My Final Round With a Friend

This week, I went hunting for a David Whyte quote about Friendship for a lesson plan I was writing. Like most research, I ended up coming across something else that resonated with me on a personal level, especially this week, as April 30 marks the two year anniversary of losing my friend, Rob Ayres.

As a guest on Sam Harris’ podcast Making Sense, David Whyte says that when we lose a friend, we might actually end up having more conversations with them than we might have had while they were alive. I know that in my mind, I often run through conversations with my dad, trying to figure out what he might think about politics or sports or life.

This is also the case with Rob, who was 40 years my senior, and the father of my friend Eliot. I’ve written the golf escapades our Old Dog-Young Pup foursome enjoyed on my blog (Rob broke our hearts in Bermuda with a timely hole-in-one).

Rob was the type of guy that could befriend a rabid raccoon: Gregarious and kind and witty. After five minutes he’d bless you with a nickname. He called me “Seancey”(think “Chauncey”). Another one of our middle school friends was nicknamed “Urbane”, meaning refined, which was a play on his last name of “Charm.”

Rob loved to compete, a Hall of Fame college athlete who excelled in soccer and hockey. But golly, he could golf. He was a fun person to compete against, even when he was on fire and crushing our spirits with straight drives and the most lethal 7-iron chip shit on the planet. He was never out of a hole or a match. An Old Dog for the Hard Road, he liked to say.

Rob died too soon and too suddenly. The weekend before he passed, Eliot and I met Rob out in Devens to play Red Tail. It was a lovely, but windy, April morning. Rob arrived before me and Eliot and hit the driving range. He had the shanks (which is when you hit the ball with the hosel of the club, sending it off on a horrifically violent right angle and making it basically impossible to play golf). He joked that he almost scurried to his car and packed up before Eliot and I arrived chocking up the day as a lost cause. He persevered and didn’t hit one “hosel-rocket” the entire round. In hindsight, I’m glad he did. It was Rob’s final round of golf.

The lasting memory I have from that round was Rob’s final shot into the 18th hole. The green is protected by water in the front and the shot is downhill from the fairway to the green. After a lay-up on the par five, Rob had about 100 yards and pulled his trusty wedge. I stood behind him as he lined up his shot and made his smooth, languid swing through the ball. He posed, like really posed, because the ball was tracking right at the hole. Halfway there it looked like it might pop right into the hole. Rob even pronounced how good the shot looked mid-flight.

The ball crashed on a rock about a foot short of clearing the hazard and bounded back up into the air - a second flight for the ball - and then plopped right into the middle of the pond. Rob let out a huge laugh, enjoying the spectacle and the humbling nature of such a vexing sport. It really was ridiculous and the only response was to laugh.

Rob loved to tell stories and relive moments on the golf course. That shot would have been one he would have recalled for years. I can see him reliving it, 18 at Red Tail, he’d laugh at the swing of emotions as the ball careened off the rocks just a moment after looking deliciously accurate.

Golf, and life, in a nutshell.

Years ago we played in a member and 3-guest event at Concord Country Club. Our group started with four straight birdies and ended up winning the event in both the gross and net categories. It was a dominant performance. That round sparked a joke among us, one simple phrase, “Attack.”

Now, when I golf or find myself in the middle of a long run (Rob and my dad ran a few marathons together), I chat with my dad and Rob. Two men who were good friends and showed me what friendship between Old Dogs can look like. I can hear Rob laughing at the misfortune of what should have been a good golf shot or talking trash on the back nine as a match came to the business end or telling me to “Attack” a pin or those final miles even with burning lungs and tired legs.

I can also hear both him and my dad reflecting the joy a round of golf brought them. The 18th hole handshake and the walk to the clubhouse or the car - the simple phrase, “That was so much fun” crossing their lips.

My conversational record keeps spinning with Rob, even though he’s gone. I’m grateful for the time I had with him, and I’m grateful he was a good friend whose voice still lives inside my head and my heart.

Miss you, Robbo.