The Old Course

The eternal twosome revved up the cart, the son holding a beer, the father holding the line.

“You never stop being a parent,” Paul Elliott said.

“But isn’t 81 years of advice enough?” John Elliott said.

The eternal twosome drove to the first tee, the son crouching behind the wheel, the father spreading his wings.

“I only care about what’s good for him,” Paul said.

“After 81 years, don’t you think I know what’s good for me?” John said.

The father hit his tee shot about 100 yards, dead center.

The son hit his tee shot 80 yards and left.

“Well, what do you know?” Paul said, laughing.

“I guess I’m his handicap,” John said, sighing.

And so it went Tuesday at Riverside’s Jurupa Hills Country Club, where a couple of creaky buddies required only a couple of rickety swings to remind us that golf, and family, are forever.

Paul Elliott, the father, is 103.

John Elliott, his son, is 81.

They live together, they attack aging together, eating steaks and drinking nightcaps and smoking together.

For a few glorious hours in the inaugural Octogenarian Open, letting the world in on their secret, they played golf together.

Paul was the one wearing a cap with the name of his World War I ship.

John was the one with the USC golf bag, a school he attended for a year when tuition was $50 a semester.

Paul was the one complaining about all the attention given to something millions of fathers and sons do every year.

John was the one laughing at him.

“All this fuss just for getting out of bed,” Paul groused.

“Enjoy it, Dad,” John said. “It’s 15 minutes of fame for the last man standing.”

The course was filled with survivors, 68 golfers between the ages of 80 and 103, playing in a tournament designed out of respect for those who are often forgotten.

“I’m 54 and feel terrible some days, so I can’t imagine what it must be like to play golf at their age,” said Ron Robinson, the general manager and director of golf at the family-owned course. “We have a lot of those folks around here, so we wanted to do something to honor them.”

The Elliotts, like the others, honored the tournament simply by being unafraid to show up.

“They’re the Odd Couple, turned up a notch,” great-grandson Bill Albert said.

Paul hasn’t played extensively since 1928, and never shot less than a 110.

“Everybody talks about Michael Jordan coming back after a couple of years of retirement, but how about my great-grandfather coming back after more than 70 years?” said J.P. Elliott, another great-grandson.

Then there is John, who plays about once a week, but has never shot less than 83 in his 81 years.

“I never thought I’d live to see the year 2000, but then to see it with my father?” he said. “Anything that happens out here is a plus.”

Shortly before the 1 p.m. tee time for the nine-hole, par-three tournament, Bill Albert shrugged and said, “I just hope nobody is playing behind them. There may not be enough daylight hours left.”

Albert laughed, they all laughed, because it wasn’t about the scores. It wasn’t about the course. It wasn’t even about the tournament.

The day was about John, standing on the first tee, his father leaning on his arm, making this announcement:

“We’ll do our best today because we are hackers, and we never give up,” he said.

The day was about Paul, missing the third hole because of a bathroom break, shooting par on the fourth and fifth holes, then unapologetically deciding to quit on the sixth hole because he had grown weary.

“Life is like golf in that it has so many ups and downs,” he said. “One minute you’re great. The next minute you can’t do anything. What are you going to do? You move on to the next shot.”

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What is it that every golf teacher sells at every introductory lesson? That golf is a sport you can play for life?

Watching Paul and John Elliott is to understand that they are right.

Paul, who played before the invention of tees, can still bend over and plant one into the ground.

John, who played before the invention of Ben Hogan, can still occasionally putt like Ben Crenshaw.

Golf truly is a sport that lasts forever.

Like family.

“After all these years with my father, I’ve learned one thing,” John said. “Whatever happens, it’s my fault.”

“I’m the boss,” Paul said.

“But I cook the meals,” John said.

“Yeah, I guess that does make you the boss,” Paul said.

They have lived together in Riverside since 1991, with widower John inviting Paul into his house after Paul’s second wife died.

“He’s my caretaker,” Paul admitted.

“He’s my friend,” John said.

Both are former Navy sailors, and both fought in world wars, with Paul serving in both of them. Both are creatures of order, routine, and Rush Limbaugh.

And both discovered that they also share an affection for golf.

“We don’t worry about scoring,” Paul said. “We know you can always hit another ball.”

“It’s not about the result,” John said. “It’s about the pursuit.”

This is why the Elliotts never take mulligans.

“It’s your shot, you live with it,” Paul said.

This is why, unless they want to speed up the game like on Tuesday, they generally do not concede easy putts.

“You never know when you’ll miss those putts,” John said. “You have to finish what you start.”

This is also why they never improve their lie.

“Changing one’s situation is no guarantee that you’ll make a better shot,” Paul said.

Several years ago, the father and son went to Scotland on a golfing trip. When the traditional courses wouldn’t allow Paul to ride in a cart, he didn’t complain. He simply walked until he couldn’t walk anymore, even if that meant he didn’t play much golf.

“We’re big on tradition,” said Paul, who refuses to acknowledge the computer.

Part of their tradition also used to be a cocktail before each round, because, well, golf is still a game.

“Aiming fluid,” John said.

Paul says he could use such a potion especially now, when he is blind in his left eye and sometimes struggles to see the pin.

“I can hit the ball,” he said. “How far it will go, where it will go, I have no idea.”

For several moments Tuesday, he knew exactly where it would go.

On the 120-yard fourth hole, he was the only player in his group of six to drive the green.

“I can’t see where I hit it, but I can see it before I hit it,” he said. “That’s all I need. It’s all about attitude.”

Then, on the 120-yard fifth hole, he knocked it within 10 feet of a hole in one.

It was a shot so spectacular, he celebrated with a Rolaids.

“That was too much for my digestion,” he said.

By the end of the day, the son had shot a nine-over-par 36; the father a four-hole total of 19.

Bogey golf. Not bad at all.

“Where’s the ball?” the 103-year-old father asked at one point.

“You’re standing in front of it,” a relative said gently.

“No, no, not my ball, my son’s ball!” he said. “I know how I’m doing. How’s he doing?”

“Over here Dad,” said the 81-year-old son, about five club lengths away. “Doing just fine.”

*

Bill Plaschke can be reached at bill.plaschke@latimes.com.