Skiing, Golf and a Parent’s Death

Can you honor a deceased parent through the sport you play? Tiger Woods thinks so, and so do I.

I just finished watching Tiger Woods win the British Open (properly called The Open Championships), one of golf's four annual major tournaments.

It was an inspiring performance.

Much attention was paid by the television announcers, and by Tiger himself, to the fact that this was the golfer's first major win since the death of his father, and mentor, Earl. Indeed, the man who may be the best golfer ever broke into tears after he sank his final putt.

This one, he told the TV audience, was for Pops.

The second place finisher, Chris DeMarco, had recently lost his mother. And while he may have been playing against similar demons, his situation garnered only passing commentary. Perhaps because DeMarco finished second. Perhaps because his mom wasn't a public figure, as was Woods' dad.

Either way, it got me to remembering the day my mother died. Two circumstances marked that day. One, it was December 24th, Christmas eve; and, two, I was having a great day skiing.

Later-much later-I figured out exactly where I was when my mother's heart quit on her. I was linking some pretty fine turns down the Middle Earth trail in the Castlerock section at Sugarbush Resort in Vermont.

The powder was knee deep. The sky was powder blue. And I was on my game, doing the thing I love most to do in life.

It wasn't, of course, until I got home that evening, having skied all day and driven six-plus hours, that I learned what had happened to my mother. And, for the moment, that news, and the responsibility that of attending to my father, put a damper on what had been a great day.

But, later-much later-when I'd figured out the timing of events, I realized that the day had held some sadly fine irony.

My mother wasn't any Earl Woods. But, she was my mentor. She never judged me, but always reminded me that quality and responsibility came first in life. She never understood my passion for skiing, but it piqued her curiosity enough to try it-once-when she was in her sixties.

I think she loved the idea that my sports passions had finally come to some reward for me. Combining with my ability to string words together with my ability to string ski turns together had led-after several false starts-to a career of sorts.

She liked to read my stuff, even if she didn't know the difference between a schuss and stem christie. When I got an assignment that gave me my first chance to ski in Switzerland-a longtime dream destination of mine-she was as thrilled about it as I was.

Unfortunately, she wasn't alive to hear or read my stories about it.

Watching Tiger Woods at The Open, it struck me that in winning the tournament in masterly fashion, he was doing what he loved most in the world and what he did best.

Skiing is what I love doing most. And, wordsmithing notwithstanding, it's probably what I do best. So, just as Tiger could honor Earl with his victory, that day at Sugarbush probably was some kind of fatefully odd way of honoring my mother. If I couldn't be with her when her heart stopped, I was at least doing what I loved most, and that would have made her happy.

More than ten years later, I still dedicate each trip to the top of the mountain to her.