Frank LaRosa
Not Dated

I never liked the idea of that Thomas Wolfe guy telling me, “You can’t go home again!”  What made him so sure?  So every now and then, I try to disprove his premise and “go home again” with a visit to Mather Golf Course.

I played my very first round of golf at Mather as a 15-year-old during the summer my family moved to Sacramento in 1960.  My three younger brothers and I had spent four days traveling from Wichita, Kansas, packed in a 1957 Plymouth station wagon with my father, an Air Force Captain who was being transferred to Mather to fly B-52s, my mother, who was seven months pregnant with another attempt at a girl who turned out to be my baby brother and our Chihuahua, whose nasty disposition never quite approached the savoir faire of that taco company’s frisky spokespup.

That teenage summer offered unlimited sunshine, few responsibilities and the adventure of a new home, new friends and new diversions.  Someone’s dad played golf and someone else suggested we all give it a try.  Mather was still a young course at the time.  It had been nurtured by the original members who carried burlap bags when they played to pick up any rocks they found along the way.  There were no tee times to be had.  You just walked up to the first tee, dropped a ball in the rack and when your ball got to the bottom, your group was up!

That first time on the course was wondrous!  Lack of knowledge about grip and posture were overcome with innate athletic sense of balance.  It was probably the only time I never had a swing thought in my head – positive or negative.  Our home was only half a mile from the course which cost very little to play, so we spent many hours playing golf. 

When school started, more new friends and new activities began to take the place of golf and I didn’t pick up a club again for about 15 years.  And I guess I haven’t put them down since.

I still return to Mather Golf Course from time to time and my mind floods with strong memories of the passing of  youth, of family bonds and especially of my mother, who is no longer with us.

It’s impossible for me to go into the snack bar at the Mather course without hearing her say, “Frankie, when you finish playing, pick up a bag of burgers.”  She was a cook of unparalleled talent, but she also was a great mom who knew that having five sons meant giving in to the occasional greasy burger and fries over her incomparable homemade lasagna!

Occasionally, after a round at Mather, I will drive past our old house and remember a simpler time of sandlot baseball heroics, backyard battles with my brothers and endlessly waxing my prized Corvair.  These memories energize me and help me focus on life’s lessons, which I now pass on to my children.  And the life cycle continues.

In a sense, of course, Wolfe is right.  Home is not there anymore.  But if the ties were strong enough, the memories full enough and the love rich enough, the echoes of home will fill your heart with a reminder of who you are and how lucky you are to have lived life and had a chance to play the game!