First, I need to be clear: Words, whether, as in this blog, few or many will not capture the impact that each of the following mentors had – and still have – upon me. In addition no words can begin to capture the deep gratitude I have for each of these mentors, so at this point a simple ‘Thank you’ will have to suffice. Here are two of the four mentors as they appeared in my life.
Larry Kelly. I was 11 years old and in the 5th grade when Coach Kelly walked down the hall, stopped and greeted me. I was ‘big’ for my age, had a birth defect which enabled me to run with a limp, I was in Coach’s words ‘agile without speed.’ He invited me to join the 5th grade basketball team. For some reason I decided to give it a go. He saw talents in me and natural abilities that I did not know I possessed – he insistently called these forth. He was gruff and kind, intense and caring. He loved kids. For four years he discerned, called forth, challenged, and affirmed ME and my latent and developing abilities. For example, Coach Kelly identified that I had great eye-hand coordination; he called this forth, helped me develop it, and found ways to help me make a contribution (both to the basketball team and to the softball team). I sit here this morning, I close my eyes and I tear up as I savor his face looking at me smiling his affirming yet challenging smile.
Stan Swast. I was 12 years old. It was early May. Because of his birth defect my dad did not think he could play golf. He did belong to a country club however. My dad came home early that Tuesday afternoon, told me to get in the car as he and I were going to go for a drive. He drove to the country club and as we parked he announced that someone in the family was going to learn to play golf and I was the one. He then announced that I was about to have my first golf lesson. I did not want to do this. Stan Swast showed upon on the range with a bucket of golf balls and a five iron. He handed me the five iron, threw a ball on the ground and said: ‘Hit the ball!’ I had been thinking about this. I replied: ‘I am left handed and this is a right handed club, I cannot hit the ball.’ Stan did not miss a beat. ‘All great golfers are left handed and play golf right handed; hit the ball.’ I did and within three tries I was hooked. Stan was my coach for six years. I cannot recall his ever criticizing me. He called my abilities forth by naming them and by encouraging me and by building on what was going well. He helped me accept that although I did not have a ‘killer instinct’ that I could play great golf by focusing on the course, then on the hole I was on, then on the shot I was about to hit. Image it and hit it! Simple. He affirmed my quiet nature and my caring about my opponent and to focus on the shot I was about to hit. I could easily write pages about the hours I spent with Stan off the practice tee in and around the pro shop, but space is limited.
Perhaps the real gift in all of this was that my dad, who insisted on taking me to my lessons and who sat in a chair and watched me as I practiced announced after my first year of lessons: ‘I can do this!’ And he, at age 52, with a disability, took up the game (as then did my mother). He did have a killer instinct — as did my mother; folks did not want to play them in match play. Stan Swast gave us a triple gift – he gifted Me, he gifted my Dad and he gifted my Mother. I close my eyes and I hear his calm voice affirming me; again, my eyes tear up.
Searcher-Seeker 