I'm not ever too keen on the details of my childhood, especially the early days. But somehow one event sticks out in my mind. I was ten years old, and we were visiting my grandfather on our annual trip to Chicago. Well, around this time, our old country club was holding a father-son golf tournament, and my dad decided he wanted to enter with me as his partner. But my brother Andrew wanted to play too, so we went to my grandfather Eddie to see if he wanted to be Andrews "father" for the tournament.

After all, who would ever suspect that my seventy-six-year-old grandpa wasnt my five-year-old brothers true father? I wouldnt have, at that age.

After four sunny days the big day came. We all had to wake up at 6:30 in the morning to make it to the club on time. The tournament supposedly kicked off at 7:00. My dad woke me up with a flash.

We were at a hotel far away from the club, and my dad didnt want to lose any time. So he threw open the blinds with a start at the crack of dawn and yelled "Get up! Lets go golfing!" My eyes snapped open, and my pupils shrunk like slugs covered in salt.

"AAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHH!" I heard Andrew scream from the bed beside me. At this, I bolted up from my bed, tangled in the sheets, and lost my balance, falling onto the floor with a thud. My dad didnt care at all. He shoved us both into the bathroom to brush our teeth, threw some golf clothes on us, shoved Pop-Tarts in our mouths, and dragged us out the door. I think Andrew was still asleep and my eyes were barely open.

We quickly arrived on the scene at the golf course. The weather was rotten: a steady drizzle, but not the comfortable kind; more like the kind that stings whenever it hits your skin. Eddie was waiting there, and we signed up. But there wasnt anyone else around.

"What the hell is going on?" my dad asked. "We were supposed to be here at seven, and its seven! Did the tournament get cancelled?"

An official strode over to us. "Wow, awful early to get here an hour before we kick off!" he said cheerily. My dad was furious. "God," he muttered. "We could have slept an hour more, so we wouldnt be so bleary-eyed to play."

At age ten, I had no idea what "bleary-eyed" meant, but I guessed it probably had something to do with eyes being bleary (pretty clever of me, huh?). Mine sure werent bleary, whatever that was. "Bleary" sounded like something loud and annoying to me, and my eyes couldnt possibly be loud and annoying. They were more foggy and tired.

We stood around and did nothing for an hour, and finally the tournament got under way. The four of us went off as a group. My dad explained to us the rules. We would play alternate-shot, where each partner takes turns hitting the ball. We teed off, for a reason I can't explain, on hole 17, right into the wind and rain.

We had a coin toss to determine who would go first. I lost two out of three, so I made my dad do it again. Then I lost three out of five. Then I lost four out of seven. Then I lost five out of nine. Finally at six out of eleven, I won, so I went first. We were playing from the regular mens tees.

He hit the first shot of the day, slicing it straight right and landing it somewhere in the woods. Wow. We were off to a great start. He was a poor golfer now because of old age, and when he swung a golf club he looked comically like Donkey Kong or something swinging a big mallet. I always laughed at this, which, of course, Eddie couldnt hear.

Anyway, Eddie hit his amazing shot into the woods and began to go after it. There were two things wrong with this: 1) he had forgotten that Andrew was his partner, and 2) I hadnt hit yet.

My dad tried to get Eddies attention. "Dad, wait a second. Its our turn to go."

Nothing. He just kept on walking.

"Dad!" A little louder. No response.

"DAD! You forgot about us!" my dad yelled. Eddie finally turned around.

"Well why didnt you say so?" he said, as if my dad hadnt even said it twice already. I hit shortly thereafter, topping it three feet off the tee ground.

My dad was a bit frustrated already. "Johnny, come on, I know you can hit it better," he scolded mildly. "Just concentrate. Here, watch how I do it and then try it on the next shot." With confidence, he stepped forward and addressed the ball.

He gripped the club and swung back mightily, myself watching in silent curiosity. Firmly, he brought the club down hard and fast. BANG.

Actually, that "bang" was more like a "pip" or something. He topped the ball and it sailed a whole twenty yards before landing in the rough.

"Whoops."

"So, I should hit it like that?" I asked, a bit perplexed.

"No! No! Dont do what I did!" my dad said quickly.

"But you told me to watch how you do it and then try it."

"But not when I hit it like that."

"But that went farther than mine did by a lot!" I protested.

"Thats cause you - you - just - hit the ball," my dad sputtered, exasperated.

So I did. It went another couple of yards and plopped down into the rough. I slammed down the club angrily. "That wasnt good!" I said unhappily. Talk about a newsflash. We had hit three shots and hadnt even made it past the ladies tee yet.

To cut a long story short, my dad and I scored a whopping 12 on the hole. Eddie forgot where his ball went and spent 10 minutes wandering aimlessly. My brother had to "use the facilities" and there was no outhouse in sight. And it was still drizzling in that uncomfortable way.

We got to the end of hole 18 and, tired from two long holes of horrendous golf, stopped for a drink. Eddie didnt know what to get. The bartender asked him what he would like.

"Would you like a Diet Coke?" he said in a Spanish accent.

"What?" he said after several seconds.

"Would you like a Diet Coke?" he repeated.

Several seconds passed. Tick. Tick. Tick. Finally came Eddie's response:

"What?"

"Would you like a Diet Coke?"

"What? Oh, no thanks. I dont really want a drink."

See how I said Eddies hard-of-hearing was oddly amusing?

My dad had a quick chat with the bartender as well.

"How are you playing so far?" the bartender asked my dad.

"Not too well yet," my dad replied. "We were a little bleary-eyed to start." This sent me back to thinking about the term bleary-eyed. He said that to every single person we ran across that day.

We played a horrible seven more holes of golf and reached the eighth hole, beaten down. One group was just finishing ahead of us. My dad knew one of them, and they chatted ("We were a little bleary-eyed to start"). I had almost lost interest in the game and was reading the scorecard. I studied all the scores we had made so far, many of which exceeded 9. Then I noticed that every hole had a nickname, and the hole we were on was called "Teddys Teeth." I found this hilarious for no particular reason.

My dad saw what I was laughing about and explained it to me and Andrew.

"Did you know that Eddie actually revived the name 'Teddys Teeth'? See those wood planks holding up the bunkers by the green?" he said. "Well, when the course was built, Teddy Roosevelt was present, and people thought those planks looked like his teeth."

I stared at the bunkers, resembling nothing that looked like teeth. Those would have had to be some damn ugly teeth.

My dad continued. "For a period of time there, the name vanished, and Eddie thought that it was a good name for the hole. So he moved to revive the name and succeeded. Go ask him right now."

"So he made it up?" I asked.

My dad explained, "No, he just revived the name. Now, go ask him!" So Andrew and I went up to Eddie to ask him.

"Eddie?" I said. "Did you revive the name "Teddys Teeth'?"

"What?"

"Did you revive 'Teddys Teeth'?" I said, more slowly.

"What?"

I wasnt whispering, for Gods sake. "Did you revive 'Teddys Teeth'?"

"What?"

Okay, now it was just tiring. Did you revive 'Teddys Teeth'?" I said, very slowly, drawing out each word. Eddie finally understood what I was saying. Or so I thought.

"Oh no, I didnt make it up. I revived it," was the answer I got. Andrew and I exchanged puzzled looks. My dad started laughing, but Eddie acted as if nothing had happened. What had he thought Id said?

The entire day was a drizzly, wet, tedious fiasco. My dad and I placed last in our division and most of the round was spent looking for lost balls hearing my dad say the same line over and over. But to this day the one thing that sticks out the most is the famous "Teddys Teeth" story, told a thousand times between my dad, my brother, and me. It'll never get old.