There's a particular kind of freedom that arrives the day you retire. No more alarms. No more meetings that could've been emails. No more pretending to understand what "circling back" means. And for a certain type of person - my type, apparently, that freedom immediately gets funneled into one glorious, humbling, infuriating pursuit, golf.
I am bad at it. Let me be clear about that up front, because I've noticed people like to soften these things. They'll say "oh, I'm not great" while stripping a 240-yard drive down the middle. That is not what's happening here. I am *bad* at golf. Genuinely, measurably, on-paper bad. And I love it more than almost anything I've done in my adult life.
The math stopped mattering
For thirty-some years, I lived and died by numbers. Quarterly targets, performance reviews, the whole scoreboard of a working life. You'd think I'd want to leave that behind. Instead I picked up a game that hands you a fresh scorecard every single time and dares you to make peace with it.
Here's the thing nobody tells you: once you accept that you're not going to break 90 - or 100, some Tuesdays, the round transforms. The pressure evaporates. I'm not grinding toward a handicap that impresses anyone at the bar. I'm out there for the four hours, the fresh air, and the small, ridiculous miracles that keep me coming back.
Because they *do* happen. That's the cruel genius of golf. You can shank six shots in a row, top a ball so badly it dribbles into a squirrel's front yard, and then, out of nowhere, pure one 7-iron so clean and true that it feels like the game itself leaned over and whispered, *see you next week.* And it works. Every time. I'm hooked all over again by the 9th hole.
My playing partners are saints
I play most Thursdays with three other retired guys who are, by any reasonable standard, also not good. This is important. There is no worse fate in retirement golf than being the weak link in a foursome of people who take it seriously.
We keep score, technically. We also stop counting somewhere around the point where honesty becomes impressive. We give each other putts we have no business giving. We've developed an elaborate system of gimmes that would make a rules official weep. And we laugh - hard, constantly, at each other and mostly at ourselves. Last week Dale hit a drive so far right it landed on a completely different hole, and a stranger picked it up thinking it was his. Dale still counts that as his best shot of the day. He's not wrong.
What the good players don't get
I've noticed that the people who are actually *good* at golf don't seem to have nearly as much fun as I do. They're out there furious with themselves over a bogey. They slam clubs. They go quiet for three holes after a bad break. They're chasing something that keeps moving.
I've got nothing to chase. My expectations are subterranean, which means the game can only surprise me in the good direction. A par isn't a par to me, it's a *celebration.* I've been known to remove my hat. When you're bad at golf, mediocrity feels like triumph, and triumph feels like being knighted.
That's not a consolation prize. I think it might be the whole point.
Why I keep showing up
People ask why I don't take a lesson, get properly coached, actually improve. And sure, maybe I will. But I worry, a little, about fixing something that isn't broken. I'm not out there to become good. I'm out there because for four hours, twice a week, I get to walk beautiful ground with people I love, chase a little white ball into places it has no right to go, and take myself completely un-seriously.
Retirement gives you time. Golf gives you a way to spend it that keeps you humble, keeps you moving, and keeps you laughing at a version of yourself you're finally comfortable enough to laugh at. I spent a whole career being competent. Turns out being cheerfully, hopelessly bad at something is a lot more fun.
So here's to the double bogeys, the lost balls, the gimmes we didn't earn, and the one perfect shot per round that keeps the whole beautiful, stupid thing going.
See you on the next fairway. I'll be the one in the woods, looking for my ball - and grinning about it.