I haven’t beaten one of my golfing buddies in well over a year. I’ve been drastically altering my grip and swing, but I’m also just not as good as the guys who I play with. They hit the ball farther and more consistently than me.
I managed to squeak out a tie against one of them this summer, which almost felt like a victory.
But I’m getting better. Hitting the ball farther. More consistently. Understanding all that was lacking from my game. Still, beating any one of them is probably a ways off.
It’s fine. I love golf. My father-in-law gave up the game years ago when he realized that he was never going to break 100. I understand his desire to be competitive, but even if I never beat a single person again for the rest of my life, I’d still play the game.
But it sure would be nice to win again.
As the summer drew to a close, Elysha and I took the kids to mini golf.
The one thing I can do on a golf course is putt. A three-putt is a rarity for me, and when I’m reading the greens well, I can sink long putts.
Sadly, the expression “Drive for show, putt for dough” doesn’t apply when you hit your driver as far as your friends hit their pitching wedges.
An exaggeration, but only slightly.
On the nineteenth hole of mini golf, I sunk the miracle putt to win a free game. As the buzzer sounded, my children went wild. My son told everyone in the vicinity that I had won a free game, and he kept telling them until we finally walked away.
Honestly, it wasn’t luck. It was a straight putt that needed to be struck just hard enough to leap over two troughs and land in the hole without going past. I judged the distance carefully and swung.
It dropped.
Two weeks later and Charlie still talks about that putt. My free game. My miracle shot.
I’d still rather beat one of my friends occasionally. I’d like to be a competitive factor as we make our way into the final hole. But if that can’t happen, Charlie’s belief that I am an amazing golfer is a solid consolation prize.
