By Janna Michaela Keegan, 17, in collaboration with J.J. Keegan, Dad
June 18 , 2004

As children walk across the bridge from total reliance on their parents to freedom, do many kids ponder how solid their foundations are? I never gave it much thought until now.

It all began so innocently. In May, I received a call from a friend who lives in Greenwich, Connecticut. We were roommates in Florence during the summer of 2000 with Putney Student Travel (www.goputney.com). She said, "We can study together this summer at the University of London. It's easy. We just need to go online to Dali St. Martins (www.csm.linst.ac.uk/), select our courses, pick out dorms, enter credit card information, and have our dads coordinate our plane trips.

My Dad has always encouraged my independence. So I wasn't surprised at his response when I said, "Can you book me a flight to London? I'm studying there this summer." "Sure, no problem," he calmly replied.

From the time I was born, Dad has flown more than 1.8 million miles in the friendly skies. While he appeared to care very much, I was never sure of how deep his love was or whether I could always count on him, because he was seldom home. Thus, when I asked in June if he would fly with me to London to ensure I was correctly enrolled, I was pleased by his quick response: "Yes, that would be fun. I always love spending time with you." Little did we know what lay ahead for both of us!

First Stop: London

After arriving in London, we freshened up at Dad's hotel, the Courtyard by Marriot. Then, as the melatonin was wearing off, we departed for my dorm. Though we had gotten directions online (www.multimap.com), we had trouble finding my residence in the "Angels" district of the city between Islington and Shoreditch.

What I expected was a university contained within several blocks of Hyde Park; what I found was a university spread out, in single block fragments, across the entire city of London. My dorm was in a part of town where drugs and violence appeared likely and graffiti was commonplace. For my daily commute, I would have to walk several blocks to the tube, travel for 20 minutes from Old Street to Holborn Station, then walk about 15 minutes to class. I was concerned about my safety. And I considered not enrolling for classes, wondering if Dad would support my decision.

We spent Sunday afternoon looking at other dorms connected to the University of London. After being told that Nufford House and Connaught Hall were full (with juniors from Michigan State and Notre Dame) Dad asked what I would like to do. Diplomatically, I said, "What do you think?" Dad quickly responded as I hoped he would: "I love you too much to leave you in harm's way. The dorm in the Angel's district is just not safe. Why don't you join me on the business trip I've arranged, visiting golf courses in England, Scotland, Wales, and Ireland. There will be many long days and lots of driving, but you'll get a glimpse of what my life is like when I travel."

Typical of my father, however, there was a condition. I would have to walk the courses with him to gain an understanding of the game. Not merely agreeing without debate, I countered, "Sure, and can we do some of the things I like go to the National Galleries, take walking tours of the cities, and visit some castles?"

So a deal was struck and sealed at Coffee Republic over Vanilla Freezers, London's answer to Starbuck's recently-introduced Vanilla Creme Frappuccinos.

And On to Scotland

Monday began with a 7:30 a.m. flight to Edinburgh, and I quickly learned that business travel is not much fun. Whereas Dad might have driven directly to St. Andrews without me, we took a tour of Edinburgh. I would have liked lingering at the Castle; however, Dad's 2:30 p.m. meeting at Kingsbarns Golf Links found us checking into St. Andrews Bay Hotel, grabbing sandwiches, and heading to the course.

As Dad walked to the first tee, I saw a side of him emerge that I had never witnessed. He went par, bogey, par, par, bogey, birdie, par, seeming totally at peace with himself, happy and relaxed. He played, I walked. We both talked: he of his love for the game, me about life. We were both at peace, with ourselves, with what we were doing, and with each other.

As we stood on the tee at the 16th hole, a 535 yard, par 5, Dad waited for five minutes, as a Scottish couple walked from the beach through the dunes fronting the 230 yards of forced carry to the fairway. As the couple passed by, the man remarked to Dad, "Naughty boy, the professional tee is closed today." Reflecting his entrepreneurial spirit, Dad responded, "I have traveled 4,000 miles; the green fee is 125 pounds ($187.50); I am only five over par; and this is the one shot on this course that I have always wondered if I could hit."

The Scottish man smiled and said, "I understand."

Inimitable St. Andrews

Dinner that evening found us at the Old Course Hotel at St. Andrews, overlooking the 17th and 18th holes with a backdrop of the Royal and Ancient Clubhouse.

As I feasted on a salad and Dad enjoyed delicious Oban scallops, he asked if I saw what was happening by the 17th green. Four golfers had completed putting out and were dropping balls in the Road hole bunker, taking turns attempting to blast out to the back left pin position, while being photographed.

When dessert was served, I commented that Dad's stomach was starting to look like the Peach Melba he was about to eat. He smiled, but I wasn't sure if it was because I was teasing him or if he was captivated by the golfers (24 of them!) who had just climbed the white railing by the Swilican Bridge with a pint of their favorite brew in hand. They walked, as though in a memorial procession, to the top of the footpath and had their picture taken.

On Tuesday, Dad let me sleep as he departed at 6:30 a.m. for a meeting with Niall Flanagan, Director of Customer Services for the St. Andrews Links Trust. Later, Dad told me that Niall Flanagan indicated that though play this season (2002) was off 29% from tour group operators, bookings for 2003 were looking strong.

Niall also provided some "inside information" regarding the easiest way to play St. Andrews. Those wishing to play in 2003 should have written requests submitted by October 30, no exceptions. Individuals who do not submit these requests can obtain tee times starting at 4:00 p.m. by open ballot or can be on stand-by for one of the reserved local times, which begin daily at 5:00 p.m. and extend to closing time.

The tee times set aside for locals are rarely used. So one of those times had been scheduled for Len Mattiace and Jerry Kelly when they were playing the next day, though Niall did admit they pre-booked the PGA Touring Pros, based on Len's persuasive pleading when they met during the U.S. Open at Bethpage Black.

Experiencing Wentworth

Tuesday afternoon we raced to Edinburgh for a mid-day flight, hoping to get to Surrey by late afternoon. Dad had scheduled not only a 7:30 p.m. dinner meeting with a competitor, Mr. David Ross, President of ESP, but also a 9:00 o'clock conference call with the senior management team of Billy Casper Golf Management.

At 10:10 p.m., we had not had dinner yet! I was impatient and asked Dad to wrap up his conference call, since the kitchen in the famed Burma Bar at Wentworth was about to close. From 6:30 a.m. until shortly after 10:00 p.m, he had not stopped listening, talking, and writing.

The road of life, I was learning, wasn't straight. Dad was to be reminded of that the next morning.

Though he was granted courtesy of the Wentworth West Course as a one-ball, no specific time on Wednesday had been confirmed. At 6:30 that morning, Dad was by himself, waiting for the starter. At 7:10 a.m. staff indicated that the East and West courses had been closed for the day. Citigroup had paid 12,000 pounds ($18,240) to have a "clean course" for their shotguns scheduled for 12:30 p.m. In addition, they were paying 100 pounds ($152) per player in their double shotgun. No play prior by anyone; no exceptions. The lesson learned: when making a reservation, confirm that no corporate events are scheduled for the day you plan on playing!

The Wentworth staff was very gracious and allowed Dad to walk both courses. He made it around the West in 1 hour, 15 minutes and the East in 1 hour, 5 minutes. Afterward, he commented that the more courses he sees, the more he respects the genius of the game's original architects. Dad said that the West course (designed by H.S. Colt) was perhaps the most perfectly routed first 13 holes that he had seen: up, over, down and around, with varied, contoured greens reminding him of Winged Foot and Merion.

What are golfers searching for as they drive from course to course? Is there a special secret to the game they are attempting to discover? It seems so.

In the search, some gems remain to be discovered. In arriving at the Belfry, Home of the 2002 Ryder Cup, I noticed that the flower gardens were lovely and the facility was very different from the charm of St. Andrews Bay or the reserved elegance of Wentworth. The Belfry was clearly a very successful hotel designed to host corporate functions.

Next Stop: Wales

The next day, Thursday, found us in Wales. I asked Dad if I could just be a teenager and veg-out while he played. To my surprise, he said "sure." I think we were really starting to understand each other. I am into music and the arts; Dad is into golf.

Dad's requested tee time at Royal Portcawl was 4:00 p.m. He was charmed by the gracious staff,  Mr. H. F. Prescott, Secretary, and Ms. Janet Jones, Asst. Secretary, as he learned another lesson: an e-mail sent is not necessarily an e-mail received. His letter of introduction sent by e-mail two weeks prior had not arrived. The hosting service, a not-for-profit hobby of an avid golfer, sometimes forgets to forward e-mails received. Though Dad faced the risk of being turned away, the Royal Portcawl staff were understanding and accommodated him. And he was thankful that he had called several hours in advance as a "courtesy."

Dad was delighted by the course and said he considers it in the top five links courses he has played. This conclusion, he maintained, certainly was not affected by the frustration of many balls lost because of a wayward driver. Heavy spring and summer rains had left the rough knee deep and the strong winds off the ocean led to spending more time searching for balls than hitting them.

What is it about golfers who will walk through deep wet grass looking for a ball? I find it amusing.

Delights of Ireland

A car trip to London, a plane to Dublin, and on Saturday it was my day! Dad and I walked through the streets of Dublin's visiting Trinity College (a great place to go to law school, I thought), St. Stephens, Guinness Brewery, and the National Gallery.

There, I studied the paintings of John Butler Yeats, his son Jack, and his granddaughter Anne. I was drawn to the fact that the father, John, was a realist and his son's paintings, while similar to his dad's, had a much harder and more aggressive style. Perhaps predictably, Anne Yeats' works started with her dad's style, yet included her own feminine impressionistic talents. Maybe that is the nature of a relationship between a father and daughter. Attributes of fathers are inherited by their daughters, who cast off with a different style to make their own unique marks.

From Dublin, driving down the N7 to the N8 led us to the R600 and Kinsale. The countryside of Ireland is certainly beautiful. I especially liked the castle at Casteel. That evening, our three-hour dinner with clients of Dad's from the Old Head at Kinsale G.C. seemed like only an hour. Nearing midnight, we stopped at the Old White House on the sojourn back to our four-star hotel, the Bank House. Why? Dad wanted a Jameson Irish Whiskey from a true Irish pub, merely to "cover that block on the bingo card of life."

The temperature was 14 degrees C (62 degrees F) the next day, as Dad and I went around the Old Head of Kinsale. We read about the "Stone of Accord," a 6,000 year old Gaelic tradition; then we shook hands on the first tee through the "eye" and wished each other friendship and luck. As he was taking a final picture from the clubhouse terrace, Dad's eye caught John and Patrick O'Connor, the owners of Old Head, having a local beverage on the terrace. They asked if he would like to join them for some more golf. Dad commented, not knowing I was standing nearby, that his daughter wanted to visit the Blarney Castle before our plane departed from Cork at 8:00 p.m. Just then he saw me and introduced me. Patrick O'Connor told me there was no need to go there to kiss the stone, adding: "Your Dad has been full of the blarney for years." Dad and I laughed, and departed.

A Fitting Ending

At an early check on Monday with United Airlines in London, Dad was charged $150, with the polite explanation that the airline is now rigidly enforcing the flight change penalty fee (realizing they could make more than $100,000 monthly just at Heathrow). We bought a "tube" family-day travel pass and headed downtown for six hours of sightseeing. It was my turn again. We went to the National Gallery. As Dad had raced around the course, I sped through the building finding my favorite painters: Massys, Monet, and Van Gogh. As Dad lingers on a course, I could linger in a museum.

When we departed for the airport, I caught Dad with what I thought was a tear in his eye. Perhaps he was wondering whether we would walk together through the doors leading to Trafalgar Square again. My hope is that we do, some day.

In nine days, I traveled more than 10,000 miles on eight different airplanes, another 1,000 or so miles in six different cars or taxis, and stayed at eight hotels. I spent precious time with my Dad and formed a deeper bond with him. For me, the trip was truly the cliched, "once in a lifetime." Yet I can only imagine the heightened sense of enjoyment and appreciation an avid golfer might feel in touring some of the world's greatest courses. Would you consider that one highlight of a lifetime?

This trip was taken in July, 2002. Janna will start her junior year in college in the fall, with a double major in Art History and English and a minor in Religious Studies.

For Father's Day, 2004, we toured the Denver Art Museum, viewing a Japanese-American poster exhibit. Time spent with your children is so rewarding.