Dreams from my Father

One Daughter's Tale of Coming of Age on the Course

by Naimah Jabali-Nash

The year was 1996. It was the eighteenth hole at the Massanutten Resort’s Mountain Greens Golf Course, and my turn to putt. I went through my pre-shot routine as always—read the break, took a few practice strokes, and envisioned the ball falling into the hole.  My ball jumped off the putter, riding the left-to-right break over the bent grass green and finally into the hole.  My father and brothers cheered as I relished in my first birdie. That was the last time I remember playing golf with my father.  I was seven-years-old when my father first took me to Langston Golf Course in Washington, DC.  I can still remember the overwhelming excitement as he walked my older brother and I to the driving range where we began our first of many summers at the local junior golf camp, Mason’s Army.  I was now a part of a “secret club” that only included my father, my two brothers and I— the youngest of seven children and the only girl in my family to play golf. 

Degenerative arthritis in both of my father’s hips prevented him from playing the game for the next ten years.  “I played through you,” he told me recently. Even more memorable than my father physically playing a round of golf with me, were the rides home after a round or a tournament.  We would go over every hole, every shot and every thought to see where I lost strokes, where I excelled and where I needed to improve.  It was here that my father would express his elaborate dreams for my brother and I.  On these rides home, my father’s hard demeanor seemed to fade away as we would laugh, joke and discuss the day’s events.  During those moments my father evolved into someone who I not only revered, but also related to.  He emphasized how blessed and grateful he was to share each experience with us—practicing, traveling, and tournaments. 

“The understanding I had was that golf would give us a chance to hang out...not so much the instruction, but the quality time. That’s what’s so great about golf—getting to know you better,” he insisted.  Thanks to the game and the bond it allowed us to forge, whenever my brother and I were on the practice range it always felt as though my father was playing right along with us, despite his physical limitations. I took the memories and jokes that my father and I shared in moments like those for granted until he revealed to my brother and I that he did not have the same type of open relationship with his father.  My father longed to play golf with his father but never had the chance. 

My relationship with my father enabled me to grow as a golfer and, even more critically, as a woman.  He was there for me when I needed someone to turn to, but still gave me the room to learn lessons on my own.  “Just being there for support, but still allowing you to make your own way...it was never about forcing you to be other than what you needed to be,” was his philosophy.  My parents made lots of sacrifices, whether waking up at six-o’clock in the morning to take me to the golf course for practice, or driving to tournaments many hours away so that my brother and I could get more exposure.  Nothing came easy and we learned to work hard for every accolade and accomplishment. 

As a coach my father demonstrated healthy doses of “tough love.” When I would look up from the green, toward my father on the cart path, there was rarely any need for words. He had a habit of disappearing to watch my brother if I was not playing well, and reappearing when I needed him most. 
“A lot of times you did better when I wasn’t there, you were able to take the situation to a higher level to prove your ability to stand on your own,” he’s said. “Some of my most memorable moments were being able to see how you carried yourself, how you communicated with the officials and your peers...seeing you grow as a young lady and knowing what you had to know in order to compete.”

While growing up my parents appeared flawless and they seemed to have answers to my every question. But through golf one’s flaws have a way of rising to the surface, no matter how great a parent. Golf taught my father and I to accept each other’s flaws in a way that no other sport could. And in that sense it became so much more than just a game. After fifteen years of playing with my father at my side, I’m glad he’s lost some of the invincibility I associated with him as a child. It’s allowed me to see a bit more of myself in him—flaws and all. Invincible or not, there’s no question that he’s always been a great father and coach. But it was the game of golf that helped to crystallize our relationship as great friends.