It Was the Best of Times. Or At Least, the Hottest.

It was one of those August days. When there seemed no air to breathe. When the temperature and humidity decided to try to collide at 100. When being outside was as dangerous to your mental well being as your physical.

Kind of the perfect storm of reasons not be wandering around a golf course for six hours. Particularly if you were not even playing. And your interest in the sport was definitely more lukewarm than the thermometer. And if you were in your last month of pregnancy you might strongly consider an alternative adventure for the day. Make that any alternative.

But there we were, my son, my wife, my daughter, with her omnipresent companion, and myself, from nearly sunup to sundown. We had all gathered to witness our daughter's husband attempt an ascent to the peak of this particular Mt. Everest, the club championship.

It was not enough that he was performing against an opponent of great skill, by most considered more than his match. He also carried the weight of winner's past, seeking to become the fourth successive generation of his lineage to wear the champion's crown. His mom and 91 year old grandma part of the human caravan wandering these hills, serving as constant reminder of the greatness of his golfing heritage.

For six hours the battle raged. Not only did I, as someone who has spent six decades with this sport's futility as a constant presence, find the event compelling, but so, amazingly, did the rest of my crew. My wife of 41 years, almost never subject to the fluttering of a nervous stomach, now riveted to the twists and turns of the moment. 

As for the pregnant lady, sometimes walking barefoot and looking for all the world as if she would, at any moment, announce the baby's imminent arrival, she was definitely going nowhere until the last putt had found its way into the cup. Even if she had to give birth on the final green.

One small asterisk was that I have a sneaking suspicion my son found the food at the halfway house nearly as memorable as the travails and triumphs unfolding upon this stage.

In the end neither rain (briefly torrential), suffocating heat nor that four putt on the fourth, could keep our hero from his appointed seat on the throne. He seemed to will his way to victory, refusing to allow his opponent any more than the most minimal of emotional air to breathe, the universe outside virtually identical to the one inside this contest.

He did not to wilt under the weight of expectations but thrived in them, absorbing the stress as easily as he did the scorching sun. In fact, as the euphoria pulsed over him, my son in law announced that, apart from every day with his bride, this was the best six hours of his life. A very wise young man indeed.

When husband and wife walked hand in hand, one golf shoed the other barefoot, up that last fairway and into glory, it was, for me, like the final scene of a movie too good to be true.

As for that unborn child, I could only wonder if she now felt pressure, in utero, of her quest to become a next generation star. Maybe even more pressure than she was exerting on her mom's belly.

I envisioned being part of her gallery on that day in the future. On an air conditioned course. Why not dream the biggest dream you can?