The scraggly little third tree was added over the winter of 2002-3 as my father became ill. It replaces the large third tree that had fallen down in the 1960s. While he convalesced at home, his friends e-mailed him a series of photos showing the selection of the valley oak to be used, and the relocation effort from the right of #13 fairway.
There is a plaque underneath the tree which says "The Bill Kirk Tree".
My father died on Valentine's Day, 2003, and about two weeks later we held a little golf tournament and get together in his honor. Bill was a great natural athlete, the best in our family. After playing football, baseball and golf as a young man, Bill gave up golf for about 25 years, playing about once a year. When I took an interest in golf as a senior in college, Dad started playing again and as a university employee joined the Stanford Golf Club. Over the next twenty years he won the seniors championship 7 times. As he described it, he was a "big fish in a small pond".
When it was my turn to speak at the tribute, I told one story...about the last time my father and I ever played basketball together. It was November 17, 1982, and I was fresh out of college. I had organized my own recreation league team, and we played in Palo Alto's top level recreation league. We had nine players on the roster, and were set to play the other best team in the league. Four of our players were unavailable for various reasons, and my close friend Rich Supan was a game time decision, as his wife Bernadette was very pregnant with their first child. About two hours before the game, I called Dad, who faithfully attended the games, and suggested he wear his sneakers to the gym.
Fifteen minutes before the game, it was apparent Rich wouldn't make it. Dad jumped out of the stands and became our fifth player for the night. The other team objected to using him as a player; I said fine, lodge an official complaint with the league but let's play the game. Imagine objecting to a 55 year old playing!
Dad and I played lots of basketball together. It was our favorite sport. As a young man, he had been a 6'1" center for the Moffett Field Flyers while in the Navy, and though he wasn't a particularly skilled player, he and I shared a keen appreciation for the great team game.
My father played the whole game, guarding larger ex-college players. He did not score, but got a few rebounds and a couple assists, and regularly passed the ball to the team's great playmaker...me. One of our forwards caught a real hot streak in the first half, which we rode to a big lead. We then hung on to tie in regulation, then nipped them by a point or two in overtime.
My best man Rich welcomed his son into the world that evening. The other team filed a complaint with the league office, which was granted, and the game was counted as a loss in the standings. The game marked the end and the highlight of our baskeball career together, and the beginning of a twenty year friendship on the golf course.