I was 13 when my big brother (age 24) decided he wanted to play golf. He didn’t want to learn golf mind you, he just wanted to play golf.
It was trial and error. Mostly error. Being a novice hacker, he didn’t want to flail away in front of people so he insisted we be the first people on the golf course. To achieve this meant my brother rousting me out of bed very early on Saturday mornings, telling me to get dressed, grab my clubs and get in his pickup. We then headed out for Airways or Riverside or Serena Vista or Palm Lakes or one of the other courses in and around the great city of Fresno, the sun a mere glint peeking over the horizon.
Typically we would tee off by 6 a.m. Even in Fresno, fall and winter mornings are chilly, mid-30s, frost still on the ground. Tee shots got no beneficial roll, putts left a trail in the icy dampness and we would be finished playing 18 holes by 9 a.m.
My brother would swing hard and hit the ball a long way. The wrong way. He would curse a lot, throw a club, go find the ball and repeat the process. He could toss clubs impressive distances and with much more accuracy than his actual shots. He bent putters around trees, became accomplished at the foot wedge, and was generous with “gimmes” (pretty much any putt inside of 12 feet was good). Once he heaved his whole bag into a greenside lake. Needless to say that was the end of our round. Very hard to play with soggy shafts. Calm down, my brother would have loved that joke.
When he improved a bit, we would venture out to Hank Swank’s, a driving range and lighted pitch and putt course near my house. We played in the sticky summer dusk after work. It was great fun, until the time I shanked a pitching wedge, watched it scream toward the tiny green 80 yards away, never traveling more than a foot off the ground, clang against the flagstick and improbably drop in for an unlikely hole-in-one. My brother had some choice words for my “ace” and that was the last time we played together for many moons. Eventually he tired of golf and devoted his spare time to bowling – at which he excelled, rolling seven, count ‘em seven, 300 games and winning a slew of trophies.
My brother’s name was Sammy Jack, coined because our mom and dad (born and raised in Arkansas) were named Sammy Lou and Jack. To many he was simply Jack, but I could never call him that. Jack was my dad and my big brother would always be Sammy Jack.
Sammy Jack Martin passed away March 30. He was diagnosed with cancer of the esophagus in December of 2009, and battled ill health for the past eight years, giving in only when it was clear his body was closing up shop for good.
He married when he was 20, and served in the Navy during Vietnam. When he returned he joined our dad in the tool and die business. He never took a day off, rarely called in sick, and spent his life as a living testament to the beauty and grace of an honest day’s work, for that’s what he put in – every day of the month, every month of the year, every year of his life.
He was the first person to show me the joys of baseball (my dad hated the sport), and (unwittingly) the glory of the airbrushed female body – I explored his secret Playboy magazine stash in his house when he wasn’t looking – and we grew closer as the years passed.
I made a boatload of stupid decisions in my life; actions that hurt people and which now I find profoundly embarrassing. But Sammy Jack never judged me. I never heard him blame anyone for anything. He was a model of responsibility, a beacon of fairness and one of the most generous people I have ever known. He was also a Republican, but, hey, nobody’s perfect.
Perhaps most impressive was his ability to balance work and family. He never sacrificed one for the other. When the work day was over it was over, and he gave all his energy to nurturing, loving and supporting his family.
He showed me how to be a man. Strong, caring, fair, genuine, willing to own mistakes as well as triumphs, and resisting the all too human temptation to point fingers when things go awry.
He was my friend, my role model and my forever big brother.
And I miss him.
Steven welcomes your comments. You can reach him at st***************@gm***.com.
