My Old Boss

I’ve had 19 supervisors and two wives since leaving college but there is only one I refer
to as “my old boss.” Interestingly, the only really good bosses I’ve had in 35 years have
all been golfers.

The best of the lot was a North Carolina country boy named Bill Craig.
Honest, forthright and eminently fair, Bill hated pretense and loved the lessons taught by the links.

We hooked up at a Virginia bank back in the mid-70s at a time when he was building a terrific marketing organization. While tennis was the game of choice for our departmental outings, he never took any of us to the golf course where then as now he regularly shot 78 or better.

After I left the bank we lost touch. Back then I was eager to climb the corporate ladder. Convinced the bank could be best served by combining my public relations department with the community relations function, I opined that I should run them both. Bill knew my aspirations and at my next annual review told me that while the concept was eminently sound there was “no way in hell” the powers that be were going to move aside an ailing, past-his-prime Old Boy for a rising professional like me. He did, however, secure upward mobility for me outside the bank. The fact that my new supervisor ranks as the worst I ever had has never diminished my admiration for Bill’s personal and professional flair.

Eighteen months ago I decided to look him up. It was one of those decisions made cutting the grass. Running the mower and ruminating on “bosses I have known” I decided to say “thank you” in some formal way. And while I hadn’t seen him in 10 years, I knew two things: where to find him and that he’d never turn down a round, especially if it were on a course he’d never played.

The reunion came in the fall of 2002 and the venue of choice was the Golden Horseshoe Green Course in Williamsburg, a layout I had played once – very badly – on a corporate outing. Bill offered to drive his Cadillac, the one with the license plate 3HOLZN1. Ever the gamer his first question going down the Interstate was “What’s your handicap, Mike?”

Playing 20 rounds per year on public courses hardly qualifies me for a handicap. And while 95 was my average score, the 106 I’d carved out a month before became the basis for a friendly wager. We’re talking dollar Nassau here so you know the stakes weren’t very high. With my stroke a hole, plus one each for the par 5‘s and the two toughest par 4’s on both sides, I figured if I played within myself I’d have a chance.

We lucked into a twilight rate on an absolutely delightful September afternoon. Best of all the entire course was empty. We expected Bill to be low gross, so armed with no pressure, no expectations and an ample handicap I was as relaxed as I could be. In The Elements of Scoring Ray Floyd calls swinging easily, avoiding high-risk shots and taking what the course gives you “playing comfortable.” That was me. I was hot out of the gate winning four of the first six holes. That’s when the grumbling started and when I made the turn in 46 I thought I heard my veracity being questioned.

What you have to know about Bill is that he invariably conferred the benefit of the doubt. He always listened carefully and weighed options before rendering judgment. He could also administer justice and did not suffer fools lightly. For example, when a department member took a job out of state and left a massage parlor debt on a company charge card Bill got the new employer involved in the dead reckoning. Another time he terminated a bitter departmental feud over a Christmas party site. I still have the withering memo about our lack of goodwill. And I presume the Salvation Army put our party fund to good use.

But that was then. On this day I was rolling despite his annoying habit of chipping in from off the green. The conversation wandered from old times, to where are they now to his grandchildren, retirement and our new wives. I’m still trying to figure out why my palms didn’t get sweaty or I didn’t duck hook a drive. Most likely because the match play format suited me fine. Raymundo would have been proud. I was playing one shot at a time with no regard for my overall score. As we wound our way into the gloaming I found myself thinking “I’ve never had a better time on a golf course.”

Unless it was during the second match on his home tract in mid-November. After a lengthy frost delay and an animated discussion about my need for the same number of strokes as in September we both blasted (for us) impressive drives into the bright, brisk morning. I’ve had real trouble with Willow Oaks Country Club in the past, but not this day. I won the first six holes en route to a 47-43-90 round. Bill was 43-39-82.

Over some libation and clam chowder he snatched away the score card, wrote “No Two- Fers EVER” and signed it as boldly as John Hancock once did long ago. What’s a fellow to do? My first act was to grab the two dollars in the middle of the table and then snatch the card as a souvenir. (Both currency and card are still around serving as bookmarks in my VSGA media guide). As I basked in the warm glow of a pilsner and the grillroom I realized the halcyon days were probably over.

The good news is that I was able to extract more blood from Bill the next spring in tours over the Tradition courses of Stonehouse and at Royal New Kent before his birdie binge skewered me at Kiskiack. That time we were paired with two Catholic priests and no manner of prayer, late pars and or presses saved me from my mid-round walkabout.

No matter. I think the real lesson for me was the importance of continual relaxation, an attitude adjustment that comes with age. Floyd calls that playing with “peace and purpose.” As I look back on it I was playing those rounds with Bill with an inner calm. It was not a game of perfect by any means (just look at the scorecard), but they were rounds played with the perfect partner.

That pairing continued until last spring when Bill moved to Arizona to cure his persistent respiratory problems. I talked to him the other day. Apparently life is good. “I feel so damn much better out here,” he says. The pneumonia is pretty much gone and he and his wife Janie have settled into a gated community near Tucson hard by the Santa Catalina Mountains where their primary neighbors are coyote, deer and bobcat. They have a new home course, Robert Trent Jones’ Arizona National and play four-to-five times a week.

The day we spoke Bill hit 12 greens in regulation and had 29 putts on his way to another 78. The holes in one are now up to four and his short game continues to be good. “Of course, that’s the key to it for old codgers like me,” he says.

Clearly the dry weather helps. “The skies are incredibly blue; we have magnificent sunsets,” he offered. We talked a little more and I told him that I was familiar with his home course and that my aunt and uncle had lived in Tucson for 40 years. He paused, “You ever get out here?”

It almost sounded like an offer too good to refuse.