11 22 33

Call it a clan, call it a network, call it a tribe, call it a family. Whatever you call it, whoever you are, you need one.

—Jane Howard

With the best of intentions, but not without hesitation, I coordinated a recent family golf trip. For the first time the Ginella boys: my dad, two older brothers and I, would get away for a few days of small ball, banter, good food and cards. In the weeks leading up to our departure, according to my mom, my dad was three degrees north of excited. He told his San Diego neighbors that his three sons had arranged for two rooms at La Quinta Resort and Spa, three rounds of golf, a two-hour private group lesson at the Jim Mclean School of Golf at PGA West and a dinner at Palmer's, part steakhouse and part Arnold Palmer memorabilia museum. He's my dad's all-time favorite.

My dad boxed growing up and then taught boxing at his alma mater, the University of Santa Clara. He has had multiple broken noses (you should see the other guy) and limps on a pair of bad knees (never had surgery) and holds the golf club with nine fingers (lost a pinky to a whirling car engine). He's a lifetime 20-something handicap. If he misses a short putt, plug your ears, he's swearing. If he makes a bogey on a par 4, it's not a five, it's a "Fever in the f&$#! house." A double-bogey on a par 4 is never a six, it's a "sexxx."

My father, John Ginella, was born on Nov. 22, 1933. I've always loved the symmetry of his birth date—11/22/33. This trip was in honor of his 75th birthday. The King signed and sent a print, "To John, Happy 75th Birthday—Arnold Palmer." Our plan was to give it to my dad the night we were out to dinner at his restaurant.

I'm the youngest of five kids by nine years. We all had the same set of parents, who've been miraculously married for fifty-one years. My brothers, Sean and Mark, are separated by two years, (Sean is fifty and Mark is forty-eight), and it's a good thing they're separated by 2,500 miles because if they're ever in the same zip code, they'll argue and fight over anything. One year, which ruined a Christmas, they fought over what they thought was the last piece of pumpkin pie. There was pushing and threats. We found out later, after half the house left in a driving snowstorm and hauling heavy hearts, that there were two more pumpkin pies in the extra refrigerator in my parent's garage.

Unfortunately there's more. The police were once called to a Thanksgiving not long after we all held hands and said grace. In a post-meal game of dominoes, Mark indicated Dad was cheating. Ginellas are a lot of things, but not cheats. Mark's declaration, "Dad, you're cheating," was followed shortly by the sheriff's lights flashing in the driveway.

There's even more than that, but you get the idea. Life as a Ginella, especially when surrounded by other Ginellas, is flammable. The interesting thing, especially to friends and onlookers of Ginella dust-ups, is that after a period of time has passed, apologies are passed around and we move on.

It should also be noted, because the worst of who we are is pretty twisted, we would also all take bullets, lay ourselves in front of locomotives and wrestle hungry sharks for one another. Some of us might even survive all three. We can call each other names, but if you call us a name, we have to fight. You know the drill.

Because I'm so much younger than the rest of my siblings, and have fewer barnacles of past altercations on my boat, I am, by default, the peacekeeper of the family. I can't say I'm always successful.

So before this special golf trip, I worked both corners of the ring. I called Mark and explained that we needed to all get along for three days. We needed to do this for Dad because it was his birthday and we could never know how much longer he would be around. Mark agreed to no fights. Then I called Sean. I was confident we were all on the same page.

As we loaded up the bags and clubs, just getting my dad out of the driver's seat was a small miracle. Triple-teamed, he finally allowed that Mark should drive. Even Dad seemed to be trying to compromise for the good of the group. "I don't know who died and made Mark in charge of everything," Dad said, as he climbed into the passenger seat—of Mark's car! But just the fact that he wasn't driving was an early 1-up.

It's a two-and-a-half-hour drive from San Diego to La Quinta. Even with the early lead, all the pep talks and the sense that we were on the same page, I knew this was a ticking bomb.

During the drive, Sean kept the conversation on Dad and off two of the likely pressure points—politics and religion. Sean led the reflections on Dad's forty-one-year career as an engineer for his one and only employer, Bechtel Power Corp. Mark and I did a lot of listening.

As we came down the hill into Palm Springs, we stopped at a popular turnout to admire the view. We handed the camera to another onlooker and posed for some group pictures. With interlocking arms and sincere smiles, I thought, "We're doing this. We're actually on a family golf trip." I also couldn't help but wonder, was this the saying of grace right before the game of dominoes?

Our first tee time was that afternoon at the Mountain Course at La Quinta. When Mark plays golf, he drinks. And when Mark, who's a lawyer, does anything, he does it with a gallop. Needless to say, by the back nine, he was three degrees north of sober. And when Mark drinks it puts Dad, who doesn't drink, on edge. I found myself drinking just to deflect some of the attention. Sean, who also doesn't drink, and who has been working hard at trying to break 90, was consumed by his own golf game.

Mark and Sean are within a shot of each other in terms of handicaps (I'd say both are about a 20). In a preemptive attempt to defuse that portion of their rivalry, I had made them partners for the trip in a 54-hole match against Dad and me. My Index is an 8 and my dad is currently a 28. Peacemaker that I am, I dolled out the shots.

All the way to the last putt on the last hole, where we all made a par, the first eighteen holes were close and we had a good time. Mark and Sean were only up ten bucks. A layer of tension was brewing below the surface, but I remember thinking, no matter what happens, at the very least, we'll always have the memory of this round together.

That night, the first meal was at Adobe, a Mexican restaurant "on the campus" of La Quinta. It was good food, good conversation and then back to our room for Sunday night football on a living room flat screen. Men being men, the scene was lifted straight off the Serengeti. A small pack of male lions, some grunts and some groans, licking and resting away the events of the day. We were one with several sofas. That is, until Bernard Berrian, a wide receiver for the Minnesota Vikings, was on the back end of a 99-yard touchdown pass.

Mark, ruffled, yelled back, "Shut up, Sean. Yelling Bernard Berrian. You know that's my whole season."

Another family pressure point is fantasy football. I've been the commissioner of "GinellaFFL" for eighteen years. We have twelve teams, twenty participants from various stages of life, and annually we throw in monetary value and live and die by how our teams score each week. Mark's team was dying right before our eyes. Yelling the name of a lightning fast man in a tight purple suit, well, that act put a picture of Sean's head in the middle of Mark's proverbial dartboard.

The next day, on the 27th hole of the trip, Sean received a phone call from a good friend in Hawaii. I was in the cart with my dad and only caught the end of the conversation. Mark filled in the gaps. With his palms up in disbelief, and visibly annoyed, Mark said, "Sean is giving a Hawaii surf report to Bob Fram from his golf car—in Palm Springs!"

I can kick myself now. I should've switched cart partners after round one. At the turn my dad and I stopped to buy refreshments. By the time I pulled up to the next tee, our 28th hole, a brotherly brawl had erupted. Apparently while they waited for my dad and me to return with the drinks, Sean had started to check his messages. "You know that's my pet peeve," said Mark. "I'm on vacation and we're trying to play golf. Get off your damn cell phone."

"You don't mean that," said Mark. "You can take that 'sorry' and shove it up your ... !"

We all hit. A half a hole later, Mark questioned my dad about a drop he was taking from a lake running along the fairway. I tried to explain the situation because, if anything, when I'm playing golf with any portion of this group, I'm the rulebook. Mark didn't understand. I explained again. Mark argued. I explained again and asked, "Are you messing with me?" Now I was mad. Like I said, I don't always succeed at keeping the peace.

Remember, any indication of calling a Ginella a cheat means trouble. Before I knew it, Mark and I had a screaming match going across the fairway that escalated to a place Mark and I don't usually go. "Do you want to get in the last word?" he asked. "Yes," I said. Expletives ensued.

Now it was Mark who was being triple-teamed, and if you factor in the fantasy football from the night before, in an unlikely scenario, he was ready to tap out of this ultimate fighting championship. We managed to finish a very quiet eight remaining holes, but our foursome only carded one meal. After we got home, and unbeknownst to the rest of us, Mark went to his room, showered, packed and drove home.

It might've been inevitable, but it was also necessary. For my dad's sake, we had to give a trip like this a shot. We finished the trip as a threesome and after insisting to keep the topic of conversation off of what had transpired with Mark, we had a great time. The steak and the mac-and-cheese at Palmer's—all perfect. And my dad loved the signed print.

A few days after the trip Mark sent an e-mail explaining why he left. He said he was dealing with financial pressures back at home, wasn't having fun, felt he was bringing the group down, and so this time opted to make a subtle exit. The last line of his e-mail was, "I'M SORRY." Which couldn't have been an easy send for a right wing and righteous lawyer. Not to mention a rather proud soul.

We all followed his lead; Sean covered Mark's portion of the trip. I apologized for putting us in that position that set us up for failure. I indicated in my e-mail that maybe we should try again on 11/22/13, when Dad turns eighty.

And then came Dad's perspective. For an engineer and a guy who made a living working with numbers, he sure is good with words. This is the bulk of his e-mail:

Because we're all passionate about whatever we feel is important at the time, sometimes the passion takes over for reason. We've all been guilty of unreasonable passion to various degrees at one time or another. So let's let the past go out with the tide. And let's resolve to do a better job of harnessing our passions and directing them to the purpose for which we come together the next time. I hope we don't wait until I'm eighty to do it again. This was too much fun to let that much time lapse. It doesn't have to be on as grand a scale as this one, seventy-five is a special number. But it can be when the families are gathering for any other occasion, and "the boys" can get away for a few rounds of great golf again.

You all make Mom and me so very proud of your accomplishments and for the love you have for family. Stay close because, as Mom says, "When we're gone, you must know that the greatest gift we could give you, is each other."

So there you have it. In a weird and twisted way, the mission was still accomplished—we just did it Ginella style.

11/22/33R6

11/22/33^R6