Lee Geiger

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I consider myself the luckiest man on the face of the Earth.

Lou Gehrig, New York Yankee legend

I was cruising south on I-95 when I came upon a traffic sign that announced, “Exit 64…I-695 West toward Towson…1 mile.” My watch said it was10:30am, which meant I’d have about an hour to kill before my client lunch meeting. The outside temperature was a pleasant 65 degrees, with nary a cloud in the sky. My mind began to wander.

Suddenly, long dormant memories from an unforgettable place cascaded before my eyes…cool, bright mornings spent playing golf with friends, strolling across soft rolling hills and lush valleys, with the scent of freshly mown grass making me glad to be alive…followed hours later by sumptuous meals, served by a friendly and attentive staff, surrounded in a sea of camaraderie, feeling lucky just to be there. A smile found its way onto my face.

Exit 64 was fast approaching. I had only seconds to decide. Life is too short, I thought, to pass up an opportunity like this. I hit the blinker and slid my car toward the exit.

My heart was pounding, and beads of sweat spread across my freshly ironed shirt. “Why am I so nervous?” I asked myself while driving along the tree-lined canopy of Park Heights Avenue. “What’s the worst thing that can happen? All they can do is say ‘no’” It had been years since I last laid eyes on Caves Valley Golf Club. I prayed they’d let me in.

Anthony, guarding the club’s entrance like a gentle bear, greeted me with a smile. “Of course I remember you,” he said after listening to my plea. He picked up the phone and made a call. “Drive on up, Mr. Geiger,” he said seconds later. “And have a nice day.”

The Caves Valley Experience had begun. Some things were never meant to change.

I combed my hair, straightened my tie, and slipped on my sports jacket. Out of respect and tradition, I left my cell phone in the car. I walked cautiously toward the pro shop, like a naughty kid who was somewhere he wasn’t supposed to be. Brian, the caddy master, exited from the clubhouse and called out my name. Paul, a veteran caddy, walked up and slapped me on the shoulder. I had not been a member at Caves Valley for over seven years, yet I was being treated as though I had never left. God, I love this place.

I jumped on a golf cart and drove slowly toward the 12th hole. I consider Caves Valley to be hallowed ground, and I wanted to savor every moment. As the 10^th green came into view, I could hear the voice of Erik, my favorite caddy, commanding me to hit my approach shot to the front right corner, thereby allowing the ball to bleed left toward the hole. Damn, he was good.

The 11^th hole is a dogleg right par 4, one of the toughest on the course. It’s also one of the prettiest, especially if you look at it backwards from the green. I waited at the corner of the dogleg for the golfers to finish. One of them gave up and shoved his ball into his pocket. I knew exactly how he felt. The holes at Caves Valley are as challenging as they are spectacular.

I arrived at the 12^th tee and waited for Dennis, the club’s head professional and one of the classiest men I’ve ever had the privilege to know. The man hadn’t aged a day. Dennis greeted me with a broad smile and a vigorous handshake. “This is painful, isn’t it?” he said, noticing the tears welling up in my eyes. Dennis was right, of course, but painful in a good way, like remembering your children when they were young. “C’mon,” he said, “I want you to meet somebody.”

Dennis introduced me Steve, a handsome, burly man who had just knocked his ball to about ten feet from the hole, a fantastic shot on this beautiful downhill par 3. He was also the club’s president. Though we’ve never met before, Steve recognized my name and talked to me like an old friend. After several minutes of polite conversation, he wrapped his arm around my shoulder. “I want you to know something,” he whispered to me in a soft, gravelly voice. “You are always welcomed here.” I wanted to thank him, but words failed me. The foursome headed down the hill toward the green, leaving me in a state of emotional shock.

I followed the cart path past the 16^th, 17^th, and 18^th holes. Thankfully, there wasn’t a soul on the course. By now I was practically sobbing, and I didn’t want anyone to see me. How, I thought, did I ever get so lucky to be a part of this magical place?

I made my way to back to the clubhouse, wondering if the dining room would be as radiant as I remembered. It was, and so was Lori, the effervescent dynamo who runs the former mansion with the precision of a Swiss watch. Lori invited me to sit down for lunch, which broke my heart. The food at Caves is as magnificent as the golf, though many members would argue it’s better. But I had a lunch date to keep. Maybe I should have ordered a hamburger to go.

I took a walk through the new men’s locker room. I can only describe it this way: everything was top-of-the-line, without being over the top. I walked over to the area where my old locker would have been. I looked at the name on the door and wondered what kind of man kept his golf shoes there. You have no idea how proud I was to have had my name on that door.

I made one last stop at the club’s administrative office. To my surprise, Nancy, the membership coordinator who signed me up in 1997, and then accepted my resignation in 2008, was still there. So were the wonderful ladies who coordinated all of my visits. Through good times and bad, they never left. And why would they? I can’t imagine a better work environment.

My visit complete, I departed Caves Valley and headed for downtown Baltimore. But instead of feeling sad or disappointed, I felt a sense of fulfillment and pride I hadn’t experienced in years. Though I missed being a member, I will forever treasure the relationships I made, along with the memories of shots I hit. I learned a powerful lesson during my one hour at Caves Valley. Throughout the passage of time, if you treat people with respect, they’ll treat you with respect.

It was, in short, the best hour of my life.