Foss and the great southern migration…

Foss leaving in january is the most on-brand thing he’s ever done.

Courses up here are closed, the range is closed, the simulator is booked by a 4-handicap who films his swing, and I’m standing in the kitchen in my socks looking at a driveway that’s playing longer than the tips at Breakfast Hill.

Boss is on his second push and already walking like he just carried 36.

Jimmy B’s snowblower sounds like it’s asking to be put down.

My truck needs ten minutes and a personal pep talk before it’ll make heat.

Meanwhile Foss is in shorts on actual grass talking about

“snuck out for nine.”

Nine.

We don’t even know if our cups are still in the ground.

And let’s slow down on this Georgia rebirth.

You are still the Sand Trap King.

I have seen you take so many swings in one bunker we had time to sit on the cart and finish a conversation about lunch, the cart girl, and what went wrong in your life.

You don’t get to go south for six weeks, find firm sand, and come back acting like you’ve got touch.

That’s not a swing change — that’s a climate adjustment.

And it ain’t that you went.

It’s that you went in January.

That’s the mud-season of the soul up here.

That’s when the group text turns into “two more months boys” and everybody gets real quiet.

We’re out here walking to the trash barrels in golf shoes just to hear the sound again and you’re down there getting yardages and full shoulder turn.

So when you get back we’re not even gonna say anything.

First round, first bunker, we’re just gonna aim you at it and let nature take its course.

Like the old days.

Also I hope you three-putt in 75 and sunny.