Saturday morning from the rough

Good Saturday morning from the rough, where the coffee is strong, the knees are questionable, and the golf clubs have officially filed a missing persons report.

Friends, it has now been two full weeks since I have played golf.

Two weeks.

In golf years that’s roughly the same as disappearing into the wilderness and returning with a beard, a walking stick, and stories about surviving wolves.

My clubs currently sit in the garage looking at me the way a neglected Labrador looks at its owner.

“Did we do something wrong?”

No, boys. Life happened.

Jury duty happened.

Work happened.

Fire pits happened.

Hot tubs broke.

The granddaughter arrived.

The podcast needed recording.

The book needed editing.

Father’s Day feelings showed up.

Somewhere in there I think I may have eaten a yogurt.

And through all of it, golf got put on the shelf.

Now here’s the dangerous thing about not playing golf for two weeks when you’re over fifty.

Your mind starts lying to you.

You convince yourself you’ve forgotten how to play.

You begin practicing your grip while holding the TV remote.

You make practice putting strokes with the broom.

You watch YouTube videos titled “Fix Your Slice In 30 Seconds” even though you’ve had that slice since George W. Bush was president.

You walk past a field and immediately begin calculating whether it’s 150 yards to that tree.

You see a pond and wonder if your golf ball could clear it.

You develop a nervous twitch every time somebody says the word “driver.”

Meanwhile, my golf bag sits in the corner gathering dust and resentment.

The driver is angry because he finally started behaving.

The putter has trust issues.

The sand wedge has not been used enough to remember who I am.

And the four iron, which nobody truly understands anyway, is probably plotting against me.

The Dad Bods group is likely concerned.

At this point they probably have my picture on milk cartons.

“Last seen making promises about playing next weekend.”

The truth is golf isn’t really about golf anymore.

It’s four hours where nobody can schedule a meeting.

Nobody asks about occupancy.

Nobody needs an email.

Nobody wants a report.

Nobody needs you to solve a problem.

For four beautiful hours, the biggest crisis in your life is whether you should have used an eight iron instead of a seven.

It’s therapy with profanity.

It’s counseling with cart paths.

It’s meditation interrupted by a ball that somehow lands behind the only tree within three counties.

And let’s be honest: I need that.

Because lately life has felt a little like standing over a four-foot putt while forty people watch and somebody whispers, “Don’t miss.”

When I finally return to the course, here’s what will happen.

The first tee shot will either go 250 yards straight down the middle and convince me I’m playing the best golf of my life.

Or it will hit a squirrel, bounce off a tree, cross two fairways, and scare a family having breakfast.

There is absolutely no middle ground.

My back will crack.

My knees will negotiate.

I’ll make noises getting out of the cart that no human under fifty ever makes.

I’ll tell myself to “swing easy.”

I will absolutely not swing easy.

And somewhere around hole six I’ll remember exactly why I keep coming back.

Because golf is one of the few places left where grown men can spend four hours together talking about everything and absolutely nothing.

The score won’t matter.

The lost balls won’t matter.

The double bogeys won’t matter.

Although if I three-putt from six feet I reserve the right to question the existence of God.

So if you see me this weekend wandering onto a golf course looking pale, emotional, and slightly overcaffeinated, understand this:

I am not chasing a score.

I am reconnecting with an old friend.

Besides, after two weeks away my expectations are simple.

Break 100.

Don’t pull a hamstring.

Don’t throw a club.

And don’t let the beverage cart know how emotionally vulnerable I currently am.

Until then, my clubs wait patiently.

The golf shoes sit by the door.

The scorecard from the last round remains in the truck.

And somewhere out there a golf course is quietly preparing to humble me all over again.

As it should.

Because life may happen in the fairway.

But most of us spend our time learning our lessons from the rough.