Robert Eldridge Fournier

Our golf odyssey took us to the original home of the British Open, Prestwick Golf Club.

Prestwick feels more like a museum than a golf course. It’s got an ancient-looking clubhouse with a clock tower, and a starter welcomes you to the first tee in a club jacket and tie.

The first hole is as intimidating as can be. It is a tight par 4 with the railroad tracks on the right and a giant mound of gorse on the left. It feels like the fairway is only 10 feet wide, and you are pressed up against the clubhouse with everyone watching. That first hole is called Railway but should be called Claustrophobia.

We picked up caddies for this round, which was probably a good choice. Prestwick is an old-style links course, which means there are a number of holes with blind approaches into hidden greens—including a blind par 3 where you have to hit over a giant dune. This is a crazy hole.

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This round marked Father’s Day, and I marked my ball with REF for my father, Robert Eldridge Fournier. I have been thinking a lot about my dad this week, who passed away 12 years ago.

My dad was my first and one of my favourite golf partners. He introduced me to the game over 40 years ago, and golf always played a role in our relationship. Golf was always a way to get together, even as I got older.

Just to be clear, my dad was not a good golfer. He would struggle to break 100. He had a quick, handsy swing. I always joked that he was the only golfer I knew who would take a divot on his backswing. But he always smiled. He always had a kind word for his playing partners.

And he was funny. He was always up on his one-liners: “Son, that was an elephant’s ass shot: It was high and it stinks.” So many of my favorite rounds were with him and with family. He taught me the value of making the people around you feel good, either with a joke or a kind word, and not only on the golf course.

After he died, I was going through his things and found a box of all the Father’s Day cards I had made for him as I was growing up, and a box full of scorecards from rounds we had played together over the years. So many of my hand-drawn cards were of him golfing. The game was our common ground.

I regret not having the chance to have taken a trip like this with my sad. ALS (Lou Gehrig’s disease) snuck up on him in his 70s, and all of a sudden, golf was no longer a possibility. I don’t remember the last round of golf I played with him, as I never would have thought it was going to be the last round. I wish he’d been able to play a round with Patrick, who took up golf just after my dad had passed. I am sure they both would have loved it. I’d like to think he is here with us this week, and especially on Father’s Day.

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How was our golf at Prestwick? Eh … not so good.

We played the back nine in the wind and rain. Patrick’s caddy, channeling Bob Fournier, told Patrick that his drive was a Clark Gable (Gone With The Wind). Patrick didn’t get it.

We struggled to keep the ball on the fairway on the back nine as the wind picked up. Somehow my streak continues of not having lost a ball in Scotland, despite having hit the R.E.F. Titleist into some godawful places. Prestwick is a true test of golf, and neither Patrick or I were up to it. But tomorrow is another day. Big scores for both of us, but a fun day with some great moments.