Hawk
The Sunday morning ritual is sort of etched in stone. My dogs can recite every step. I sipped coffee while looking through the Buffalo News stage when the obits made me strain for a breath.
The photo of a good man was starting back at me.
Dave Miller.
Dave passed away a couple of months back. He went quickly, too quickly. There weren't a lot of us who had the chance to say goodbye. There's a memorial service coming up next week.
The place will be packed.
The Hawk.
His nickname was included and I was glad.
Like a Hawk, he was a graceful man.
And he passed away knowing one thing for sure:
He was still a better golfer than me.
You see, Hawk was a teacher, a coach and a leader to a lot of kids who grew up in the North Collins area. He loved sports. For one reason or another he was a Milwaukee Brewers fan, and we went back and forth on that subject a bit. Yet I never was in one of his classes. I never was the member of a team that he coached.
But he still taught me a few things.
"What's wrong with my swing?" I asked him one afternoon on the golf course.
"Did you ever hear the one about the monkey and the football?" he asked.
Dave was often soft-spoken. I actually had to ask him to repeat it.
"You look like a monkey trying to screw a football," he answered.
I rode with Dave in the cart that day. Most of the time he split the cart with his son, Chris, and he'd marvel at the way his boy would hit the ball.
He never spent a moment not being proud.
One moment that sticks out about that particular golf outing was a miss-hit that actually belonged to Hawk and not me. He stood at the tee and prepared his shot as Chris and I stood back and off to the side. As the Hawk swung the club a strange thing happened. The ball did not scream down the center of the fairway. Instead it split backwards through Dave's legs and struck Chris in the center of the chest.
Just one of those errant shots that I was used to, but that looked weird coming off the face of the Hawk's club.
"What was that?" Chris yelled, rubbing at his chest. "A trick shot?"
Dave didn't even break a smile. He was a competitive sort to be sure.
We sat back down in the cart.
"What was that about the monkey and the football?" I asked.
A beginning of a smile creased his face.
"Shut the hell up," he muttered.
A little later in the day he came as close to being sentimental as he could.
"You guys are doing good," he said. "You guys are becoming good men."
I remember him saying it because it meant a lot to me.
The Hawk soared high.
He will be missed.
And the next time I hook one off the tee, I'll remember his advice to me.
Just a monkey and his football.
The photo of a good man was starting back at me.
Dave Miller.
Dave passed away a couple of months back. He went quickly, too quickly. There weren't a lot of us who had the chance to say goodbye. There's a memorial service coming up next week.
The place will be packed.
The Hawk.
His nickname was included and I was glad.
Like a Hawk, he was a graceful man.
And he passed away knowing one thing for sure:
He was still a better golfer than me.
You see, Hawk was a teacher, a coach and a leader to a lot of kids who grew up in the North Collins area. He loved sports. For one reason or another he was a Milwaukee Brewers fan, and we went back and forth on that subject a bit. Yet I never was in one of his classes. I never was the member of a team that he coached.
But he still taught me a few things.
"What's wrong with my swing?" I asked him one afternoon on the golf course.
"Did you ever hear the one about the monkey and the football?" he asked.
Dave was often soft-spoken. I actually had to ask him to repeat it.
"You look like a monkey trying to screw a football," he answered.
I rode with Dave in the cart that day. Most of the time he split the cart with his son, Chris, and he'd marvel at the way his boy would hit the ball.
He never spent a moment not being proud.
One moment that sticks out about that particular golf outing was a miss-hit that actually belonged to Hawk and not me. He stood at the tee and prepared his shot as Chris and I stood back and off to the side. As the Hawk swung the club a strange thing happened. The ball did not scream down the center of the fairway. Instead it split backwards through Dave's legs and struck Chris in the center of the chest.
Just one of those errant shots that I was used to, but that looked weird coming off the face of the Hawk's club.
"What was that?" Chris yelled, rubbing at his chest. "A trick shot?"
Dave didn't even break a smile. He was a competitive sort to be sure.
We sat back down in the cart.
"What was that about the monkey and the football?" I asked.
A beginning of a smile creased his face.
"Shut the hell up," he muttered.
A little later in the day he came as close to being sentimental as he could.
"You guys are doing good," he said. "You guys are becoming good men."
I remember him saying it because it meant a lot to me.
The Hawk soared high.
He will be missed.
And the next time I hook one off the tee, I'll remember his advice to me.
Just a monkey and his football.
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