T.R. went to the driving range with my parents when we were in Tahoe. And he had a wonderful time.
Part of it, doubtless, was the attention. They bought him a set of clubs in his size, a new golf shirt, and a Cubs hat (that last item is to make sure he learns his heritage, I suppose, as well as avoids sunburn). My mom taught him how to grip his putter. My dad worked with him on his swing. T. spent most of his down-time in the condo putting across the carpet onto a target disc.
(Brent took this photo when my dad took T. back to the range. I was busy getting a massage with my mom. Aaaah!)
While I am not fond of golf (It is an elitist sport that pillages the environment and encourages the wearing of plaid pants. Also, I find it deeply boring unless there are windmills involved.), I was glad that T. went and enjoyed himself. He had a good time with his grandfather.
One of the casualties of my divorce was the relationship between my kids and my parents. For many good and bad reasons, my ex and my parents do not get along. It was good to watch some of that heal.
My father has always been a jock. Now that he is older and has lost part of a lung to years of smoking (he quit while he was in intensive care after the surgery), he is limited to golf and the occasional dip in the pool. I’m sure he misses football and baseball and tennis and basketball, at least in part because it has always been through sports (or work) that he has built his relationships. It was hard for him that I was a girl and my brother hated team sports. To have a grandchild who golfs—that is nirvana.
But I draw the line at the knickers.