I get a text. “Dude, let’s golf Friday.”
My first thought is obvious, what the hell, man, I’ve got work. Then I look at my calendar. Somehow, magically, my Friday afternoon is wide open. No meetings. No demos. No random nonsense. So I immediately block it off. I’m not risking some last-minute meeting about policies or pipelines ruining this.
It’s January. It’s Friday afternoon. I’m not expecting 18 holes or good golf. I just want to play. Sunshine, a buddy, maybe a couple of beers. I’ll get nine holes in, shoot a heroic 55, three-putt everything, and lose six to nine balls. All acceptable. We book the local muni. Thirty bucks. Nine holes. Perfect. In my head, I’m already standing on that par-three over water, pretending I’m playing Sawgrass , right up until I top-spin one across the pond like I’m skipping rocks as a kid.
And then the forecast changes.
An Alberta Clipper.
In Orlando.
Suddenly the high is 52 degrees. I grew up in Michigan. Fifty-two used to be nothing. But after fifteen years in Florida, I’m pudding. I don’t own gloves. I don’t have a beanie. I barely own long sleeves. I am not built for this anymore.
That’s when you realize the truth. At this stage of life, golf isn’t about toughness. It’s about fun. And I don’t get enough rounds each year to waste one being miserable.
So what do you do? You bail. You bail faster than a fat guy in a leaking rowboat.
Maybe next time I’ll be smarter. Buy winter gear. Dig out the old Lions beanie. Pretend I’m still that guy. But for now, there’s a better win. The range has heaters. The beer is six bucks. And I don’t lose six brand-new orange Callaway’s because my eyes are so bad I don’t even play white balls anymore.
That counts.
That’s still golf.