Published in the International Herald Tribune
25 August 1998

FATHER, GET THEE BEHIND ME
Ambitious dads push young African golfers

by Paul Spencer Sochaczewski © 1998

HARARE, Zimbabwe

True or false? Behind every great athlete is a pushy, ambitious parent.

Meet Lewis Chitengwa and Abbas-Ali Mawji. These two young Zimbabwean golfers might make it to the big time. At least if their fathers have anything to say about it.

Chitengwa is closest to realizing the dream. Now 25, he plays scholarship golf at the University of Virginia. He has won two college championships and finished in 7th place in the NCAA tournament. Golfweek magazine selected him as a pre-season first-team All American.

And, as Chitengwa's father, Lewis Muridzo, will tell you with great delight, the boy beat an amateur Tiger Woods by three shots to win the 1992 Orange Bowl World Junior Tournament in Miami.

Nike contracts have started with less.

On a sultry afternoon I take a taxi to Harare's Wingate Park Golf Club to meet Muridzo.

Lewis Muridzo has paid his dues. Tall, articulate and immaculately dressed, he started as a caddy, became Wingate's first black manager and now is one of the few black golf pros in Zimbabwe. On these fairways-of-dreams he pushed his children to become champions. A daughter, Rhoda, was offered a golf scholarship to the University of Virginia, but "fell pregnant" and apparently lost her competitiveness. Lewis Chitengwa is Dad's remaining hope.
Muridzo is understandably bullish on his son. Before he put Lewis Junior on the plane to the States, Lewis Senior insisted that the boy sign a contract making the old man his manager when he turns pro.

After a round on Wingate's tree-lined course, Muridzo, who has taught many of Harare's golfers, introduced me to a young Indian boy. "This is Abbas-Ali," he said. "He's the next world champion."
Abbas-Ali Mawji is right out of central casting. Handsome, friendly, smart, extroverted, intense. At age 8 the boy had a 10 handicap. Today, age 10, 120 cm tall, weighing 40 kg and in the fifth grade, he shoots to 7.

Abbas-Ali invited me to play nine holes with him at Chapman Golf Club one afternoon after school. His family belongs to three clubs so that the youngster can always get a tee-time.

Dad's willing to spend the money. A UK-origin Indian who moved to Zimbabwe in the 1970s, Kazzim Mawji is a leading doctor, a minor television personality, full of Sammy Davis Jr. energy and big ideas.

He welcomed me into his social circle, partly, I'm sure, because it couldn't hurt his son's career to be friends with a journalist, but partly because I brought in new ideas, new perspectives. Harare can be a very small town if you've got a global vision that includes TV coverage of your son triumphantly strolling down the 18th fairway at Augusta National.

On one hole young Mawji drove into a stand of trees. His ball was lying on a patch of hard dirt. I would have punched a 6 iron back out to the fairway. Abbas-Ali pulled out a driver, intending to weave it through the trees towards the distant green. He didn't quite pull it off, but hey, if you can't take chances when you're ten, when can you?
Throughout the afternoon I couldn't get Dad out of my mind. The night before, Mawji pere had asked me what he should do in order to give the boy the best chance possible.

I told him that if they were serious about Abbas-Ali's career they had to get out of Zimbabwe and move to California or Florida. The boy needs better coaching. And he needs to get his butt kicked by other talented 10 year olds.

"Can Abbas-Ali become a champion?" Mawji asked.

I shrugged. I told him that the world is littered with burnt-out, talented athletic kids whose parents had unrealistic dreams. For every teen-aged Martina Hingis who hits it big there are dozens of anonymous failures. Yet there are Martina Hingises in the world.

Who can tell which kids are going to go all the way?
Eating kebabs with the Mawji family I wondered how my life would have changed if my father had pushed me to follow a version of his dream.

My dad never stopped me from following my star, mind you, but he rarely said more than "do whatever you think will make you happy." I think he sensed early on that I would have rejected any forced directions to my life, as he had rebelled in his own life.

And what skills did I possess as a spoiled, skinny, near-sighted kid?

I had a successful career in suburban high school soccer. I was not bad, but could never play for Juventus or Manchester United. I burned down the bathroom while practicing campfire-building skills in the toilet - I suppose that might have prepared me to become a flight engineer for the Mir space station. I was quick and smart and smart-assed, which I suppose might have helped if I had wanted to be a lawyer.

And I always could write. My first major opus, a third-grade play, involved young boys and spaceships and flying bears.

On reflection I see that my father provided support more subtly than my friends in Zimbabwe offer their kids. I remember when I submitted my first article, at 15. At the time I collected ancient Roman and medieval European coins and wrote a convoluted treatise for the World Coin Bulletin called "Denarius to Dernier." My father helped me take the pictures, setting up a makeshift studio on the kitchen table. Our efforts led to my first sale: $10.

As I grew older and started to explore life I realized how my father had himself sought an artistic life but had instead become sucked up in middle class obligations to provide a stable living for a family. His dream had been overpowered by society's obligations.

So, here I am at 50, having been on TV a few times, but never having worn the Master's green jacket. Part of my life, I admit, is a silent effort to reverse my father's frustrations of too many ulcers and not enough wind in the hair.

But Lewis Muridzo and Kazzim Mawji are taking a more direct approach, and their kids are thriving.

Shortly after meeting Abbas-Ali I said, half jokingly: "Okay, in 15 years I'll look for you to win a major."

"It won't take that long," he replied, quite seriously. "Six or seven years."