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SWISHER’S SUITE

Jared Mitchel brought a ringer.

But he didn’t have Glenda.

In one of the many golf scrambles I played with Derrick and Glenda Wolf at Kingfisher Golf Course, we were paired with another foursome a handful of years ago that included:

1. Mitchel, who is best known for having two brothers-in-law who are way better at golf than him;

2. Eric Smith, the former Dover and Lomega boys basketball coach who went on to better fortune and fame as a girls coach at Alva, Frontier and, now, Dale;

3. Some really, really tall guy who, in all fairness, was relatively new to the game and could have used clubs that were another foot longer, and,

4. Some guy named Rhein Gibson.

He was the ringer.

Gibson, on the day we played this tournament, wasn’t too far removed from having made the cut at the 2014 British Open, a tournament in which he played the third round with some guys named Tiger Woods and Jordan Spieth.

He’s perhaps better known around here for shooting a 16-under-par 55 at River Oaks Golf Club in May 2012. According to his Wikipedia page (and who doesn’t trust Wikipedia?), that is a Guinness World Record for an 18-hole round.

Standing on the tee box across from them were:

1. Me, a hack.

2. My brother-in-law,

Kevin Marshall, a hack.

3. Derrick Wolf, a hack, and,

4. Glenda Wolf, a fiery little competitor who was probably ticked she was playing with three bums.

Glenda and the Hacks had no shot at winning the tournament. We just didn’t want to get embarrassed by the foursome with which we were paired.

Further stacking the deck against us was the fact teams could pay extra for a “bonus ball” that essentially gave them a fifth player on every shot on each hole. Any member of the team could take that fifth shot.

That meant Mr. Pro Golfer got two shots every time it was his team’s turn to hit. Two drives. Two approaches. Two putts. Whatever. They got to choose who took them and he got the honors most of the time.

Basically, it was a pummeling...

Because we had Glenda.

Glenda made a putt on the first hole that allowed us to stay even with the Dream Team.

Then she made another. And another. And another.

She put on a putting clinic that day.

Sometimes they were two-footers that were easy. Sometimes they were 30-footers that were impossible.

But she made them.

All the while, the frustration rose with the other group.

The big guy was still learning.

Smith was struggling with his swing, even getting pointers from the pro.

Jared wasn’t his brothers-in-law.

And Gibson, frankly, didn’t have his best stuff that day.

But we did.

Every now and then I’d hit a good drive, Kevin would stick one close or Derrick would hit a great approach.

But Glenda never wavered with her putter.

Going into our 18th hole, we had a two-stroke lead over the other team and cruised to a win.

No, we didn’t win the tournament. Didn’t even win any money.

But we beat them.

Glenda and three hacks toppled a pro who was getting two shots on every stroke.

His teammates were good sports about it - still are. He wasn’t.

Fine by us. We relished in our victory as if we’d taken home first place in the championship flight.

That day belonged to us and you could tell the competitor in Glenda loved it.

• • •

As I write this on Thursday evening, I’m about 12 hours away from having to pay my respects to my good friend, Glenda.

“She didn’t make it” are the words that sent me into a tailspin late Sunday night, one that I frankly haven’t come out of yet.

Glenda had put up a good fight, but cancer was the culprit and it doesn’t fight fair.

Her daughter, Kelsi, was the one who had to break the news to me at the hospital.

“She didn’t make it,” she told me with tears returning to her eyes. It was all I could do to fight back the same.

She didn’t make it because life isn’t fair.

It isn’t fair to Kelsi or Shae, two people who have to go way too long without their mother, comforted only by the fact they can be inspired by her fight and determination.

It isn’t fair to her parents Glen and Connie because no parent should ever have to bury their child.

It isn’t fair to her brothers.

It isn’t fair to the rest of her family.

It isn’t fair to her co-workers, all of whom respected and admired the job she did as Kingfisher’s special education director.

It isn’t fair to the students she oversaw. They’ve been dealt their own tough hand at life and few people championed their cause like she did.

It isn’t fair to the people of Wheatbelt Ambucs because Glenda has fought as hard or harder than any of them to make the Playground of Dreams project become a reality for those very students she cared for each day.

And it certainly isn’t fair for Derrick who loved and loves Glenda as much as you’ve ever seen a man love his wife.

Derrick didn’t lose just a wife on Sunday night. He lost a best friend.

Most men go to the golf course to get away from their wives (shhhh, don’t tell anyone), but not Derrick.

He took his. Better yet, Glenda took her husband.

They cooked together. They dined out together. They tailgated together. They golfed together. Sometimes they just sat and watched TV together.

With the exception of Kingfisher football on Friday nights, they did it all together (Derrick keeps stats for KHS football…Glenda would stay home with her patio crew, but always watched the broadcast).

Some folks need a break from their spouse, but not Derrick.

He loved her, adored her and was thankful she wanted to be his wife.

And now, he has to mourn her.

• ••

As I waded my way through bachelorhood, I was often Derrick and Glenda’s third wheel, even the fifth wheel when Gary and Kenna Wilson came along.

“We’re going to El Charro, want to go?”

“Going to the City, want to go?”

“We’re cooking steaks, want to come out?”

“Headed to the Elks, come join us.”

I don’t know if they liked me or felt sorry for me, but Derrick and Glenda always made the effort to make me a part of their lives.

Even as my relationship with my wife grew, it was still a long-distance one for the first seven years.

That left me alone many nights. That is until Derrick and Glenda called.

And they always did.

Eventually, my life and Julie’s life merged in Kingfisher.

I became a husband and a dad.

Suddenly I had soccer practice and softball practice and basketball practice and homework and baths and bedtimes that were a part of my life.

My trips to Wolf Manor for steak and angel hair pasta (my favorite) became less frequent.

My willingness to leave on a whim for a late-night run for dinner in OKC was replaced by an eagerness to check math homework.

That’s what I wanted. They knew it made me happy and they were happy for me.

And they still supported me.

They bought my papers.

True, they sat in a pile by Glenda’s chair until that lazy Sunday afternoon when she caught up on three months’ worth of reading.

(I jokingly asked her in February of 2014 if she had yet found out that Kingfisher won the 2013 football state championship.)

Eventually they even subscribed.

Glenda rarely, if ever, missed a football or basketball broadcast.

Recording a live show at The Shed? They were right there at the bar with a courtside seat right next to whomever my guests might be that week.

Unfortunately, as Glenda got sicker, the circumstances weren’t ideal.

Instead of sitting at home on the patio watching a game with an Ultra in her hand, she might have been in a hospital bed.

But she watched.

Instead of sitting nearby at The Shed, she might have been home because her body was telling her to rest.

But she watched.

She made sure to let me know when things were going well and you’re damn right she made sure to let me know when I royally screwed up.

And that’s what I loved about her. She supported me, but also made sure I never let my head get too big.

She said “good job” but called me on my BS.

But beyond the support, the laughs, the eye rolls and (undoubtedly) the food, there was the friendship.

Since we became good friends - and I’m not even sure I can pinpoint when that happened - they were there for me and sometimes I needed that, whether they knew it or not.

• • •

It goes without saying I’m going to miss Glenda.

I’m going to miss her texts during a broadcast, her steaks and pasta, our conversations about her work and mine and the times we team up to give Derrick a hard time about something...anything.

No, I won’t miss her as much as Kelsi and Shae and Glen and Connie and Randy and Jeff and Mike.

Their bond with her was longer and more apparent and my heart aches for them all.

And I sure won’t miss her as much as Derrick.

The guy who has dropped whatever he was doing to help out a friend without hesitation countless times in his life is going to need those friends now more than ever.

That’s because Glenda, his ultimate friend, didn’t make it.

Not because she didn’t want to and not because she didn’t fight, but because sometimes the story doesn’t end the way we want it to.

No, Glenda didn’t make it, but we’ll always have that day on the golf course when she did nothing but make it.

That day belonged to us. That day belonged to her.

It’s one I’ll never forget and I’ll never forget you, Glenda.

Rest in peace, my good friend.