My walking path typically takes me past a golf course, where I see foursomes spread out over the terrain. I hear some of the banter and chatter; laughter and chagrined moaning over missed shots.
Golf is a centerpiece activity of many men. It’s a place where deals are made; relationships are created and fortified. This is a good thing. But for me, golf represents a game of frustration, unrelenting errors, and time devoted to chasing a little white ball.
I walked away from playing “at” golf decades ago. I think of the money spent on equipment, lessons, green fees, cart rentals, and hundreds of golf balls that wound up in unknown locations.
I appreciate those who devote their time and energy to their passions. Yet I’m comfortable with my decision to not focus my energy there, even now that I have the time.
As I walked the perimeter of the golf course the other day, I found a golf ball resting in the weeds. Bending down, I picked it up and examined it. It was in perfect condition, and I couldn’t help but think of the golfer who hit this errant shot and that feeling of yet another lost ball—I’m glad it wasn’t me.
I stuck the ball in my pocket, figuring I’d give it to my son-in-law, and I felt a sense of happiness in doing what makes me happy instead of spending time feeling frustrated and miserable. It felt good to find that ball, calculating that I only need to find another couple hundred more to break even!
