Parental Pride

I was in Paris the other day dining with a friend who has been reading this blog. She said she found my words “hard” on Sam. I was surprised. The last thing I wanted to be was “hard” on my fantastic, first born son. I am proud of him and thought my words shine with parental pride.

But I also can understand how even the slightest criticism – meant to be realistic or constructive – could be misconstrued. Sam has had a tough start to the golf season. He is putting too much pressure on his young shoulders. But I am more proud of him than ever before.

He just brought home his second semester grades from school. They are his best ever, with an average well over 8 out of 10. (For those Americans used to grade inflation, let me tell you that 8 out of ten at the European School of Brussels is one hellavu score)_

He is so excited about attending university in America and I am beginning to believe the tender loving care exhibited in my dealings with Davidson make it a more appropriate place to build confidence than my arrogant, impersonal alma mater Yale.

And when it comes to golf, Sam is not giving up. He is practicing harder than ever, determined to improve.