You’ve made it through the week and met your obligations. You have done all the things that needed doing, and now it’s time for golf.
As you pull up to the course, drop your bag and head into the pro shop, the anticipation builds. You are instantly reminded of all the little reasons you love this game. You make your way to your cart where the gracious attendant has loaded your clubs.
You are greeted by the sight of a fresh towel, three complementary tees, and maybe even a cold bottle of water dripping with condensation. And right there, clipped to the steering wheel, is a pristine scorecard with the club’s logo embossed on it. Mounted directly above it is a freshly sharpened pencil with gold lettering, sitting ready to record your inevitable triumphs.
You know that pencil won’t write anything higher than a 5 today.
You drive over to the range as the sun rises slowly in the sky, illuminating the unbroken stretch of dew-covered grass. The crisp air fills with promise as you take the first ball off of an untouched pyramid and pipe it down the practice area, with just a touch of draw.
Sure, there may be a few other people on the range, but you don’t even notice. You are alone with your thoughts. You hear the birds chirping, you smell the freshly mown grass, and each time you find the middle of the clubface you are at one with nature.
The day is yours, the time is now.
As you make your way to the first hole, your mood is Zen-like. The tee goes in the ground and the ball sits perfectly atop it. You assume your well-practiced stance.
The first powerful swing sends the ball soaring in a high, graceful arc into the middle…of a cool blue lake. You remain unfazed as you tee up your breakfast ball. This ball takes a low, powerful flight into the perfectly manicured grass…of a neighboring home.
And then, out of nowhere, something flies down the fairway. It is your $700 custom-built driver. The illusion crumbles as if shattered by your cartwheeling Calloway Epic.
It is 7 am on a Saturday and you are standing in a wet field, whacking a ball with a stick. You could still be in bed! There is no way you will ever be dumb enough to do this again.
Until next Saturday. Next Saturday will be different.
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