Grateful to the Game

I spent the morning of Nov. 23, 2019, the way I love spending most cold Saturday mornings: buried on my couch, drinking coffee, watching golf being played somewhere warmer than it is outside my window in Lancaster County, Pennsylvania. On this particular day, the golf of choice was an episode of No Laying Up’s Tourist Sauce that inspired me to send this text to my good friend Tyler: “I’d like to take Parker on a couple golf trips this winter. Was thinking it would be fun to get him out on your dad’s course in Atlanta if that would be a possibility?”

I sent that text at 10:25 a.m.

At 10:39 a.m., I was back on my phone, this time calling 911.

The first time I broke 90 was at Moccasin Run Golf Club in Atglen, Pennsylvania. I shot 88, and while I’d like to think that 33-year-old Bryan putted everything out that day, it was more than a decade ago, and the memories beyond the score are fuzzy.

But I know I hit the bottom of every cup the first time I broke 80, six years later. I was a month from turning 40 and shot an unreal 77 at Lancaster Host Golf Course. After two decades of playing sporadically in my free time, I was completely obsessed with the game.

***

I was the only one in the house that morning when I found Parker’s body, and for that I will always be grateful.

My daughter, Kylie, was living about 30 minutes down the road, enrolled in a gap-year program she’d entered after graduating high school earlier that year. My wife, Erica, was an hour away, gearing up for a busy day selling pretzels and lemonade at the Auntie Anne’s we own at the Christiana Mall in Newark, Delaware.

I can’t exactly say why I’m grateful—it’s not like their absence saved them from having the worst day of their lives. They very much did, in fact, have the worst day of their lives. We all did.

But in those first few chaotic moments, I knew there was nothing that could be done, and I bore the initial brunt of the tragedy. Erica and Kylie would have been able to endure it—their strength would carry me many times over the coming weeks and months and years—but, looking back at those initial moments, I remain thankful that it was just me there first.

***

In 2016, I started the Hosel Jockeys Golf Podcast with Tyler, who was enjoying his own newfound golf obsession down in Georgia. As summer turned to fall, I began searching for a club to join for the following year. Among the finalists was Honeybrook Golf Club, a small, semiprivate course in Chester County.

I teed it up there on the last Wednesday of September, a single joining three other singles. It was my 40th birthday, and I was thrilled to be spending it on the course. I was not playing particularly well through 12 holes, but I hit my best shot of the day on the par-3 13th—a 7-iron from 158 into the prevailing westerly wind. When my ball was nowhere to be found on the green, we realized it was in the hole.

Not long after, I was signing the membership papers. Honeybrook became more than a golf club over the following years—Parker got his first job there, sending off foursomes and cleaning carts.

***

Parker was supposed to work at Honeybrook on that Saturday in November—a noon-to-close shift with a full tee sheet. I don’t recall exactly how long his alarm clock had been going off before I got off the couch to rattle him out of bed. I think it was four minutes, but maybe it was nine. Was his alarm set for 10:30 a.m. or 10:35? Trivial details in the grand scheme—just two more questions on the list of a thousand others we’ll never have answered.

When I opened the door to his bedroom and realized he was no longer with us, did I let the alarm clock continue to sound? Did I yank out the power cord? Did I hit the off button? I don’t remember.

***

My son joined me for a couple rounds in the summer of 2017, and he showed just enough hand-eye coordination from his years of baseball that Erica and I encouraged him to join the high school golf team as a freshman that fall.

He was hesitant about it, and though we really wanted him to try, we decided not to push him. A year later, however, we told Parker he had no choice. He had started working at Honeybrook, and his swing was improving from countless days of hitting balls on the range.

That year, he averaged 105.4, but, more importantly, he had a blast. His coach, Clair Beiler, created an incredible culture of fun and camaraderie for the boys, and it led to improvements on the scorecard. It seemed like Parker shaved a few strokes off his personal best every week.

The season ended with the annual parent-player scramble, where Parker sank a long putt for birdie on our first hole to set the tone for the day. We made four birdies and no bogeys and took home the first-place trophy, which still sits on my bookshelf.

***

I am not haunted by the events of the morning of November 23. The alarm clock. Discovering his body. The 911 call. Neighbors rushing to my aid when I ran outside because I didn’t know what else to do. The paramedics confirming what I already knew. The coroner explaining that it was likely an accidental overdose, when I naïvely thought he had choked to death by falling asleep while eating.

What haunts me are the events of that afternoon. The phone calls: Erica. My mother-in-law. My parents. Tyler. My pastor. Honeybrook, to let them know Parker would not be coming in.

Forcing the words to come out of my mouth over and over again. Hearing the shock and despair in the responses. The pain is still so sharp whenever these conversations creep back into my head. If you’ve ever had to make a phone call like that, you understand.

***

It finally got him in spring 2019, between the end of baseball season and the start of summer. The golf bug has a powerful bite, and Parker started hitting balls before and after work. He went to the course on his days off. He begged me to play every time he saw an open spot on our calendar. 

For me, it was a dream come true. He was driving the ball almost as well as I was, and his iron game was rounding into form. Putting was driving him crazy, but who is immune to that?

My parents visited from Massachusetts that summer, and we played Honeybrook with my father and father-in-law on a gorgeous June day. Despite more than 40 putts, Parker missed breaking 100 for the first time by only a couple shots. He asked me for help, so before we played again, we spent some time on the practice green, working on speed control for lag putting. Something clicked.

Two days later, he not only broke 100 for the first time but broke 90 as well, carding an 88. It remains the most fun I’ve ever had on a golf course. My heart swelled watching him start hot and play unafraid, knowing full well he was on his way to a personal best. It was magic.

I began picturing how many more times I’d have a front-row seat to Parker’s accomplishments on the course.

***

Until Parker’s, I had never understood how important funerals are for creating a place for the first moments shared between those who have lost loved ones and those who feel sympathy. But it was an unexpected blessing to knock out so many of those conversations in one shot.

We took solace in their kindness and hugs, and I found a small wave of peace and hope as I wrote and delivered Parker’s eulogy the day before Thanksgiving.

The instant he died, almost every avenue I had to show him love was stolen. But through my words, I found another way. With strength that I believe came from a God who promises to be near the brokenhearted, I honored him that day as best I could before we laid him to rest.

His golf team brought a driver and ball to the cemetery and asked if I would hit a drive for Parker out into the neighbor’s farm after the casket was put into the ground. I took my suit jacket off and managed a low pull-hook that would have missed almost every fairway on earth.

Whenever I think of that moment, I can still hear Parker’s voice in my head: “Not your best, Dad,” he would have smiled.

I have my health, I have golf, and I have a voice to share with anyone who will listen that all of these things are true. The gaping hole in my life remains, but I do have everything I need.

Parker’s junior-year golf season kicked off in August 2019, and all the work he had put in that summer paid immediate dividends. He beat me in a nine-hole round for the first time, and it seemed like he was shooting a new low score every other day. I had never seen him so excited about anything in his life.

He’d have practice after school, come home to eat dinner, then ask if he could go back to the course. As if I would ever say no to that.

While we failed to defend our parent-player scramble title, Parker did walk away with the Most Improved Golfer of the Year hardware at the end-of-season awards banquet. He had dropped almost a full 18 strokes off his average from his sophomore year, going from 105.4 to 87.8. I was so astounded when Coach Beiler announced it that I made him repeat the numbers so I could type them into the Notes app on my phone.

We drove home from Honeybrook with full hearts, so excited about the possibilities to come.

***

I like to ask people about their favorite golf shot they’ve ever hit. Truthfully, I only ask so I can share my own.

In the summer of 2019, Tyler came up from Georgia to play with me in the Honeybrook member-guest, and we managed to win our flight and make the alternate-shot shootout. After we survived elimination on the first hole, Tyler smoked a perfect drive down the middle of the second fairway. With two other groups in trouble off the tee, I knew that landing my approach on the green would get us into the money as one of the final groups moving on.

Parker was working at Honeybrook that day, and they let him take a cart and join the swelling gallery of 50-plus players. I knew he was in the crowd behind the second green when I hit that 100-yard approach.

“It landed pretty close to the hole,” he told me that night, “and I thought it was going to bounce to the back of the green. But it had so much spin, it just took a little hop and sat there at about 8 feet. Everyone oohed and aahed. It was awesome.”

I will never forget that shot or that conversation. 

***

Playing golf didn’t sound appealing in the weeks after Parker passed, but nothing really did. We wallowed in our grief, surrounded by our amazing friends and family, and survived one day at a time.

Nothing made sense. Outcomes of sporting events and the plots of movies and TV shows seemed ludicrous. So did a game where you try to hole a ball from hundreds of yards away. I knew I would care again someday, but my favorite golf buddy was gone. I was in no rush to care.

***

The Monday before Parker passed, he was supposed to try out for the high school basketball team. He was getting cold feet, but Erica and I didn’t want him to quit on the idea, so he could have a school sport over the winter. Then we found a better one.

Parker had started lessons with a new instructor, Rob Rowe at Bent Creek Country Club, and something Rob said after a session got me curious. I asked him if Parker had the game to play in college if he continued to apply himself. “Absolutely,” Rob texted back.

Erica and I told Parker he could step away from basketball tryouts if he went all in on golf throughout the winter. His eyes lit up.

After explaining to the basketball coach that he was focusing on golf, Parker and I spent a couple of hours working on his swing and putting at Honeybrook. On Wednesday, we went back and did it again. We didn’t have time to go on Thursday, so instead we bundled up for the chilly November weather and went down to the park near our house to work on 50-yard pitch shots.

I’m thankful that golf allowed us to spend so much time together doing something we both loved.

***

Just over a month after Parker died, I finally got back out to play. It was a mild December day, and I wasn’t excited about it. We were still so early in the grieving process that nothing seemed exciting. I just needed to get out of the house and do something. Anything.

I went to Moccasin Run, where I had first broken 90 almost 20 years earlier, and played the back nine. I could have found a friend to play with me, but I wanted to be alone. After a sloppy bogey on the par-3 10th, I hit an OK drive and a decent second shot into 11. As I crested the hill and approached the green, the tears started flowing.

I knew I would care about golf again someday. I hoped there would be hundreds of enjoyable rounds ahead of me with people that I love. But the game would never be the same again. Nothing would.

***

Almost everything it took me 20 years to achieve in golf, Parker did in two. But I was much prouder of him for who he was than for anything he did on the course. The best thing about Parker was his spirit.

He never slammed a door on his mother, never took pleasure in putting people down, always treated others with kindness. The back of his headstone reads, “Too Sweet and Kind to Ever Be Forgotten.”

One of the purposes of my life now is to ensure that this is his legacy. He was a special kid, and he knew that we valued who he was above everything else because I looked him in the eye and told him that very thing a few weeks before he passed.

There were trying times with him, as there are with every teenager. In those last couple years, his experimentation with recreational drugs was something we were not OK with. We stayed on top of him about it. But after every difficult conversation and awkward confrontation, there was always a reminder of how much he was loved. And he always gave that love back.

Erica and I clung dearly to that truth those first few nights of fitful sleep after losing him. He loved us well, and he knew he was loved. We are sure of that, and nothing can take that from us.

***

For most of us, the worst mistake we make in our lives is something we have the opportunity to learn from. Parker’s cost him his life. He was a month away from his 17th birthday, and he got access to heroin laced with fentanyl, not knowing or understanding the risks and dangers of putting something like that in his body. We agree with the detectives, who told us they believed it was likely the first time he’d ever tried it.

I found his body roughly six hours after he died, and I believe his soul had already moved on. David wrote in Psalm 23, “The Lord is my Shepherd; I have everything I need.” When I first read that after Parker passed, I rejected it with every part of my being. How could I ever have everything I need when I don’t have my son?

But as I’ve grieved and healed these last five years, that verse has become my anchor. I miss my son every day, and I hope to see him again, but God’s presence through the pain has truly brought peace and hope in ways I never thought possible. I have God with me, I have the love of family and friends, and I have memories of my amazing son both on and off the golf course. I have my health, I have golf, and I have a voice to share with anyone who will listen that all of these things are true. The gaping hole in my life remains, but I do have everything I need.

***

By 2023, I was finally back in the game. I launched the Bag Chatter podcast with my buddy Adam, whom I’d played a ton of golf with in the previous five years and who had worked at Honeybrook with Parker the year before he passed. The mission was to play 100 rounds, which I achieved, and along the way I finally managed to shoot level par, birdieing three of the last five holes at Honeybrook on a random afternoon in July to shoot an even-par 70.

Then, in August 2024, playing at Honeybrook with some out-of-town listeners of our podcast, it finally happened: I got it to 3 under through six holes, gave them all back in the next nine, but birdied 16 to get back to 1 under. I finished with two routine pars to finally break par.

Driving home from the course that evening with a big smile on my face, my thoughts drifted to Parker, and I wondered what he would have said. Then it hit me: “Welcome to the club, Dad. It’s about time!” He would have already achieved that goal and been pushing toward the next.