By Alan Webber
Before he passed away, I played a lot of golf with my father. I’ll never forget the day we were playing the first hole at the Kankakee Country Club. I faced a ong putt. The ball tracked perfectly toward the cup but stopped a foot or two short. As I walked toward it, I looked over at him.
“Good?” I asked.
He smiled with that familiar twinkle in his eye. “Not bad.”
Like many fathers and sons, we occasionally communicated in different languages. I took his response as a rebuke. He wasn’t going to give me the second putt, as golfers often do. In my mind, “not bad” wasn’t exactly praise.
I remember thinking that if there was ever a time for a little enthusiasm, this was it. I’d hit exactly the putt I’d intended, straight at the cup from the opposite side of the green. It wasn’t luck. It wasn’t an accident. It was one of those shots golfers remember long after the scorecard has been thrown away. If only it had rolled another 18 inches.
Years later, it dawned on me that Dad wasn’t criticizing me at all. He was simply evaluating the shot for what it was. According to the rules of golf, the ball wasn’t in the hole yet. There was still work to do.
It wasn’t bad.
Perhaps that’s where most of life is lived, somewhere between making the putt and missing it.
Golf has a funny way of imitating life. On some extremely rare days, I make every putt I look at. Other days, I can’t make a 2-footer. (Yes, you read that right. Move on.) But most days fall somewhere in between.
The same is true of almost everything that matters. Marriage isn’t wonderful every day, nor is it miserable. Raising children isn’t one endless Disney movie, nor is it constant chaos.
Businesses have good months and lean months. Friendships ebb and flow. Some endure for a lifetime; others quietly come and go. Most of life simply unfolds in the ordinary moments.
Dad belonged to a generation that measured success differently. They had lived through the Great Depression, World War II, Korea and Vietnam. They believed work was honorable, promises mattered, debts were meant to be repaid and not every day had to be extraordinary to be worthwhile.
He wasn’t a man who handed out compliments easily. If something pleased him, you usually knew it because he nodded his head or gave the slightest smile. Looking back now, I realize praise wasn’t scarce because he lacked affection. It was scarce because, in his generation, words carried weight. When he spoke them, he meant them.
Somewhere along the way, we’ve convinced ourselves that everything must be either magnificent or catastrophic. I suspect the media have played a role in that, but that’s a rant for another day.
Every movie doesn’t have to be the greatest ever made or a complete waste of time. Every vacation doesn’t have to be unforgettable. Every president isn’t destined to save or destroy America.
Every disagreement now becomes a crisis. Every success demands a standing ovation, and every failure becomes a tragedy.
Life simply doesn’t work that way.
We’ve become uncomfortable with ordinary. Social media platforms teach us that every meal should be photographed, every child’s achievement deserves applause, every sunset should be breathtaking and every opinion must become an argument. Somewhere along the way, we’ve forgotten that ordinary isn’t something to escape. It’s where most of life actually happens.
The older I get, the more I appreciate ordinary days. They’re usually the ones that make up a good life.
Most days are just … not bad.
Looking back, I realize that Dad probably forgot that conversation before we reached the next tee. He’s been gone for more than 10 years now, but I’ve never forgotten it. Funny how two simple words spoken beside a golf green can stay with a son.
I used to think Dad was talking about a putt. Now I think he was talking about life. The older I get, the more I think he was right.
Alan Webber is the author of the Tim Harrison trilogy, “Whipping Post,” “Roll Me Away” and “The Unforgiven”; “Tales from the Whipping Post”