My father loved to warm up on the range using his hybrids. To build confidence before playing, he would do whatever it took. He was a disciple of Ben Hogan and left behind spiral notebooks containing untold secrets. He developed a love for martini golf tees in retirement and was able to only play yellow golf balls. Dan Baldry was an avid tinkerer. He was a passionate tinkerer who loved to build clubs in his garage. He believed that a new shaft could change everything.
At 77 years old, he died from cancer in February.
After my father’s death, the first time I visited the range was after I had put on Frankie Valli and Four Seasons “Anthology”, and then I sat down on one the lounge chairs and wept. There were many hours spent together on that range searching for answers. It still feels like being wrapped up in a blanket and stabbed in your heart at the same moment.
Wanda Baldry, Beth Ann Nichols, and Dan Baldry at 2013 GWAA Annual Awards Dinner. Wanda and Dan were married almost 52 years. (courtesy Beth Ann Nichols)
After my father’s death, I was able to play my first round of golf. It would have been his 78th birthday. Nothing could have been more fitting. My father taught me how to play golf, which led to a scholarship at college and a rewarding career. More than that, we developed a lifetime connection through golf, which was something we could share in large ways (Pebble Beach!). Both large and small.
My dad was the only one who cared about the details of my rounds. He wanted to enjoy the good times and share the sorrows. My heart sinks and then swells when I see a little girl sitting on her dad’s shoulder at a tournament. They will be bonded for the rest of their lives by this game.
My dad was a basketball fan from the beginning. Growing up in Rising Sun (Indiana), he watched Milan, the “Hoosiers”, take on his Shiners. He wanted to play basketball, and Latin was taught by his grandmother. He was a three sport coach during most of his teaching career in Lakeland. He married the lovely elementary PE teacher. He was a neighboring teacher. Wanda, my mom, is a teacher who lived next door.
After my father’s death, the first time I played golf was on the opening hole. I drove my approach shot. I heard him say, “Get your lie, Beth Ann,” and so I did.
He now sees more of my photos.
This year has been difficult for golf. My grips were worn and my beloved wedge’s shaft broke in Michigan. It was only a matter of time before I got it repaired at the local golf shop, where my dad spent so many hours. One of his friends was the owner of the golf shop.
I regret not spending more quality time with my father at his garage workbench. There was so much more to learn than what you can find in a book.
Dan Baldry helps his daughter Beth Ann Nichols fish out a ball at Butternut Creek in Blairsville, Georgia. (courtesy Beth Ann Nichols)
My dad was always big on Christmas. As an adult, there were few things I enjoyed more than seeing him beam over a Masters shirt under the tree. His thick, calloused hands were matched by his soft heart. He would stay with me when I was sick and make chicken noodle soup.
I didn’t fully appreciate the love of my father until he was really sick. I didn’t believe he would beat cancer until he asked me to call hospice so he could be taken home.
We spoke everything. Then we held hands and waited.
My most difficult and most precious moment was helping my father enter the presence of Jesus. My mother and I were sitting in the living room, next to my father’s bed, looking through old photos and letters when his breathing stopped. He went with the angels as the sound of “How Great Thou Art” filled the room. He let go of his past loved ones through the sound of laughter and conversation.
Grant Boone, my friend, said it best: “Never has that gap between heaven and Earth been thinner.”
My dad is always here. Every summer, he worked hard to build this house. I felt close to him every day.
It’s time to drive Mama back to Florida!
Hug your friends! Happy Friday! pic.twitter.com/sdtSckIwh3
— Beth Ann Nichols (@GolfweekNichols) October 28, 2022
My father didn’t have an email address or a smartphone. He kept in touch with his friends by meeting them face-to-face. There are few things more important in life than hearing a friend say goodbye after 50 years. In those final days, my mother and I were able to hold the phone in dad’s ear.
After he passed away, I would often get up at 3:00 a.m. to go to bed and start writing versions of this column. Stories and memories I loved that didn’t have to go.
He looked so calm at the end. He was free from the pain that had rubbed his eyes and wreaked havoc on his face. I dressed him in his favorite golf shirt, which was reserved for Christmas Eve services. He also wore his grey coaching shorts.
My best friend from seventh grade was the first to make it to the house. As we sat down on the couch, she held my hand. She commented on how much my dad looked different from before.
All heaven rejoiced.
