Chapter 27

FAMILY & PEERS

“You mean, on purpose? I don’t think so?” I said. “I’m not sure if I am healthy enough to try that, sweet cheeks.”

Pulling up and parking beside the Pro shop, we got out and found, of all people, Rory Sabatini, Matt Kuchar, and Kevin Streeland.

As we went through them shaking hands, Matt said, “Bubba and the guys sent us here as an apology to you. Did you really shoot a 30 on the South nine?”

“Yeah, we did,” I said as each of the guys gave Cory a kiss on her hand. Maybe these clods are OK, after all.

“I may be approaching this round today a little differently than I usually do, guys.”

“How’s that?” Matt said.

“It’s just a practice round, so, with Cory’s approval, I may try to break my own record for 18 holes.”

“Are you talking about the 49 you shot at TPC Blue Monster golf course in Doral, Florida?” Matt said.

“Yep,” I replied, being purposefully curt.

“But this course is a thousand yards longer, isn’t it?” Rory remarked.

“So what?” I said, “Actually this course is 1,300 yards longer. So, you all still want to play?”

“I wouldn’t miss this for the world,” Kevin said. The others agreed to as well.

We were given the OK to go out on the North Course (PAR 38 – 4,485 YARDS)

Hole Par Yards
#01 - Five - 647
“Born in Durban, South Africa, turned pro in 1998, after attending the University of Arizona, is 46-year-old Rory Sabatini!”

“Did she have to tell everybody my age?” Rory said, taking a practice swing.

“What you say is important, just as is what you don’t say?” my wife said.

He took his driver, and sailed it a little, still getting out there over 275 yards. “Not bad for an old man.”

“Next up, was born in Winfield, Illinois, turned pro in 2001, getting a Sociology Degree from Duke University, turning 42 later this year, Kevin Streelman.”

“Sociology?” Rory said.

I glared at him, and he shut up.

Kevin, not rattled, stroked it to the right of the fairway, past Rory’s ball. When he got back, Rory said, “Sorry Man. I have a blurting problem!”

“Among others,” Matt said.

“Third up was born in Winter Park, Florida, turned Pro in 2000, and got a Management Degree from Georgia Tech. Also turning 42 this year ... Matt Kuchar!”

We all went, “Kuch, Kuch, Kuch!”

He whipped a driver out past all of them, close to 300 yards out. When we practice, Cory now has one of those laser thingies to check distance.

“Lastly, my favorite golfer, born in Pahrump, Nevada in 1993, turned pro after taking his UNLV team to a team and personal championship. He’s still working on his college degree, in ‘Hitting the Ball Farther Than Anyone Else.’ Twenty-nine-year-old Johnny ‘Cannon’ Masters!”

“Great Big Bertha, please?” I asked for.

She handed it to me, and Matt walked up to ask, “Is that legal in tournaments, Cannon?”

“Yep,” I said, teeing up a ball, taking a practice swing and checking for a breeze.

I swung, rather hard, and since the hole is straight, everyone saw it hop over the fairway trap in front and roll over one hundred yards to leave me 140 yards to the green. Hard fairways are my friend!

“Damn!”

“There’s a Ryder Cup coming in September,” Matt said as we all started walking together.

“No thanks. I am not coming back to the tour until next January. I need to get my endurance back up. Who’s the USA Coach in 2022?” I said already knowing the answer.

“Tiger, and it’s at the Marco Simone Golf and Country Club in Rome, Italy,” Matt answered.

“I’ll have to wait for 2024, I guess.”

“That’s at the Black Course at Bethpage in New York,” Rory said.

When the hole was finished, I got my 3, Matt and Kev birdied, and Mr. Sabbatini got a par.

Hole Par Yards
#02 - Four - 535
I quietly asked Cory to track my game at both traditional scoring at JMI.

With the honors, I creamed the ball dead straight with a draw at the end. The guys came up short of me, but were talking still, having a blast.

They all got on in 2, while I had a 50-yard shot left to get close. Using the lob wedge, I hit the stick, but it rolled away about four feet to the right.

When the hole was finished, I got my 3, Matt and Rory birdied, and Kevin escaped with a par.

Hole Par Yards
#03 - Four - 393
Still with the honors and feeling fine, I asked for my four wood. I took a practice swing, Cory told me to swing a bit harder and it bounced thirty yards short rolled up on the green and stopped a foot short of the cup hole!

Matt said, “That was one helluva shot, Cannon. How many tournaments are you planning on playing next year, so I can schedule myself to play the others?”

“That sounds like something I would say?” Rory said cracking a big smile.

The rest of them didn’t even get on the green, but they all got pars to my two.

“Guys,” Cory said, “I typically announce the scores every three or so holes. Is that all right with everybody?”

“Go ahead,” or something like it came from all three guys.

“After three holes, Rory, Matt and Kevin are all at 2 under, with Cannon at 4 under. That puts him at a pace to possibly shoot a 28 on the North 9.”

Using my GBB, I got pars on all six of the remaining holes on the front nine. And Cory announced:

“After nine holes, Kevin has a 32, Rory a 31, Matt 30, and Johnny 34!”

“I have never in my life seen someone playing with the kind of focus I have seen on Johnny’s face today. He has no weak part of his game,” Rory said.

“My legs are a tad sore, guys, can we sit for about fifteen minutes before we go one, please?”

Cory skedaddled to the bathroom, bringing me back some hot dogs and a Coke Zero.

On the back (West Course Par 37 – 4,790 Yards), despite not playing it before, between the card distances and our observations out the hotel window, I bogied number 10, and shot par on the rest of the holes. every hole

“After eighteen holes,” my lovely wife said, “Matt shot a 69 or 8 under,” which got him a big slap on the back from all the guys, including me.

“Rory and Kevin both shot 70s, or 5 under,” she next announced and us guys were all smiles.

“Johnny ‘Cannon’ Masters, on a course with Par being 75, my husband had a 74. Not the greatest, but he is smiling because somebody finally created a challenging golf course.”

“I guess I am human after all,” I said taking off my glove happy that round of golf was done.

We were all high-fiving each other, until Cory said, “He also had a Stableford score of 6 points.”

She went up to each of the guys and asked to sign the scorecard, giving them a kiss on the cheek after they did.

We both mentioned how tired we were, so we walked back to the Hotel. We went straight to our rental, changed shoes and left the clubs inside, then walked up to go to our room on the 40^th floor.

I still had on my VW cap, and hadn’t emptied my pockets back at the car, so I put the contents on the rooms table in the cap, after entering the room.

Cory’s phone rang with Kelly’s number.

“Hello,” my wife said. “It’s for you, Bazooka!”

“Hey Kelly, yes, I just shot the worst round of golf since turning Pro back in late 2011.”

Before she could say anything, I added, “I am tired, and wish you were here to give me one of those great massages, but we’ll be home the day after tomorrow, OK?”

“Bye, Loverboy!” she said.

After taking back her phone, Cory took pictures of the front nine and back nine and sent them off to our wonderful friend.

She completely turned off both of our phones and we got undressed enough to slip under the covers of our queen bed.

Upon waking up, we took a shower and dressed for a late dinner.

We got lucky and found a flight at 8:15 the following morning, packed everything up, and headed home to Loveland. I doubt we will be calling it home much longer. Mom would pick the two of us up at the airport.

During the flight, I put my ear buds in and listened to some recorded music from the GSSAA we had heard about so much on our short trip to Vincennes. The little bit I had found out was it was started by now Multi-Billionaire Michael Thomas Jr.

The town was a nice clean place, and moving there seemed like a good idea, but I needed to talk to Kelly, our folks, and the new Commissioner of the PGA, retired 49-year old Joseph ‘Jay’ Monahan IV.

His election got some pushback, because many thought it was time for a non-USA person to be the Commissioner of a world-wide sport.

Commissioner Finchem, retired after the 2016 Tour Championship. He had spent 22 years as the PGA Tour’s Commissioner, having succeeded the very controversial Deane Beman back on June 1, 1994.

A brief history of the PGA Commissioner position:

First Commissioner
Joseph Charles Dey Jr.
B: Nov 17, 1907 - D: March 3, 1991
(Died of Cancer)
Alma mater - University of Pennsylvania
Served as Comm - 1969 to 1974
Member of World Golf Hall of Fame-1975
Joe Day Award given out annually since 1996 for meritorious service to the game of golf as a volunteer.

Second Commissioner
Deane R. Beman
B: April 22,1938 - D: April 29, 2020
(Died of congestive heart failure)
Alma mater - University of Maryland
Served as Comm - 1974 to 1994
Joined PGA Tour in 1967
Won four PGA Tour events
Member of World Golf Hall of Fame-2000
PGA Tour Lifetime Achievement Award - 2007
Introduced the Players Championship and developed the Tournament Players Club network of courses.
Formed the now PGA Tour Champions (formerly called Senior PGA Tour)

Third Commissioner
Timothy W. Finchem
B: April 19, 1947
Alma mater - University of Richmond and University of Virginia
Served as Comm – 1994 to 2017
Received 2001 Old Tom Morris Award
Although never a Pro Golfer he is a single figure handicap golfer

Fourth Commissioner
Joseph ‘Jay’ Monahan
B: May 7, 1971
Alma mater – Trinity College Connecticut
Served as Comm – Jan 2017 to current

Getting to the airport our kids came running to us, with me picking up Steven and Cory taking Kelly in her arms.

Coming up behind them were Ms. Tilghman and Julia and John. Everyone got a big hug.

“Are we moving to Vinnicents, daddy?” Steven asked.

“Maybe,” I said to him.

“Why?” little Kelly said.

“We’ll talk about this when we get home, OK?”

We went to get the luggage, with Steven trying to pick up my clubs, saying, “These are heavy, Dad.”

“Just wait until you are big enough, little man?”

They brought our van and we all climbed in, with Mom driving us to our home where our beds were waiting for us.

Dr. John even had trouble carrying my bag, but he got it inside, plus our bags, and Kelly took our kids home with her to give us a chance to get a nice nap before we were back in the day to day of life.

In real time, that meant a single day!

We woke up from the nice soothing restful nap.

After getting up, showering, and changing into fresh clothes, Cory and I went over to Kelly’s place to watch our kids all play together. it was nice to see Kelly and Julia, playing together, and my son getting along with his sister and his half-sister so well.

As of their last birthdays, Steven was 58 inches tall and 57 pounds, while Kelly was 40 inches tall and 33 pounds. I only hope that as they mature, that they enjoy being around each other as much as I have with my sister.

The idea of telling them about us often goes through my mind, but they seem so normal, telling them may cause long-term problems that neither myself nor Cory can foresee.

We have lost sleep over this issue, constantly looking for online articles that can guide us. Unfortunately, it appears that few incestuous couples have the guts to write about their trials and tribulations.

Cory has often wondered how many brothers and sisters there are with this situation. I have noticed, with no justification behind it, that an older brother may not have the same problem, but a younger brother might look at a sister as a target of his affection, especially if they grow up together in the same household.

The few articles I have found, involve the siblings not growing up together, but ‘finding each other’ at a later date in their lives.

“Daddy, can we go golfing together?” Steven said coming at me.

“Where are your clubs?” I asked him.

“Around here somewhere, Aunt Kelly, where are my clubs?”

Aunt Kelly?

“In my car, Stevie,” she said.

“How recently have you practiced, little man?” I asked.

“The day you left,” he said.

Kelly got me and turned me around and told me, “He played nine holes that day for the first time, and shot a 55, Cannon!”

“Really?”

“He just needs his dad to help him and he should be a breaking 50 rather soon,” she said.

“Can you watch our littlest while I take him out for nine holes, Lovergirl?”

“Sure, don’t be too tough on him. He’s only eight years old, OK?”

“Anything else I should know?”

“He goes by the nickname, Minion!”

That made me chuckle. That’s the name for a small cannon!

It was early afternoon, so we went to the Butte together, and I put him through practicing beforehand.

First thing I did was look at his grip, giving him a small suggestion. He already had a glove, just his size. Aunt Kelly has been quite the helper.

Coming off the 18^th green was Rickie Fowler, who I hadn’t seen in over five years.

“RICKIE!”

“CANNON!”

“Daddy, it is rude to yell on the golf course!”

“Steven, this is Rickie Fowler, we played in a few tournaments together.”

“Have you won anything important?” my son asked him.

Before I could chastise him, Rickie offered, “Not nearly as much as your dad has. He hits the ball so far that nobody else won a tournament that your Dad entered.”

“That’s an exaggeration, Howitzer!” forgetting about Minion completely.

“He has a nickname, already?”

“Apparently so, Rickie,” I said getting a look from Cory.

Steven grabbed his seven iron and began to do the same routine I used to do. After a bit, he said, “Can I hit some balls now, Dad?”

“Go for it,” I said, standing back alongside Rickie.

He’s got a more upright carriage than I do, and his swing looked good and the ball went to the 150-yard marker.

“Geez,” Rickie said.

He hit another one and the ball went 40 yards, so I went to him and said, “Do you know what you did wrong on that swing, Howitzer?”

“I lifted my head up before I made contact with the ball, Dad. I must be too eager to see where my ball goes.”

“We all do that at some point, try again?”

He did, and it went well.

So, Rickie couldn’t hear, I got behind my son and whispered in his ear, then stepped away. He hit it passed the marker, and the next three shots as well.

I suggested he move to his five iron, and he hit it even better. Eventually, he got to his driver, and I put it on a tee for him. There was a small group back with Rickie all watching him.

“It’s OK, Steven, just like I told you, your grandpa used to say, ‘No Mercy,’ so think of that, swing easy and follow through?”

He addressed the ball, did a little shimmy with his hips and stroked it. It went flying past the 200-yard marker.

“Howitzer, Howitzer, Howitzer!” the crowd behind him said.

“That was the best I ever hit the ball, Dad. Wow!”

“You will be better than me, before you know it, Howitzer!” I said picking him up and giving him a hug.

“Dad, put me down, please?”

I did, and said, “Sorry, hit another one for the people, why don’t you, and show them how good you are.”

After setting him up with another ball on a tee, he put it past the 200-yard marker, making me very proud.

I took the driver from him, and told him to practice more, and we would be back early to play at least nine, if not a full eighteen in the morning.

Forty-five minutes later, I got his clubs and we walked into the pro shop asking to play early in the morning as a twosome.

On our way to the car, I said, “Mom can teach Kelly how to read greens, and she can become your caddy until your sister is old enough, OK?”

“I love you, Daddy ... I’m sorry, I got mad.”

“Emotions are tough. You need to learn how to keep from being too happy or too sad, and not get angry. It took me a while, until I learned how to focus my sadness and anger by trying to hit the ball too hard. That caused my back and shoulder issues. If you can always practice swinging both as a lefty and as a righty, it might not happen to you.”

“I’ll bet I can break one hundred for eighteen holes, with the help you gave me today.”

“My guess is that by the end of summer, you will be breaking ninety.”

“Really? That’s so cool!”

We were in the car and heading home. I was so proud of how well he took instruction.

The moment I stopped in front of Ms. Tilghman’s place, he got out, giving his little sister a big hug, followed by giving Julia, her best friend, a slightly less intense hug.

Oh, Boy!

He said goodbye, and took his little sister by the hand, putting her in the back seat, getting inside next to her. They started talking a mile a minute while I took them home.

I see no reason to say anything to either of them, about Cory and me. They needed to have a chance to grow up and become great friends like we have.

Arriving home, Steven asked, “Can we keep my clubs in the van, Dad?”

“Sure, they are plenty safe in here.”

“Oh, Dad, I prefer Howitzer to Minion as a nickname.”

“No problem, Steven. I didn’t have much say-so in being called ‘Cannon.’ It was a Professional Golf Teacher named Rick Smith that first said it.”

“Cool!”

The next morning, we went back out, and with his mother’s green-reading skills while driving in a cart with Steven’s little sister Kelly being his unofficial caddy.

Our first official family golf outing together!

I played alongside him, encouraging him with every shot he took.

His biggest flaw was learning how to hit an easy shot, everything was ‘all out’ with him. His grip, stance, and address, were all very good, for a tall seven-year-old. He appears to be headed towards being taller than I am. Lucky boy!

Three holes in, I was at par, and he was only four over, with his short game his only real issue (From about 80 yards away from the green).

Six holes in, I went to two under and Steven was still only five over.

After nine, the girls needed a potty break, who knew?

Kelly went over to her big brother and hugged him, saying, “You are really doing great today, Howitzer. I can’t wait to be your official caddy in a real tournament. They have Junior Tournaments at the Butte, don’t they Daddy?”

I looked up and saw my wife grinning at me.

“I think they do, Kelly,” I said.

Cory announced, “After nine holes, Cannon Masters is four under, and Howitzer is at ten over, his best nine holes ever. I figured that The Howitzer’s handicap would likely be between 26 and 33, meaning he, with the handicap strokes, could be a net eight under.”

“Cool,” was all he had to say.

With all of that stroking of his ego, we began our back nine at Marianna Butte.

Hole 10, 401 yards, Par 4
I gave him honors, and he was handed his driver by his sister, and he said, “Thanks, Sis,” took it and hit the shot over 200 yards.

He would know if I was not trying, so I put a hard Bertha shot just short of the green.

“Great shot, Dad,” he said giving me a high five.

We got in the cart, and he said to me, “That was my longest shot ever!”

“I should have made the green, myself,” I said.

“You can’t be great every day, just try your very best, Dad!”

“That’s exactly right, Steven, just try your best,” I said as we drove the carts to where his shot had landed.

“What iron are you going to use?” I asked him.

“My two iron,” he said. “It’s 165 yards to the middle of the green.”

“OK, No Mercy!”

He giggled, set up and hit a great shot to the very back of the green. Applause came from the girl’s cart.

“I am walking to the green Dad, if that’s OK?”

“Sure, I’ll follow you, get your putter now.”