. And that was pretty much the extent of my emotion about it.
My dad, however, held out hope all afternoon that I'd come around. I watched some of the golf with him (I think it's the clapping that's annoying. That listless clapping just sums it all up for me) for as long as I could stand it and then retired to the other room to play around on the computer for a while. After an hour or so of this (which of course passed at blinding speed now that I wasn't watching golf), my dad started yelling for me to "get in here, it's getting exciting!" which prompted an eyeroll and, I'm sure, a pithy comment on my part, though I can't remember what exactly I said.
Almost immediately afterward, though, I sat back from the keyboard, looked around and thought, duh. Your father misses you.
It's hard to tell if watching baseball and football together has been the source of our newfound closeness in recent years, or a sign of it--it's probably a chicken and the egg thing. It isn't that I take it for granted--not at all--but yesterday I gave little thought to finding something else to do when the golf was on. Because, ugh. Golf.
But after I had that "duh" moment, I went back in. And, yeah, I chuckled when my dad told some guy named "Monty" that he was "going to have to go back to drinkin'." And I can't say I didn't get all warm and fuzzy when my dad sighed, "Oh, Phil."
Yeah, I'll admit it. I missed him, too.
"See?" he said later, a little too hopefully. "I got you looking at another sport."
"Let's not get carried away," I said.