"ON HALLOWED GROUND"

My father was an accomplished amateur athlete, who taught his children timeless lessons about sports that went beyond playing games or being a fan.

“ON HALLOWED GROUND”

My father was an accomplished amateur athlete, who taught his children timeless lessons about sports that went beyond playing games or being a fan. He continued teaching us until the very end, and his legacy endures.

My closest friends say if you substitute golf for trout fishing, our family story would read like the novel “A River Runs Through It.” For 40-plus years Dad was my coach and playing partner. In the fall of 2000 we lost him to lymphoma. On his last day I joked that we had a tee time, and he smiled weakly. If only he could have willed himself onto those emerald links because that was hallowed ground for Don Massé, a low-handicapper who introduced his family to the game of golf.

I was hooked the first time Dad let me clean his clubs, those magic irons and woods that sent brilliant white balls into a deep blue sky. My lessons began early, but I wasn’t allowed to play on a full-length course until I was ready in his eyes. That memorable day came in June 1964, when I was 11 and a newly minted graduate of Harrison Avenue School. We played nine holes at Maple Moor G.C. in White Plains, N.Y. I don’t recall my score, but I remember when he smiled, patted me on the shoulder or offered his signature “OK” sign when I hit a good shot.

In May 2000, shortly after Dad was diagnosed with lymphoma, he received an  encouraging phone call from the great Jack Nicklaus, a fellow Ohio native and also a devoted father of four sons and a daughter. Dad and Jack spoke of golf, family and the fighting spirit, which my father epitomized throughout his battle with cancer.

Even when he was undergoing chemotherapy, Dad insisted on playing golf with my brother Drew and me. He would wait until his steroids kicked in, granting him a brief boost of strength and energy. The last awe-inspiring shot I ever saw my 80-year-old father make was with a 3-wood. The ball carried uphill more than 150 yards from fairway to green. His smooth Sam Snead swing remarkably unchanged by age or illness. Dad raised his club in triumph, wearing a smile for all seasons, standing on hallowed ground.

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