The course on which I struggled through so many angry rounds as a youngster was called The Hills. My father was on the club's board of governors and I caddied there throughout high school. I grew up on the short, tight course and knew it like I knew my own backyard.
    I stopped playing golf when I went away to college and didn't take up the game again until after I quit drinking at the age of 43. By then, my father had died and I was living upstate in the Hudson Valley, but I still had family who were members of The Hills and occasionally I'd be invited to play as a guest.
    On my first trip back I was really excited. It had been so long since I’d played the course, and my game was so much better than it had been when I was a teenager, that I was full of hopeful anticipation.
    As it turned out, I played terribly and behaved badly. Not that I threw clubs or broke tree limbs, but I got angry and depressed, making me poor company for my brother and sisters, who had been looking forward to a pleasant afternoon.
    I played The Hills several times over the next few years and each time the scenario was the same: I’d go there full of hope, eager to do better than I had on my last visit, but I’d play badly on the front nine, play the back in anger and leave depressed.
    I worked hard on my game but even with a handicap as low as 12, when I was averaging 85 at my home course, I found it difficult to shoot 95 at The Hills. After a couple of years I realized I simply could not relax on that course. I was always pressing, playing defensively and constantly worrying about my final score. Regardless of how much progress I made elsewhere, I always felt like a frustrated child at The Hills.
    One day my sister and I were walking down the fifth fairway. I was already six over par. Typically dejected, I had given up hope of making a decent score.
    “This course is haunted,” I said.
    “Really?" she whispered. "By who?”
    “By Daddy,” I said. “That’s why I can’t play here.”
    My sister was perplexed. “But Daddy would love to see you play well here.”
    “I know,” I replied. “That’s the problem.”
    At some point that summer, I don’t remember precisely when, I realized there were a lot of painful memories associated with The Hills and many of them could be traced back to rounds played with my father. Each season, Dad would enter us in the Father-Son tournament and assorted other events. I wanted nothing more than to play well for my father but my game wasn’t really good enough for competition. The harder I tried, the worse I played and the more frustrated I became.
    I remember one year we were matched against the Jamesons. I tensed up as soon as I saw the pairings on the bulletin board in the locker room. Donny Jameson, at age 20, had already won the club championship several times. He was the star of his college team and there was talk among the members of sponsoring him on the pro tour after he graduated.
    Donny’s drives boomed miles down the center of the fairway, while mine flew half as far before taking right turns into the trees. The format was alternate shot and my father was a  better player than Donny’s dad. But with me as a partner, he didn’t stand a chance. We were eliminated early in the match and it was clear to me who was at fault.
    At the height of another summer my father took me to Winged Foot Golf Club, a U.S. Open venue that was renowned for having one of the best (and most difficult) courses in the country. We played with the club manager, who was a business acquaintance of Dad, and a member of his staff. I was about 15 at the time and could not break 90 on our home course. Objectively, I had no business playing Winged Foot.
    Knowing the reputation of the place, I approached the round with dread. The first time I hit my ball into a greenside bunker, dread morphed into terror. I walked into the sand trap and realized it was deeper than I was tall. When I addressed the ball and looked up for a landing spot on the green, I couldn't even see over the top lip of the bunker. Predictably, my first attempt to escape failed and, with the second, I hit the ball over the green, into an equally deep chasm on the opposite side.
    By the end of that long day I was embarrassed and angry. I felt guilty for playing so badly in front of my father’s friends and ashamed for having let him down again. I also resented the fact that Dad had subjected me to this humiliation. The best players in the world had trouble scoring at Winged Foot. What made him think I belonged there?
    Today, of course, I understand that Dad took me to Winged Foot out of generosity. He knew how much I loved golf and he wanted me to see what the game was like at the highest level. His intention had been to arrange a special treat. I thought I had to play well to please him when, in fact, all I had to do was show up.
    It was the same story in the Father-Son tournaments and all the other rounds we played together at The Hills. I was trying to earn his love with my golf game and he, meanwhile, could not have cared less how well or how poorly I performed.
    All those years, I was lugging enormous pressure around the golf course, a weight that was commensurate with my love for Dad. He tried to tell me, as all fathers do, that it didn’t matter whether we won or lost. But how could a young boy believe something as silly as that?
    I still find it hard to play well when I go back to The Hills, but at least now I know the reason. It’s taken me a long time to learn that sometimes love gets in the way.