The first time I heard the word "etiquette" , I was a young kid standing on a tee box, waiting to tee off. I’m sure I was standing in the wrong place or, more likely, was trying to wrestle one of my younger brothers. This led to a now-famous “Dad lecture”.

Dad was normally pretty low key about letting us wrestle, but with two conditions. He didn’t want to see “blood or tears” (we broke this one frequently). And rough-housing was never allowed on the golf course.

Despite our efforts to uphold the second stipulation, boys will be boys. When we broke that sacred pact, he put the fear of God into us. The golf course and club were special places. It was a privilege to be there, not a right.

At the time, it sucked, but I’ve never been more grateful for those acerbic and efficient un-dressings.

I was lucky to learn the game from a guy who understood, and revered, golf’s ability to mirror life. He understood its longevity, its mental and social benefits, and its ability, when played correctly, to mold young kids into proper gentlemen.

My Dad doesn’t give many compliments, but he would make a huge deal out of when we entered and raked a bunker properly. It was a reaffirmation of a core life skill. Taking care of the course is not only a sign of respect to the course, but for all of the players who may play after you.

I learned how to swing a club and hit golf shots with him, but also learned how to act and carry myself. The game and its etiquette are drifting apart. The best way to preserve it is through playing inter-generationally.

I played a few rounds this past weekend at a place that I would qualify as a "generational" golf club. It's the kind of club where you encounter three generations of the same family playing golf together. It was refreshing, unique, and charming. Especially as we approach Father's Day.

It's how I learned to play the game, and in my view, how the game is meant to be learned. Tradition is passed down from father to son, and even from grandfather to grandson. The nuance of how to rake a bunker, how to fix a pitch mark and how to replace a divot is lost when seen on the internet. And even then, the process and art of caring for the golf course just doesn't carry as much weight.

Etiquette is the fabric that ties generations together. It's the DNA the game was built upon. In most cases, a proper understanding of what makes etiquette important starts at the nuclear level. The family, and relationships between family members, are where kids build foundational morals. The best place to practice and embed these morals? The golf course.

I have an archive of potent (both good and bad) childhood golf memories, etched into my brain from my time with family on the course. The good ones are special, but I still remember the times when I stepped out of line, only to be swiftly reprimanded.

I remember one hot summer Saturday when my brother and I were caught dragging our putter on the green to make a cool pattern. That simply wasn’t tolerated. We were sent swiftly to the cart, to think about what we had just done.

With that being said, he made our trips to the course as kids fun. Soda? Sure thing. Mom was nowhere in sight. We ate as many snacks as we could, and, according to him, as soon as we showed signs of not having fun, he'd take us home. Even if he wanted to continue playing, he understood the importance of associating the game as a fun activity, if nothing else.

But it became something else, I now realized. Learning the game from your dad or a parent is the most efficient way of instilling longstanding morals. He understood this better than most people, and for that, I am lucky.

What now feels like common sense was once a mechanical process of trial and error. Each trip to the course squished into the cart with my brothers was a chance to have fun and play, yes, but also to learn. Each ball that rolled into the bunker was a chance to apply my knowledge and build my character.

Build my character for what? I had not the slightest clue at the time, but now I do.

Father’s Day, 1965

If you’re lucky enough to be with your father on Sunday, give him a firm handshake for me.

As I look back on the countless rounds of golf my Dad and I have shared, I feel only gratitude.

As I approach the ripe old age of thirty, I've concluded that the best lessons aren't learned in the moment. They settle in, rattle around for a while, and only later take their final shape. It could take days, but it often takes years.

He brought me and my brothers to the golf course because he loved the game, but also because he knew that learning why it’s proper to enter a bunker from the low side would last much longer than our time together.