Guest column

I have two reasons to have special feelings for Father’s Day. It happens that I had two fathers — one natural and the other by virtue of my mother marrying him after Ben, her husband of 25 years, suddenly dropped dead of a heart attack. Her second husband, Harry, had lost his wife to cancer just about the time my dad had died. What’s more, my mother and he had been classmates through high school in a small town in Western Pennsylvania.

Harry had a dangerous job with a black powder company in Northern Jersey. He feared and hated it. Over the years, he had lost a half-dozen friends when explosions rocked the plant. He and my mother were immensely pleased and relieved when he could retire and they could sell their little ranch-style home and move to Florida, where Harry could indulge his greatest passion: golf.

I had played a few games with Harry at a course near their Jersey home. He was a good, consistent player and very kind and instructive to me, a total duffer.

The bungalow they bought in Ft. Lauderdale was a short drive to the Inverrary course, where Harry got a job as a “ranger,” doing odd jobs around the place and getting up-close views of celebrities such as Jackie Gleason and Frank Sinatra. Being officially on the Inverrary staff meant he could play for free. It was about as close to dream fulfillment that a golf junkie is ever likely to achieve.

But Harry wanted a little more: He had heard of a small duplex directly on a golf course at the Sun City Center retirement facility south of Tampa. My mother and he drove over to check it out. Sure enough, the back door of the house opened to the manicured apron of the 7th green.

Although my mother had no interest in the game of golf, she liked Sun City Center enough to amiably join Harry in signing the contract on the duplex there.

They were back in Lauderdale next day for the start of the Jackie Gleason Open, a tournament that drew tons of celebrities and some of the world’s greatest golfers. It promised to be a busy day for Harry, who drove over at first light. He parked his big Chrysler on the west side of the Inverrary course, which meant he had to cross a two-lane road to get to the pro shop.

Before he could get to the other side, a Camaro barreled out of the mist, knocked him off his feet and carried him about a hundred feet. He was dead by the time the young driver got out of the car and said he had been distracted when his cowboy hat fell to the floor.

I flew down to Lauderdale as soon as Harry’s son was able to reach me in Washington.

Among Harry’s effects that my mother wanted me to have was a set of Harry’s clubs.

She spent the remaining 15 years of her life quite contentedly sitting in her screened-in porch, reading, watching TV soaps and paying scant attention to the golfers holing out on the green just outside her door.

My wife and I, meantime, have found ourselves living Harry’s ultimate dream. Walk out our back door and you’re on the 9th fairway. I’m still a duffer, unwilling even to keep a score that would provide me with a handicap. I’m sticking to it, though, even to the point of looking in on the Golf Channel once in a while.

At my advanced age, I have no illusions. Tiger, you can sleep tonight. My modest hope is that, one day, my game will rise from the abominable to the barely adequate. I owe it to you, Harry. Since I’ve been fated into living your dream, I’d like it to be a good one.

Dick Rossé is a 36-year veteran of the Mutual and NBC radio networks, and for his final dozen years at NBC served as senior news correspondent in Washington, D.C. He currently resides in Dagsboro.