Being on that Golf Course Close to G-d

Photo by Gerrie van der Walt on Unsplash

Sometimes our holiest of holy moments (in life) come from the most unlikely life experiences. When we least expect it. Especially when a belligerent new client with a dangerous drinking problem experiences the most profound, life changing epiphany of his life right before my eyes. And all I did was “see” his true nature underneath the toxic sludge of painful memories, heartbreak, and loneliness.

I get a call from a colleague. “It’ll be a tough case,” he warns. The referral: a 60 year-old wealthy golf course owner who drinks too much — so much that his wife left him. His grown-up children are concerned about his health. He recently damaged his ACL and lower back from falling onto a glass coffee table while in a drunken stupor. My colleague thinks I am just what he needs.

“I don’t know what he needs,” I say, half-joking, half-serious. But I need the money. The appointment is arranged.

Our first session will be at his office. What could go wrong? I take the short drive to a converted Victorian house on the golf course property. Acres of wardrobe-challenged retired men driving too slow in golf carts. Everybody looks like Garrison Keillor. I grab my laser bag from the trunk and approach the office.

A 1980s plastic Nutone intercom is attached to the iron gate. I press the button. Beep__________ (pause)____________ beep ___________(pause) buzzes through the tiny speaker.

A voice answers. “How can I help you?”

“I’m Sam Led, to see Mr. McKesson*.”

A distorted buzzing crackles from the intercom followed by a clickkkkkkkk. Pushing open the gate I enter.

The tiny waiting room smells like ancient primeval old-growth Pacific Northwest forest. The carpeting is low pile and cheap. Gold golf trophies stand protected inside a dark mahogany wall unit. I place my laser bag down.

Dude, you’re in over your head. I want to walk out. But I am here, for a reason. So I wait. Seconds turn into minutes. 10 minutes becomes 30. My mind goes wild. Another wasted drive. Wasted gas. Wasted time. Wasted hope.

At that moment a door is hurled open. A large man in a blue blazer, grey slacks, and an oversized yellow polo shirt storms out of his office. The first thing I notice are the broken capillaries on his nose and face, the telltale sign of decades of alcohol abuse.

“I told Jeff* (my colleague and referral source) I didn’t want to see you!” the man yells.

His speech slurs. I stand and look him in the eyes.

“Well, I’m here,” I say, smiling. “We both are. Why don’t I set up my laser in your office? We can talk about anything. Anything you want. I’m all ears. I hear you played quite a few golf tournaments in Scotland. I’d love to hear about it.”

The big man is too stunned to speak. Nobody has been interested in his life in years. Not even his kids.

Looking me up and down, he smiles. The kind of smile that’s more an acknowledgement of respect; the kind you get after two alpha males duke it out and one knocks the other to the ground. Point, Sam, I think.

“Let’s go then,” he snaps.

McKesson* plops down behind his desk. His swollen fat index finger points to an old photo of him playing golf on a course in the Highlands of Northern Scotland.

“Miles and miles of natural green,” he boasts. “The closest place to God, for me,” he says to me coldly.

“Tell me what it’s like, being on that golf course close to God,” I calmly ask.

A perfect silence. What happens next, I can’t believe. Tears well up, and moisten the broken capillaries of his cheeks.

Noticing a Kleenex box on the side table by my chair I hand it to him. Point two, Sam. This hulking alpha male of a businessman is crying in front of me. I picture him alone on that golf green in the Scottish Highlands, with only a stranger to share this beautiful memory.

“So, Sam,” he says, his voice cracking, “when can we schedule our next session?” Now I am looking at him like I have seen a ghost.

“How about Friday at 11:30?” I respond awkwardly, stumbling to find my day planner. “And by the way, this work does not come cheap,” I state with resolve, half-serious, half-jokingly. “You can write me a check for this session, but I prefer to be paid on monthly retainer.”

That same smile again from McKesson*. “Tell my secretary what I owe you for the month. See you next week. Now get out of my office,“ he says, with a lighthearted chuckle. I laugh and walk out.

*Names, locations, etc, have been changed to protect anonymity.