5/23/2012 10:05 AM
This story reminded me of something that happened to me many years ago that "Golf Course Industry" published a couple of years ago.
I was a 19-year-old Penn State turf student back in 1972, lacking golf course maintenance experience but desperately needing a job to fulfill my on-the-job training requirement of the PSU two-year turf program. I sent out 10 resumes and only received one response. John Nagy, superintendent of the Coatesville Country Club, in Coatesville, Pa., hired me and agreed to start me out at $1.60 per hour.
I tried to cram as much management knowledge as I could into that six-month period, but the most valuable learning experience came in the autumn of that year.
One day in the wee hours of the morning, I was watering one of our many hilly fairways. The equipment I used was an old Massey Ferguson tractor that pulled a special trailer equipped to handle the key and handle of the 12 quick coupler sprinklers I was supposed to install. After parking the tractor sideways on a slope (I was in too much of a hurry to set the brake), I was removing a sprinkler when I noticed movement in the corner of my eye.
Tractor and trailer were beating a direct path for our one and only pond. In a frantic attempt to avoid disaster, I intercepted the tractor just prior to entry, applied the brakes and like a captain going down with his ship, rode the beast into the deep.
All "in hous" attempts to retrieve the tractor from the pond that morning failed. We contracted a large truck with a wench, pulled it out and after an afternoon of draining out the crankcase and drying it out elsewhere, Mr. Nagy had it running again. While no longer in consideration for employee of the week, I was nonetheless relieved.
The next morning I arrived early, hoping to soothe Mr. Nagy's ire of the previous day. As was our habit, the equipment to be used that day was to be run out of the small and cramped barn and neatly parked out of the way. The last piece of equipment to be removed was the Massey Ferguson that I had tried to make amphibious the previous day. To my great pleasure it started right up. To my great disappointment I failed to remember that the brakes were still wet and, when applied, didn't stop me from spearing the radiator of our new Ford tractor with the Massey's three-point hitch. After disabling our only other tractor, my future plans including a winter wedding and career as a golf course superintendent appeared in jeopardy.
And then a strange and wonderful thing happened. George Parker, an elderly black man who in his younger days was a club boxer, arrived for work. He had befriended me during the season and we often had lunch together. I was giving George my "it's been nice knowing you" speech with as much melodrama as the occasion demanded when he said, "I'll take the blame so you won't get fired."
I shamefully gave it serious consideration but declined his gracious offer and reluctantly took the heat myself. I wasn't fired that day, but Mr. Nagy said I could quit if I wanted to. I didn't.
I stayed on as his assistant for four more years and I've spent an additional 30 years now as a superintendent. Whenever a normally conscientious employee of mine seriously screws up and appears before me with shoulders slumped, head down and tail between his legs, I remember what old George was willing to do for me years ago and relate my "been there, done that" story laced with compassion and understanding.