Gloucester Alumni

I met Mr. Hendrickson for the first time in the summer of 1994. I was 9, he was 81.

It was the beginning of the summer and of the six-week Gloucester-run golf program. My mom and I arrived at the O'Maley track at 9 a.m. in the sweltering heat to find Mr. Hendrickson, the instructor. He was tiny, about 5-feet, with a white polo shirt and a low, throaty voice.

"Grab a club from the back, and get down to the field" he barked. First day pleasantries were not a huge deal to Mr. Hendrickson.

Our hourlong practice each Monday and Wednesday took place in the field within the O'Maley track. There, 20 of us, ages 9 to 12, whacked multicolored plastic nerf golf balls from the left edge of the uncut field, out into the middle. We each got three balls, and Mr. Hendrickson would walk down our line, offering pointed advice such as "Keep your head down!" and "I tell you every day, keep those feet planted."

Our group's skill level was not high. Once, someone let go of the club and it sailed backward for seven terrifying seconds, up the hill toward the cars in the parking lot. Another time, I hit a lady jogger in the back with my nerf ball. Yet, as the summer progressed, Mr. Hendrickson's instruction began to take hold. Whiffs and shanks grew less frequent. Occasionally, a ball would rocket into the air, and Mr. Hendrickson would grin, his entire face wrinkling into the grin.

Or better yet, he would laugh - a deep, rumbling laugh that made anyone within 30 feet smile. We grew to love Mr. Hendrickson, our teacher.

I came back to Mr. Hendrickson's golf program the next summer. And the summer after that. And the summer after that. Each summer the huge bag was still there. The nerf balls were still there. And Mr. Hendrickson, with his tough love and deep laugh, was still there.

When I was 12, my family joined Rockport Golf Club. There, I soon discovered with delight that Mr. Hendrickson was a member. He played every day, after our lessons, in a group famously known throughout the area as "The 12:30 Group." Each day at 12:30, Mr. Hendrickson and his other 70- to 89-year-old buddies would play nine holes, for 10 cents a hole. It was one of the most fiercely competitive battles you will ever see. Of this group, Mr. Hendrickson was clearly the most competitive. Everyone at Rockport knew Mr. Hendrickson. Everyone adored him.

As the summers passed, I played more and more seriously. Mr. Hendrickson became my mentor and strongest supporter. He would always check my scores in the Junior Club Championships and search me out afterward. When I had had a good round in a tournament, he got so excited that he seemed to almost jump from foot to foot in congratulating me. Mr. Hendrickson always made sure I was fighting out there. He made me proud of my game and proud of playing the game.

When Mr. Hendrickson was 86, he finally stepped down from teaching the golf program. For four years, I ran the golf program in his stead, now in the field behind Gloucester High School. Mr. Hendrickson was always excited to hear the news. He was proud of it continuing after him. I was, too.

Three years ago, while a freshman in college, I had to shoot a documentary for my film class. I knew Mr. Hendrickson and the 12:30 Group would be perfect. I took the train in from Boston to Rockport on three consecutive weekends and filmed the 12:30 Group. Mr. Hendrickson, now 91, wasn't there for the first two weekends. I got worried he wouldn't show. On the final weekend of filming, though, I suddenly saw him striding toward me from his car. My camera rolling, I remarked "You're looking good!" His reply was classic Hendrickson. "Yeah, but I feel like hoss-."

Later, out on the course, I asked one of the other players, Bob, to describe Mr. Hendrickson. "Oh yeah," Bob said in a squeaky, high-pitched 88-year-old voice. "You know John, he's our leader!" I finished the documentary and showed it at school in the year-end screenings. A hundred college students instantly fell in love with Mr. Hendrickson.

On Monday, I was in my dorm room, working on my senior thesis, when Dad called me up with the bad news. The first thing I thought of was that summer morning at O'Maley, meeting Mr. Hendrickson for the first time. The second thing I thought of, was that laugh.

I know I'll never again hear Mr. Hendrickson's laugh or see his smile. I'll never be able to crush a ball off the tee and turn back to him proudly. But I know how lucky I am to have spent 12 years of my life knowing this great man, to have grown up under his guidance. And I know Gloucester is lucky to have had such an amazing man as a teacher, coach, instructor, and citizen. I'm going to miss you, Mr. Hendrickson. But I hope somewhere out there, you're still teaching 11-year-olds to whack nerf golf balls around a large field. And that you're laughing.

Oliver Horovitz of Gloucester is a senior at Harvard College.

Courtesy Gloucester Daily Times