Golfing with my Dad, my best partner

by Marcus Morrison

Over the last 25 years, I’ve taken on a lot of titles – son, teenager, student, bartender, accountant, recruiter, to name a few. I’ve lived in seven cities across three states, three countries, and two continents. Let’s not even start to count how many different houses and apartments I’ve called home.

My dad, over those same 25 years, has been, well, a dad, a husband, business owner, empty-nester and, more recently, a retiree. He’s lived in one house, in one town, in one state. He’s been the epitome of consistency. Busy by 6:30 every morning, walking the dogs or preparing for the day. Always home before dinner.

Although our lives have changed at a different pace over the last decades, on the weekend after Memorial Day we adopt the same title towards one another: partner. Every year we team up for a two-day golf tournament at our home course of Highland Golf Course, a municipal layout in Pocatello, Idaho.

Although the tournament – played in a 2-player scramble the first day and then a best-ball format – is now called the Mama Inez Golf Tournament, my dad and I still call it the “The Press Box” tournament, after the title sponsor of the event in 2002, the first year we played. That year I was 13, my dad 47, and it was the first “grown up” golf tournament I ever played in. I still remember making some mistakes involving the rules and etiquette of the game. My dad never once got mad, and I was hooked on the game from that point. When people ask me when I started playing golf, I tell them, “I started taking it seriously at 13 when I played in a tournament with my dad.”

Neither of us knew that the event would still be part of our lives in 2026. We played the day after my sister’s wedding. We played for two years during a global pandemic. At least three times we played on days when we would attend funerals later in the afternoon. In 2011, I made a 180-mile round-trip drive on a Saturday evening to not miss my bartending shift. And, oh, these last nine years I have made the 5,000-mile flight across the Atlantic Ocean from my home in Europe to make sure I was home, home. Only once did my clubs not complete the journey with me – a sarcastic thank you to Air France for that and a sincere thank you to my friend, Brandon, who allowed me to borrow his clubs for the weekend.

We started from the bottom, worked our way up to the top, and now are somewhere in the middle. Just like the name of the tournament has changed, our roles as teammates have changed over the years. My dad was the coach, teaching me how to play tournament golf and being the stronger player of the team. Now, we rely on his putting skills and consistency. At 71, he still outdrives almost everyone his age, but it’s a bit tougher to keep up with the 30-year-olds. Meanwhile, my game fluctuates with a handicap hovering around 7, largely dependent on how much I practice. Each year, my dad will undoubtedly joke that I need to get my handicap up so that we can play in a more appropriate flight. I’ll let him know that my game is really coming into form and that we can compete with the first flighters, at least with net scores.

There have been great years, winning our flight twice and finishing second at least twice more. These last two years we’ve even been “in the money” again. And there have been some not-so-great years, ones that are much easier to forget. There were times when we tested each other’s patience and there have been times of elation after a miraculous shot that helped us secure victory. I still think of that perfectly struck 7-iron on the last hole the weekend after my high school graduation, 19 years ago. Or the time when we chipped in for eagle 2 on the sixth hole and won the skins. There was once an opening run of six holes where we made four birdies (a very good thing) and two double bogeys (a very bad thing), leaving us at even par (a very average thing) without actually making a par.

We have taken a team picture the last 18 years and shared beers in reflection of the rounds for the last 15. We’ve always stopped for hot dogs after the front nine and always thought we had a chance at winning (or at least improving our standing) come Sunday, no matter how bad Saturday went. Never has the tournament been cancelled and only once has it been shortened by thunderstorms.

Of course, over 25 years, life also goes on beyond the golf course. Last April I got married and for the first time that June, my wife made the journey from Amsterdam to Pocatello. “Are you like some sort of celebrity here?” she asked, as I explained to her how we know everyone that says hello. “That’s Kelly Harris, my dad’s cousin’s nephew on the other side.” She nods and enjoys a hotdog bought from Deb in the cafe at the turn. Deb has worked here at the clubhouse for all those 25 years.

But with marriage, schedules get more complicated. There are competing priorities during those precious and limited summer months. My parents also talk about moving – neither my sister nor I live that close to home anymore, and many of their friends have recently moved away. Sadly, some of their friends have even passed away. Their reasons to stay each year are fewer and fewer. So my dad and I have talked a bit about this being our last year, ending on a nice round number. 25. Maybe we will play in a different event, on a different weekend, or at a different course. All of that is to be decided.

And all of that would be fine. I’ll cherish those moments with my dad. Where the strokes that are made don’t count for as much as who they are made with.

Secretly though, I hope we keep playing in this tournament. On the weekend after Memorial Day. With my mom popping out to watch a few holes and making sure that I don’t throw my clubs (I was a teenager once, remember). And secretly, I hope in five years, the week before Memorial Day, I’m rewriting this story with tales of a few more birdies in preparation for another year playing in “The Press Box” with my partner, my Dad.

Marcus Morrison was a USGA P.J. Boatwright Intern for the Idaho Golf Association in 2012.