The Front Row with MARK NELKE June 19, 2011

I hadn't checked in with dad for a while, but I stopped by to see him the other day. I figured I could, since I had recently done my chores - which included mowing the lawn.

(I figured he would ask.)

So I stopped by the place where he has resided the past 30 years and, fortunately, they had recently mowed the lawn there as well. I brushed a few blades of grass off his headstone, as well as a few off of mom's, who resided nearby. She, too, has been there far too long.

Many years ago, dad and I and my older brother Steve used to play golf on Sunday mornings. Steve pretty much taught himself how to play golf, and has been a golf professional for a good quarter of a century. But even before that, one of his greatest teaching jobs was getting dad, an avid slicer, to hit the ball straight.

(Steve also gives occasional tips to dad's other golf-playing son. However, me being either too stubborn or simply incapable of adapting to such instruction, I still look like someone trying to hack away tall grass with a sythe. Occasionally I'll hit a shot that looks like something you might see on TV, but after the other shots, to his credit he keeps any chuckling or snide thoughts to himself.)

ANYWAY, ON Father's Day often times we would get up early and play a quick nine holes wherever we lived at the time - in Salem or Salt Lake City or Spokane. That was back when most people actually walked the golf courses they played - Steve and I carrying our bags, dad with a pull cart full of Kroydon irons and persimmon woods.

Then we'd go home, eat lunch and watch the final round of the U.S. Open. Dad and I, in particular, would watch many of the world's best golfers struggle to break par, have to hack it out of the rough and shoot bogeys and double bogeys and appear utterly frustrated - and suddenly we didn't feel so bad about the round we just played.

Dad: So, did Tiger ever break Jack’s record?

Me: Well, dad, a strange thing happened along the way to Tiger’s quest to break Jack Nicklaus’ record of 18 majors won. He injured his knee and missed some time, and then it came out that he had some women all over the country that he was seeing — which is bad enough, except that he was also married at the time. So he’s stuck on 14 majors, perhaps for good.

Dad: Sounds like some kind of soap opera. I presume he’s not married anymore?

Me: Yeah. I first read about it on the computer. Some website broke the news, and then his wife figured it out, and then all hell broke loose.

Dad: The computer?

Me: Yeah, it’s really become popular the past few decades. You’d even like it. It’s got that solitaire game that you used to play on the dining room table, shuffling the deck and spreading the cards out all over where you just ate. Nowadays, you could just click on a few icons and play a few hands on the computer in between surfing the web.

Dad: Surfing the what?

Me: Well, maybe not. You seemed to like the old-fashioned way, shuffling the cards, then doing that “bridge” thing that you did with the deck. I tried it once, and sent the cards flying all over the dining room. Never again.

Dad: So, did Pete Rose ever get into the Hall of Fame?

Me: I know he was your favorite baseball player, but no, he’s still banned from the sport for betting on baseball in the 1980s. Every now and then he’ll show up somewhere and sign things, but that’s about it. And even the Reds haven’t done all that much since the Big Red Machine days of the ’70s.

By that point, dad fell silent. I’m guessing he must have fallen asleep.

Just like he used to in the old days, in his favorite chair, on Sunday afternoons.

Mark Nelke is sports editor of The Press. He can be reached at 664-8176, Ext. 2019, or via email at [email protected].