Foto: Suministrada

Today I missed you; I said goodbye, maybe a "see you soon". You never arrived to our golf appointment. When you called a couple of weeks ago you promised my secretary you would come to Puerto Rico that Saturday, for a golf round we had long coming.

I still remember the last time we played golf. It was in New York (Bethpage Black) and I beat you. Even though you learned how to play golf at the relative young age of 55, you caught up with me quickly. You turned my steady 90´s game into a challenge. Yes you bent a rule here and there, but your feistiness, your competitiveness, that drive to beat the opponent in such a demanding game made you a menace once in a golf course. That day in New York I barely beat you. Neither you nor I knew that the next day you would undergo emergency heart surgery, angioplasty and five stents implanted to be exact. No wonder I was able to beat you.

You never showed up for our game in Puerto Rico. You couldn't; you were trampled by debris, buried somewhere in Haiti. You never told my secretary you were first going to Haiti to pursue that dreadful deal. I remember months before, when you invited me to join you in pursuing the same deal we did in Santo Domingo, this time in Haiti. You called me "chicken shit", but I remained adamant; "I'm not going to that hell hole" was my stern answer. But not even the devil's mouth would stop you from driving forward, from pursuing the ultimate deal, the ever pressing challenge. No mountain was high enough, no struggle too tough, no obstacle insurmountable; a game demanding discipline, precision and patience, a game like golf, that would never be difficult enough for you, my friend. Your stubborn resiliency would welcome such challenges with a vengeance. Haiti was another one you would not back off from, even if it meant death by entombment.

I could have been with you, yes in Haiti; you could have been with me, yes in the golf course in Puerto Rico. Neither one was in either place. You went on to meet destiny, the day of reckoning, while I had to stay behind with no golf partner and a persistent anxiousness as to your whereabouts. Today I had to listen to a priest asking before your corpse, "What would Joe say to Christ once they meet in heaven?" Most of your mourners laughed, some echoed an answer in chorus fashion, "Let's make a deal", but I knew you would have rather asked for another chance, another chance at golfing with you friends, one more opportunity to face another earthly challenge in life. Why not at golf…?

Today I brought you a cigar and a golf ball. I knew all about the Italian tradition, I saw it in that movie, "The Godfather" (your favorite!), during the scene of Vito Corleone's burial: how each mourner would throw a flower at the coffin; a sign of respect and love, as I understood it. I wanted to go beyond that, I wanted to throw the cigar and the golf ball, your indulgences. I did it and my soul was relieved, comforted by the promise that life is everlasting beyond this earthly world, reminded that death is nothing to fear particularly when it can show up so unexpectedly, so inevitably. I left reassured by a bag full of remembrances of that friendship I had with the man that coined the word friendship. You should have seen the faces, there was little grief, mostly affection, respect and yes, friendship. Even those you fought to love or loved to fight you were there. I was there, mad as hell for not having you in that golf game Saturday, yet equally joyous because I met a man like you some twenty years ago who regardless of the ocean of distance separating us always cultivated the greatest friendship we could enjoy. I am pretty sure there will be golf in heaven, thus you will take advantage of it. When time comes to join you I will certainly be at a disadvantage; divine golf!

At first I was devastated when I heard the news. In Haiti, why? No, please God, not to my friend, not to my contentious golf partner. At home we remained hopeful, that somehow you would be found alive within the rubble. After a few days people grew skeptical, not me. I knew that if there was a chance to fight you would take advantage of it, you were the best fighter. Fate had to be more than competitive to beat you; life would have to cheat you badly. The devil's mouth tried to swallow you, but even in such crucial moment you somehow beat the opponent. Thanks to God, your body was delivered to all of us for proper burial. Because of God, you soul was already with us, nobody capable of snatching it from those who loved you. Your legacy and example will always remain with us. And, about your golf game… well, we'll have to do something about it.

Author’s Note:

My friend, Joe Guercia (1939-2010), died last week a victim of that terrible earthquake in Port au-Prince, Haiti. Even though the background of this story is based on true facts, the story is meant to be fiction as is everything I write on a monthly basis for the "Golf Literario" section of Hole In One Golf News. For the record, Joe Guercia was not scheduled to play golf with me in Puerto Rico the Saturday right after the earthquake, but I certainly wish we could have gone golfing that day, in Puerto Rico or anywhere. And as to the real Joe: rest in heaven my dear friend, don't give God too much of a hard time.

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