Courage: A Biography

This is a work in progress. Random chapters of a biography of Mr. Ben Witter.

Courage
The True Legend of Ben Witter

Preface

Defining what constitutes a great man is an elusive concept. Descriptors have included hero, leader, genius, creator, warrior, healer, giver. History records the accomplishments of great men, but fails to effectively identify most.
I believe we measure our lives in moments. We recall little of the repetitive things we do. Most of it is a blur. What gives our life breadth and depth are specific memories that have perceived meaning; our wedding day, the birth of our children, our first look over the Grand Canyon, our first love, great accomplishments.
While it’s the time-independent moments that ultimately define our lives, time nonetheless is life’s prime mover. We are allocated a fixed amount of it. We decide how we invest those hours. Some of us are allocated fewer hours than others. But, thankfully, it's our collective moments, including moments of greatness, that define us for the ages.

Chapter One

“The history of the world is but the biography of great men.”
--Thomas Carlyle

It was a soft morning in Los Cabos, rather cool for July. Ben found the light breeze off the Pacific particularly comforting as he stood on his balcony taking it all in. The ocean was calm, sheathed in multiple shades of blue and teal, vibrantly revealing the ocean bottom's contours. Ben felt at peace. Ben seldom felt otherwise.
The phone in his suite rang. “Good morning, Ben. Are you up and at it?”
“I've been up since five, ready to go.” Ben was always ready, impeccably dressed in golf attire closely fitting his tall, athletic body.
“How about we meet for breakfast? I'm in the dining room now.”
“On my way.”
Ben's host was the Director of Golf at this amazing oasis; an ultra-luxury development of homes, condos, and guest lodging with Mexico's newest, best, and most private golf course. As Ben rode the elevator down to the lobby he thought “I could get used to this.”
He met his host in the dining room where they exchanged the normal pleasantries. The waiter came promptly. Ben ordered; pancakes and eggs over easy.
His host already had coffee, but ordered a muffin; two gringos, giving no thought to the best huevos rancheros and chilaquiles on the peninsula.
“How did you sleep?”
“Great.” Most things with Ben were great.
“After breakfast I'll show you around, give you a tour of the course. We'll go to the range about eleven. You can warm up until eleven forty-five or so when our members and their guests will start arriving. We'll mingle a bit before you start your show. There will be drink carts so it's going to be a party. My guess is this group will hit the tequila pretty hard.”
Ben nodded as breakfast arrived. The waiter placed a large plate of pancakes in front of him and a second plate of three eggs to the side. Ben slid the eggs onto the pancakes, smothered it all in syrup, and then proceeded to mash it up with a fork.

***

“Welcome, ladies and gentlemen, to the grand opening of this amazing facility. We have a lovely day planned for you all. I see many have started the festivities by taking advantage of our well stocked drink carts, with only the finest spirits and mixers and Mexico's top rated cervezas. After our opening show here on the range, a gourmet lunch will be served on the patio, after which we'll cut the red tape on the course and invite all of you for a modified scramble, with generous tee gifts and prizes. Cocktails and awards will follow, and then dinner and dancing the night away.”
So, to get this wonderful afternoon started, I'm proud to announce one of the world's greatest trick shot artists, Mr. Ben Witter!”
Ben walked out to his designated teeing area to modest applause.

***

For the last twenty plus years, Ben Witter had developed into arguably the greatest golf trick shot artist of all time. His “acts” were not long on theatrics but Ben performed, without question, the most difficult shots ever attempted.
For example, he developed one act where he played tic-tac-toe. He’d set up a four foot square piece of plywood with a tic-tac-toe grid laid out on the surface, and set the board about thirty feet in front of the teeing area. He’d then ask for a volunteer to play, with the volunteer to place X’s in the squares.
Ben would be the circles, but instead of drawing a circle he would hit a shot with a driver into his chosen square, the ball passing through the plywood producing his “play”.
Ben developed another act, by far his most difficult. The first iteration of this act had Ben with a driver in his left hand, held at a point similar to where the backswing would be. He would hold a wedge in his right hand and bounce a golf ball on the face of the wedge several times, perhaps bouncing it off his knee once or twice, and bouncing it off the top of the driver head, but ultimately popping the ball up, dropping the wedge, and then hitting a powerful drive out of mid-air.
The act progressed to where Ben did all of this, but instead of standing on the ground he stood on a forty-two inch diameter exercise ball (try just balancing on one of those on your knees--it’s incredibly difficult). But that wasn’t even enough, so the act evolved to where he would have a member of the crowd stand behind his line of flight and toss a ball and Ben would hit it out of mid-air, while standing on the exercise ball. He’d have the “tosser” toss several balls, every couple seconds or so. Typically he’d not miss a single shot.

***

Standing on the practice tee that day, with perhaps a hundred onlookers, Ben commenced his show with an exciting albeit simple act. He had three balls teed up, with open books of matches in front of each ball. He quickly hit three successive very powerful drives. Each time the club compressed the matches against the ball, the matches went off like a firecracker. It never failed to get the crowd going a bit.
Ben proceeded through his progression of acts but for some reason was a bit off that day. It was not uncommon for Ben to miss-hit shots. The shots he performed were, after all, incredibly difficult. But today he was missing more than usual.
It actually was a miracle Ben was out there at all, having dealt with metastatic cancer for nearly twenty-five years, multiple cancerous tumors growing within his otherwise perfectly fit body, not so long ago having had a lung removed.
Yet Ben seemed to be able to overcome any obstacle thrown at him. So when Ben whiffed his first three attempts standing on the exercise ball, and an inebriated guy in the crowd rudely called him out for it, Ben took it in stride. And like a good comedian, he had a way of dealing with hecklers.
Ben called out to the guy, “Hey, why don't you come down here and let's have a contest.” The guy was quick to accept, stepping onto the teeing area with a sly grin.
Ben laid out the contest. “See that first target green about 40 yards out? Here's the challenge. You use any club you want. We each hit three shots. Whomever hits one the closest to the pin wins. The catch for me is I will hit a driver.
It should be noted by the non-golfers that a “wedge” is a club designed for accurate short shots like the one in the contest. “Drivers” are used on long holes to hit “tee shots” as far as possible, hence the worst possible club to use for a 40 yard shot.
The heckler was quick to accept the terms of the contest, and a member of the crowd accommodated him with a wedge. Ben invited him to hit the first shot. The heckler took a couple practice swings--you could tell he definitely had game--stepping up to the ball and without delay hitting a lovely shot that landed on the green and rolled to within ten feet of the pin.
This gave Ben cause for concern. Usually his hecklers would choke and not come close to the green, the whole gig in front of a large crowd and such. And seldom did Ben face off against a guy who could truly play.
Oh well.
Ben proceeded to dig into his bag, stuffed with various crazy clubs, and pulled out a long driver shaft without the head. He stuck the shaft end into the ground. Then he stuck a tee in the little hole at the top of the grip upon which he placed a ball, literally a four foot high golf tee. Ben proceeded, with a driver, to set up to hit the shot, except he was not aiming at the green. He was aiming almost straight up.
Without digging into the applicable physics, a shot that is hit almost straight up, instead of out, produces a parabolic flight. Ben would hit these shots perhaps 10 degrees out and otherwise straight up. The ball would travel along the upward trajectory, but the ball would curve back, over the audience initially. In descent, the ball would then curve out and ultimately land in front of the audience.
This is why Ben always had to implore the audience to stay where they were. He learned this the hard way as when he started hitting this shot the audience would, in panic, run forward into the path of the descending shot.
Ben's plan, that day, was for the ball to land on the green. He initially had figured anything close to the green would win. Hence, Ben had a bit of a task to accomplish after the heckler hit that first one.
Ben set up, aligned with his left shoulder much higher than his right. He waggled behind the ball, four feet above the ground. And then he applied his skills, having been a two time NCAA long drive champion, and hit a rocket into the sky.
A normal drive by a good player will fly in the air around six or seven seconds. Ben's rockets would take ten seconds or more to land. The crowd watched the ball, first going up and out a bit, but then traveling backwards overhead causing not a little apprehension. But then it proceeded to swing outward. It landed, twenty yards in front of Ben, nowhere near the green.
Ugh.
The heckler's brazen attitude became almost bellicose. It was the heckler's turn. Showing the calm of a pro, he proceeded to hit his second shot inside the first! Six feet. He looked at Ben and rudely snickered. A member of the crowd handed him a shot of tequila and a wedge of lime.
Ben's turn. Shot number two was, for all intents and purposes, no better than number one, landing ten yards to the right of the green.
Double Ugh.
The heckler's cockiness reached an extreme as he stepped into shot #3 and, to Ben's shock, knocked it inside two feet!
Triple Ugh.
The whole crowd now had gotten unruly--typical mob mentality--the more in the mob the lower the average IQ. Ben thought, the only thing they haven't done is light the torches and start marching.
Ben, however, remained outwardly his normal calm and well-assured self. He looked at the heckler with his typical gentle smile, and teed up his ball for the final shot of the contest.
Then he paused. He looked into the crowd to the pretty girl managing the closest drink cart. “I’d like a double Cabo Wabo, please--no lime.” The young lady poured the drink and brought it to Ben. Ben swigged it all in one large gulp, smiled at the crowd, and turned back to his task at hand.
Ben's focus increased. He was in his own world at this moment with the only thought being he must pull off a miracle. He set up, pulled the trigger, and launched the shot, the sound of the club meeting the ball noticeably more powerful than the prior shots. The hang time seemed endless. The ball traveled upward, back over the crowd, starting down and moving toward the green and...
Wham!
The ball flew directly into the cup! Into the cup, where it stayed! The crowd erupted. Ben turned to them with a look on his face and via his body language that said “I was just toying with this cocky heckler, whom I just made look like a chump.”
The heckler suddenly became contrite, getting down on his knees and bowing with his head and arms toward Ben. The crowd went even more ballistic. Ben had just hit a walk-off grand slam to win the World Series.

***

The crowd that day, unless they had known Ben intimately, could never have suspected that Ben's dream as a young man had had nothing to do with becoming the world's greatest golf trick shot artist. Nor, could they have gotten any sense of the cancer that lay within Ben's body.
Hitting trick shots had become, simply, Ben's vocation. The cancer was no more than a potential source of despair to which Ben refused to succumb.
This is Ben's story. It's all true. Everything described herein actually happened… the amazing golf shots, the clairvoyance, the incredible physical feats that clearly defined Ben as a savant.
But even more amazing was the positivity, perseverance, grace, strength, love, faith, and courage Ben showed every minute of every day for his entire adult life.

What is greatness?

Is it conquering nations,
curing the unwell,
leading and inspiring the masses,
inventing world-changing technology,
accomplishing great feats
sacrificing one’s self for higher causes?

Or,

is it loving well, glorifying God,
overcoming immense personal odds,
never showing but always serving need
raising others' hearts and minds,
being ever humble and giving
while encouraging and teaching others?

It is all of these things, and more.

Chapter Ten

They sat, quietly waiting. The chairs were austere, uncomfortable. The room was small and sterile. The floor was carpeted--a tight pile--industrial--no nonsense. Suma's desk was perfectly organized--no sign of scatter or disorganization. A steel filing cabinet sat to her left, empty magnetic clips adhering to its side. One could only imagine the lives affected by the information contained within.
The room, as the entire building, had that distinct smell that was all too familiar to Ben--all at once antiseptic, yet infected; a smell of wellness, yet sickness; life, yet death. It was a smell he had endured for twenty-five years, all the time hoping... wishing... praying that it would all go away--far away, as if it was just one long dreadful dream extinguished by the glorious purity of the morning sun.
After staring intently at the computer screen for several minutes, seemingly oblivious to the presence of her apprehensive visitors, Suma stood up and, without saying a word, exited the room. Ben thought this to be a strange act. He looked at his mother. Linda remained oblivious to the moment. Ben chose not to express his concern.
Time passed. Suma had not returned. Suma Phillip was a pre-admission nurse at Jefferson University Hospital. She was a lovely, slender lady of Pakistani descent, very polite and reassuring. But her absence was not at all reassuring.

***

Ben's day had begun very early, as usual. As had been the norm, he had not slept much. A cocktail of vodka with a handful of Percocets the night before had only managed to put him in a state of catatonia for a few hours. Otherwise the pain in his jaw remained too excruciating to sleep. Yet somehow he maintained his unerringly positive attitude while he showered, shaved, and dressed--as if it was just another day. This particular August day was gray and wet. The air was stale--a product of the heat, humidity, and stillness. It was as if the world had stopped turning--and all life had been frozen in time. Ben felt alone. And the pain had become nearly unbearable.
He drove the thirteen miles up the mountain to his parents' house where he picked up his mother. They proceeded to make the eighty mile trip from Myerstown to Philadelphia.
As if what Ben was about to go through that day and over the many ensuing months wasn't enough, the confusing process of finding a parking place and then navigating the massive complex of Jefferson Hospital--covering four city blocks--added insult to injury. But as trying as it was, they made it through the maze of hallways to the incoming patients' desk at the appointed time of 8:00 a.m. for their first pre-surgical consultation with the anesthesiologist.
But no one was to be found. Ben nervously paced back and forth within the large lobby, his apprehension growing. It was not until 8:45 that a receptionist appeared, who informed Ben and Linda that "the doctor doesn't even come in until nine o'clock".
So they waited... until 9:45 when the doctor finally called Ben into the first of the countless suffocating little rooms he would visit that day. The consultation essentially was a bunch of gibberish which was code for "don't sue me". Damn those lawyers.
Ben signed what seemed like scores of documents to assure the anesthesiologist that it was okay if Ben expired on the operating table, and then it was off to the next torture chamber, which in this case was an MRI machine. But when they arrived they discovered the MRI department had been relocated--to the basement of an adjoining bank.
  After getting lost, ending up in the bank itself, then being escorted to the elevator which took them to the basement, and finally reaching their alleged destination, they were told they needed to go to the "other MRI department" located over a block away.
The MRI scan, along with a PET scan, was scheduled for the purpose of determining if Ben had developed any further tumors since his last examination. The cancer that had produced a half-baseball sized tumor in his jaw--the one causing the unbearable pain--had previously metastasized to the occipital lobe of his brain. That tumor was "only" the size of a golf ball.
The surgery, for which Ben had been preparing for months, would be radical and, at best, life changing. At worst it would be life ending.
Actually, two surgeries were planned. The first would be to remove the tumor from Ben's brain. The second, and most extreme surgery, would involve a very complex procedure called "free flap" where in this case, after the large tumor was removed from Ben's disintegrated jaw, it would be rebuilt using bone taken from Ben's fibula.
This surgery would condemn Ben to a hospital bed for many months, fed by tubes, his appearance unpredictably changed, and almost definitely with permanent debilitation such that Ben would not be able to carry on with his current primary career as a golf trick shot entertainer.
For months Ben had been laboring, agonizing over the decision of whether or not to move forward with the surgery. He explored every possible alternative, and found none. He consulted with doctors, family, friends, his pastor, and just about anyone else who would listen--hoping against hope that a less radical approach could be discerned. But no answer came.
Ben tried to will the pain away, and convince himself he could live with two growing cancerous tumors. But logic and objectivity finally caught up with him. There was no other hope. If he was to have any chance of beating this he would have to roll the dice with the free flap surgery.
So Ben committed to the plan and commenced preparations--he put his finances in order, made arrangements for the handling of his golf teaching business, organized his family commitments. He prepared himself; and now here he was, going from room to room, waiting, pacing, waiting longer, signing document after document, getting poked, prodded, and tested, literally signing his life away to people who treated his fate--the fate of his children's father-- as if he was buying tires; then he waited more.
One would think Ben would have taken at least a moment to dwell on the dire nature of his health challenges--perhaps a moment of self pity. But this was not Ben's way. Ben didn't know self pity, and if he ever had faced it he would have slain it before it had had a chance to make its move.
Ben was one who consistently placed his focus on others, most notably God and family. There was no more devoted grandson, son, husband, and father than Ben. His wife Ann had had a most trying year, losing both parents. Then, Ben and Ann's youngest daughter Gabbie was diagnosed with Ewing's sarcoma, a rare and insidious children's cancer with an alarmingly low long term survival rate.
This, along with Ben's challenges, was nearly all that Ann could withstand. Yet, she remained her gentle giving self through it all, carrying on with her everyday routine caring for Ben, little Nic, and the four girls. This included spending long hours and nights in the Hershey Children's Hospital where Gabbie was to remain for up to forty-eight weeks for ongoing chemotherapy treatments.

***

So there he sat, his loving mother at his side, the silence cutting through him like a thousand knives, the pain in his jaw so utterly, impossibly excruciating that few if perhaps any other men could have withstood it. But there he sat, patiently, not a sign of discord on his face, glancing at Linda with a gentle smile, his inner strength repressing any sign of concern.
But, finally, the wait became too much for Ben. He tood up and walked around Suma's desk and proceeded to examine the information on her computer screen. It was not encouraging. After a few moments he asked Linda to come take a look. Linda was a retired RN, and Ben had hoped she would provide a more positive interpretation of what he was seeing.
But no such interpretation came. Linda confirmed what the report said--that the MRI taken earlier that day had identified numerous new tumors. The report confirmed that Ben's body was riddled with cancer, stage four, as bad as it gets. Besides his brain and jaw, multiple tumors were found in his lungs, abdomen, chest cavity, and spine.
Ben's heart sank. For a moment all he could think was he had played his final cards--there was nothing else the world of medicine could do. Stage four cancer spread into this many locations would give him perhaps only months-- and no measurable hope of any means of extending his time let alone finding a cure.
He stood there, leaning over staring at the screen, moving not a muscle, forgetting the presence of his mother, forgetting where he was, forgetting who he was, forgetting everything. For a moment it was a paradoxically wonderful feeling, that brief moment. It had been over twenty-five years since he had put all thoughts aside with such completeness.
But like death and taxes, reality set in. Ben stood up, his posture perfect as usual, his amazingly fit, athletic body towering over Linda. Linda looked at Ben and saw someone she wasn't sure she knew. Ben said, "Mom, let's get out of here."
Before Linda had a chance to react, Suma entered the room, a look of disdain on her face as she noticed Ben and Linda behind her desk. Ben said, "When were you going to tell me?".
"Tell you what?", Suma feigned.
"You know what."
"That information is between your doctor and you."
  "YOU BETTER GET HIM IN HERE NOW", Ben said in a very uncharacteristically loud voice.
  Suma dialed the doctor's office--no luck.
"CALL HIM ON HIS CELL PHONE." Ben's voice remained strong, but had morphed from anger to near panic. Suma dialed the doctor's cell--no answer.
"I'M OUTTA HERE! YOU PEOPLE ARE RIDICULOUS! MOM, LET'S GO!" Ben stormed out of Suma's office, his perplexed mother chasing behind, with Suma following. Ben was in a state of utter confusion. He had no plan, no concept of what he should do next. He had reached the end of all reasonable thought and possibility--the stuff of the ultimate nightmare-- total hopelessness.
Ben and Linda took an elevator to the first floor, leaving a flustered Suma behind. As they were marching toward the lobby Ben's cell phone rang. It was Dr. Hefflefinger's office. "Please come up here immediately", the lady said. "The doctor must see you!".
Ben stopped. He looked at his mother and said, "Mom, it's Dr. Hefflefinger's office. He wants to see me. I owe it to him. He has been good to me." Ben had no idea what his next move should be, but he was a gentleman, so he and Linda went to Dr. Hefflefinger's second floor office--where they waited.
Five minutes passed; then ten. Ben finally stood up, looked at Linda and said, "Are you ready to go?"
"Yes."
Ben approached the receptionist's desk, asked for a piece of paper and pen, and wrote this note:

Dr. Hefflefinger, I am officially resigning from the surgery. Thank you for your time. I can't believe you were going to put me through the surgery without telling me about the other cancer!
Sincerely,
Ben Witter

As they walked back through the lobby, Ben's phone rang again. This time it was the doctor. "Ben, you must come back so we can talk this over."
"Tell me this..." Ben replied, "When were you going to tell me...? After you cut out my jaw, and removed the bone from my leg, leaving me an invalid?" Ben hung up the phone and grabbed his mother's hand. Together they walked outside.
It had started to rain. Ben stopped, and stood quietly. He looked up, the raindrops bouncing off his forehead and down across his face. Linda's hair was not getting the best of it, but she sensed that Ben needed this time for reflection and contemplation.
Ben was forty-seven years old. For more than half of his life he had fought a most insidious form of continually metastasizing cancer. His youngest daughter, his dear Gabbie, lay in bed in Hershey Children's Hospital, starting her third month of chemotherapy. His wife Ann was pouring all her heart and soul into coping with the adversity she had been facing that year, on top of the last twenty-five.
Ben had sixteen growing cancerous tumors--stage four. The pain in his jaw was beyond unbearable, with no earthly way to achieve relief. The tumor was slowly crushing what was left of his jawbone, already disintegrating from prior radiation therapy. After spending over a year searching desperately for any possible alternative for the radical free flap surgery, he had found no other solution.
And then, at the lowest point of his life--at just about the lowest point any man could reach in life--Ben had just walked out on the only possible chance he had at survival.
It was at that precise moment--just as the rain intensified to a solid downpour--that Ben suddenly, almost magically, felt as if the weight of the world had started to melt away, off his shoulders, off his body, down onto the sidewalk and then over the curb onto the pavement and into the storm sewer... gone.
Somehow, some way, Ben had been freed from the shackles of two and half decades of fighting for his life. He felt indescribably wonderful.
Had he given up? No. Ben had no idea how he was going to survive. No one would have given him a chance. But to make it this far, he had needed extraordinary faith. And as he stood there, his faith burning brighter than ever, Ben knew in his heart that he would survive.
And so Ben began the first day of the rest of his incredible life.

Chapter Twelve (final chapter)

Bill had just sat down, and was enjoying the warm gulf breeze when his cell phone rang. It was Savannah. "Hi Vanny!"
Bill was always very happy to hear from his only daughter. Savannah was a little more than two months away from graduating magna cum laude from the Scripps School of Journalism at Ohio University. She recently had applied into a two year program called "Teach For America" in which top students are selected to teach in impoverished regions of the U.S.
"Hi Dad. Guess what?" Savannah was her usual upbeat self.
"What?"
"I got a call from Teach For America. They said they want to have a final interview next month."
"Wow. Does that mean you might get the job?"
"Yep."
"What happened to interviews two and three?"
  "I guess I don't need to go through those. They said they'd make the decision after the next one".
"Wow. That's fantastic Vanny."
"Where are you?"
"I'm in Jupiter, Florida. Vanny, my other line is ringing."
"That's okay. I just wanted to tell you about my interview."
"Okay. I love you."
"Love you too." Savannah hung up.
"Ben?"
"Hi Bill."
"Hey. How are you doing?"
"I'm good..." Ben accented the word "good" in his usual upbeat voice. "I'm a little beat up. I just finished a Cyberknife treatment."
"Ugh. How much longer will that last?"
"This round will run through next week, and then I get a break. Then there will be another two rounds of about two weeks each."
"That really has to take it out of you--and I feel badly for you for all the time and productivity it sucks up."
  "Oh well." That was about as much pity as Ben ever allowed himself, and about the strongest terms into which he ever put his ongoing struggles. "I'm just sorry I haven't gotten you more of the information you requested for the book. I was thinking, I've got a couple hours of drive time going back and forth from the hospital. Maybe we could schedule some time to talk then."
"That's a great idea. My schedule opens up next week. Let's plan on it. Send me your driving schedule and I'll call you."
"And there's one more thing."
"What's that?"
"They told me today there are two tumors on my spine that they can't treat with Cyberknife. They have recommended that I get scheduled for chemotherapy."
"Oh great. That's all you need." Bill paused, and privately contemplated Ben's latest challenge. "Well, I guess if anyone can rise above it, you can."
"Oh, yeah. No problem. I just need to decide what to do. I'm not sure I want to get chemo."
"Well, you've got more Cyberknife treatments coming up so you can just take it one step at a time."
"Yep."

***

The southern California sun was shining brightly, no sign of the smog that so often envelopes the L.A. basin. It was one of those clear winter days southern Californians lived for.
The air was dry, but the distinct smell of the nearby grove of eucalyptus hung heavily, yet delightfully, in the air. Ben loved that smell. It was one of the smells that defined California for him, along with the desert smells of Palm Springs and the heavy garlic permeating the air around Gilroy.
More than perhaps anyone in the storied history of the course, Ben was enjoying his walk through this Elysian Field otherwise known as Riviera Country Club, and perhaps more than anyone he truly was stopping to smell the roses--or at least the eucalyptus.
After more than a quarter of a century consumed by cancer, its demands, and its prostrations, Ben finally had overcome it all and had focused on getting his golf game in shape. His goal was to play a few events on the Champions Tour, to be able to say he did it, to have young Nic by his side, on his bag. But, like everything else he had done his entire life, Ben had worked tirelessly--with the focus of a Spartan warrior--and ultimately had exceeded all expectations.
For having earned a limited exemption onto the PGA TOUR, he was now playing in the "Show", at one of the most famous venues in the world, in the Northern Trust Open. And, as he strolled up the eighteenth fairway, the same fairway Hogan had walked countless times, he could almost feel the Hawk's presence. Ben was a very spiritual man, and he believed in symbiotic resonance. Like Hogan, his middle name was Ben, and like Hogan, he had overcome a serious health issue and had returned to tournament golf.
And, almost definitely needing a birdie to make the cut on this, his thirty-sixth hole, Ben stood two hundred and fifteen yards from the green in the right rough. He wasted no time in pulling a five-iron from the lightweight "Sunday bag" he had brought for Nic to carry, quickly set up over the ball, and swung away--using his unusual strength and perfect form to power through the thick kikuyu rough.
They say at Riviera if you drive into the right rough on eighteen you have no chance of reaching the green. Ben chuckled at that thought as he saw his towering shot drop, softly, less than twelve feet to the right of the pin.
As Ben strode up the hill toward the green, it was not the short putt for birdie and a ticket into the weekend that occupied his mind. It was not the fact that here he was, at age forty-eight years and eight months, playing in his first PGA TOUR event.
As Ben approached the green, proud little Nic tagging along taking two and a half steps for each of Ben's, Ben was warm with the knowledge that following along, outside the ropes, was his family. He looked over and saw his mother Linda, father John, his wife Ann, his four daughters Sammy, Alex, Maggie, and a strong and healthy Gabbie, his brother Jamie, and sister Jean.
Ben had finally realized his dream. It was all worth it. The radiation, the months lying in hospital beds, the hundreds of outpatient visits and doctor consultations, the thousands of tests, the countless prescriptions and treatments, legal and not; the seemingly endless pain, the worry, the distraction, the lost productivity, the obsession with health and recovery. It was all completely worth it for this one day. Whether or not he made that putt mattered not because Ben felt in his heart he had finally beat cancer and he was where he had always wanted to be--with his entire family by his side. In a word, Ben felt reborn--with all of the optimism and wonderment of a young child.
And when it came time for Ben to putt, he quickly stepped into his stance. The putt was straight, and uphill. He could strike it firmly, through any marks or irregularities resulting from the heavy play of the second round. He visualized a true and accurate roll into the back of the cup, took one confident look at the line, then drew the putter back...