The story of my father’s late and begrudging entry into the World Handicap System
Shane René standing over his tee shot on the par-4 6th at Jug Mountain Ranch with his brother, Dylan, and father, Richard.
By: Shane René, Administrator of Media & Communications
Growing up, board games were a troublesome endeavor for my family. Negotiating the rules was tense and time consuming. And my father, Richard, had no patience for such things. He had a tendency to withdraw without a clear framework for success, made uneasy by the prospect of figuring it out as we went. He preferred vodka-tonics with the nightly news.
The beginning of his golf life was nearly spoiled by the opposite instinct some 50 years before I bought him a GHIN Handicap Index for his 60th birthday last year. He remembers a rigid and mostly fruitless education on the fundamentals from my grandfather, Ron — a man who fell hard for the game, maintained a single-digit index, and volunteered for the rule-makers at the USGA.
“I would play horrible golf with Ron on the weekends,” my father said. “He would mechanically adjust me between every swing. I grew to loath the process.”
In a story as old as the middle-class American golfer, his relationship with the game caught a second wind in college. Buddies, beer and the occasional birdie gave the old, country club game a whole new complexion. It became a feature of his social life as a 20-something chasing a radio career in Los Angeles, sneaking onto private courses at night and playing munis on the weekends. And he found himself equipped with enough pre-pubescent muscle memory to play in business outings, which took him to courses all over Europe. But establishing a handicap never crossed his mind.
“Like many things that I do, it would be sporadic,” he said. “In a three-week period I might play four or five times. I would just start to feel it and then stop again.”
In June of 1997, the initial wake of Tiger mania, I came into the world. And while it was my grandfather who fancied himself a more modest, East-Coast Earl Woods — shipping me a set of plastic clubs from an ocean away — it was my father who watched me take my first swings. It was in those moments, consciously or not, that he watched the game transcend recreation and settle into the realm of tradition.
Then, of course, two more kids came along. The plot of work and marriage thickened. Little League schedules metastasized. Suddenly, getting on the golf course became a more intentional, rust-laden effort. What was once sporadic and relaxed, became more sporadic and compressed into nine-hole evenings. But he couldn’t quite let the game slip away.
“I think it was about connecting back with something I had done ever since I was six,” he said. “So there was this kind of fun continuity. I know this. I’ve done this. It’s been part of my life from a child in Connecticut through being single and fun in LA… through business… and it was great as a husband and father of three with other responsibilities — it was a tremendous five hours away from everything.”
Through all of those eras, golf was always a comfortable point of conversation with his own father, who only grew more obsessed with the game in his retirement. They would chat about his travels to play bucket list courses like Pinehurst. They would chat about his handicap, despite the fact that my father never had his own. When Ron passed away in 2017, we hosted a golf outing in his memory. But the time following his memorial featured less and less of the game that kept them close.
When I returned from school in Chicago in the spring of 2020, I found myself falling in love with the game the way my grandfather had. I worked at Shadow Valley Golf Course, which provided a cost-effective way to get my father out to play. And over time, he felt the bug again. I got him out of his old Wilson Goose-Neck blades and into a more friendly set of irons. I bought him a series of lessons for Father’s Day.
Last year, I bought him an IGA Membership and marched him through the process of establishing a handicap. I wanted to give him a framework for success. But just like board games, the prospect of relearning his approach to the game gave him pause. He didn’t play enough for his handicap to mean anything, he thought. And now he’d be “forced to pay more attention to everything,” just to have his confidence spoiled by a number on his iPhone.
“Other people are now watching more closely,” he said.
But it didn’t take long for his perspective to shift. The initial fluctuations in his handicap were unflattering, sure, hovering comfortably north of 20. But he does admit that it made him feel something. It made him think twice over golf shots. His decisions had consequence. Golf became a game in a way it hadn’t always been.
“It actually became more enjoyable. It feels more concrete. It doesn’t feel as ephemeral, if that’s the right word — before there wasn’t a huge commitment,” he said. “And now I’m finding that I care. And it’s one of the last vestiges at 61 years of age where I think I can get better.”
Cycling and rock climbing reminds him of his age. Golf reminds him of childhood, catching frogs in ponds the way I did growing up along the 14th hole at Shadow Valley. So watching him re-connect with golf this way has been a great joy for me. I’m excited by the prospect of sharing the game with him on a deeper level.
And none of this is to say that golf’s capacity for connection relies on a handicap index. All you really need is a tee time, some clubs, and a handful of golf balls. My life in golf with my father and grandfather is evidence of that. But it’s nice, at times, to have a set of rules to play by — and few strokes to hand out to your loved ones.