I first met Gil Beck and his son David in 1992 at the Westchester golf course in Los Angeles. My golfing buddy and I were paired with them. We had a fun round and I felt a strong connection with Gil and Dave.

During the round we discovered that the three of us were all transplanted New Yorkers who had taken up golf relatively late in life. I started playing at age thirty-nine, Dave at forty and Gil in his seventies. Like a long-lost love, Dave and I were immediately smitten by the game. I can’t say that Gil shared our horny feeling for golf. His love for Dave appeared to be his main reason for playing.

After playing with Gil and Dave at the Westchester course, the following week fate brought us together again. This time I was paired with them at the Woodley course in the San Fernando Valley. After another fun round, Dave and I acknowledged that some sort of divine intervention was occurring, and we would be foolish to ignore this directive. We exchanged phone numbers and went on to play golf together for the next 15 years.

Gil wasn’t a good golfer as far as scoring goes, but that didn’t matter to Dave or me, and only sometimes to Gil himself. What mattered most to me was the loving relationship I observed between father and son.

Gil would drive Dave nuts at times when he walked behind him or started a conversation during Dave’s backswing. Dave would yell at him, but Gil would just look at his son with a childlike face and shrug his shoulders. I wondered how much of this was Gil’s way of instructing Dave on what was really important in life and what wasn’t.

The beauty of these exchanges was that in a flash they were over and the warm connection between father and son was reestablished. It provided a tutorial on how a round of golf should be—make a bad shot, get over it quickly and take your next shot with a positive attitude.

Our relationship eventually expanded from golf to family get-togethers—Thanksgiving dinners and badminton picnics in Dave’s back yard. Gil was devoutly Jewish, and I was concerned how he would react when he met my son Pharoah. Before they met I gently mentioned my son’s name to Gil. Hoping to mollify him, I prefaced this disclosure by noting that my father’s name was Moses.

Gil’s hearty laugh immediately relieved my anxiety. Moments later, as we were walking to our cars, he yelled out, “Jerome, tell Pharoah to let my people go.” His indignation and intensity startled me, but he was grinning broadly. This became Gil’s standard greeting every time we met. He took special delight in saying it to Pharoah.

Over the years Gil’s health declined, and he could no longer hit the ball as far as his heart desired. He couldn’t bear this, so he gave up golf. Five years slipped by without my seeing him. When I found out he had passed away, I regretted not seeing him before his journey began.

But my remorse melted at the celebration dinner. Here I discovered how deeply entrenched Gil is in my heart. Vivid memories washed through me from our many times together. The emotions I experienced forged an enduring connection and embrace with Gil and all the people who were there to celebrate his life. It was one of my best nights ever. I witnessed how the passing of one life could bring more life and renewal to those still in the fragile earthly form.

The night ended on a magical note. After several of us shared our salutations and limericks about Gil, his daughter Margie was recounting her treasured memories of her dad. Suddenly the thunderous booms of fireworks drowned her words out. As fate would have it, we were in a private room on top of a restaurant with a clear view of the dazzling spectacle. These were pyrotechnics of the highest order. They were magnificent in their color, power and volume. It was as if Gil himself had orchestrated his final sendoff. He wanted to go out with a bang, literally.

The breathtaking display lasted for fifteen or twenty minutes, which is extremely long for a fireworks show. I’ve seen fireworks shows at Disneyland, Coney Island, Sea World and other places, but none held a candle to this one. It was extraterrestrial and clearly a gift for us from Gil’s irrepressible, bountiful spirit.

During his lifetime I had witnessed Gil’s generosity on numerous occasions. Now, in death, he gave me something that he had long wanted to share with me. I got to meet his other son, Kevin, and his family. If Gil had one hole in his life, it was the fact that David and Kevin were semi-estranged from each other. Not in a bad way, but they were not as close as a father would want his sons to be. I could relate to this, since my brother and I have had our moments of cohesion and dissolution over the years.

I have never been able to glean the whole story, but sometimes on the golf course Gil would ask me if I could speak to Dave about this matter. After several attempts I concluded that scaling the walls of Jericho would be easier than getting David and Kevin together. So I stopped bringing it up; apparently some power greater than myself would have to intervene to bridge this gap.

After hearing so much about Kevin from Gil, I was eager to meet him. Now, through Gil’s passing, I was able to meet Kevin, his wife and three wonderful children. It completed the circle for me.

I am grateful that on that week after my initial round with Gil and Dave I didn’t decide to sleep in or go to another course. My life is richer because fate granted me an opportunity to spend some quality time with Gil’s family on and off the golf course. This confirms for me that destiny gives us orders and directions throughout our lives, and it’s our responsibility to heed destiny’s call.

The 19th Hole

All great golf rounds end with a refreshing visit to the 19th hole, an oasis of peace, reflection and replenishment. On September 17, 2007, Gil went to his eternal 19th hole. In his passing he exhibited the same grace with which he played golf. By golf’s scorecard, Gil was not a good player. But by life’s scorecard, he was a great person.

Gil Beck was a man of peace who cherished his family and played golf for the best possible reason—for companionship with his son. Gil’s score was not important to him. He would hit a bad shot, get frustrated and then swing away again. He savored his occasional good shots and opportunities to make par. Above all, however, he valued the human bonds he cultivated with his playing companions. As Dave said at the celebration dinner, “My dad was not only my dad but also my best friend, and in his ninety years of living he never had one enemy.”

Gil came to golf late, and that in itself was remarkable. Very few septuagenarians would attempt anything new, let alone the arduous discipline of golf. But Gil had high expectations of himself and everyone he met. That was the beauty of his gentility, the ability to compassionately encourage and prod you to do your best.

“Gil, I will do my best to convince Pharoah to finally let your people go. I know I will see you again on the celestial golf course, somewhere in the universe’s Promised Land. I will hold you in my heart for this and other lifetimes. And though I will never let you go, be assured that my possession of you is one of luvv”.

Gil played life better than most. Along the way he played a little golf too.

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