Myrtle Beach Golf and Frozen Pizza?

A Cautionary Tale About Frugality, Meat Swords, and Regret

I have two very different golf families.

There’s my legacy group. Brothers, cousins, the guys I grew up with. Shared history, shared bad decisions, shared golf trauma.

Then there’s my wife’s family. Her brothers, cousins, and close friends. Tight group. Ride-or-die energy. All hardworking guys with solid careers. Some of them flirting with executive territory whether they admit it or not.

This story is about the first time those worlds collided.

We go to Myrtle Beach. First golf trip with my wife’s side. I also invite a coworker of mine at the time, Lincoln, who filled the eighth spot. An overly handsome coworker, as it turns out, though that realization comes later and is absolutely a story for another day.

Day one is golf.

Myrtle Beach golf means water. Everywhere. Balls disappearing like they’re being actively hunted. At some point you stop being mad and start laughing. You’re sweating, losing balls, and exactly where you’re supposed to be. Snowman’s a plenty on the card!

After the round, we head back to the condos.

And this is where the night takes a hard left.

Because the condos have kitchens, and somehow dinner becomes frozen pizza.

Frozen pizza? On a golf trip? In Myrtle Beach?

This idea has a champion. An ambassador. A man carrying the banner of unnecessary restraint.

Dennis. Dennis is a chiropractor.

This is a man who understands the human body, wellness, and alignment. He is not broke. He is not struggling. He is not choosing between dinner and rent.

And yet Dennis is passionately advocating for frozen pizza like the financial fate of the group depends on it.

Boxes come out. Ovens preheat. There is real discussion about toppings, like this is a thoughtful, reasonable decision.

I stand there processing what’s happening.

This group is not going to be financially ruined by a fifty-dollar dinner. No one is calling their bank. No one is skipping a mortgage payment. And yet we are voluntarily recreating a Tuesday night at home.

I did not fly across the country, pay for golf, lose balls to South Carolina water hazards, and sweat through an afternoon round to eat something I can buy for three dollars at the grocery store.

That was not happening.

So Lincoln and I exchange a look and make the only logical decision.

We leave.

We end up at a Brazilian steakhouse. My first time. I do not fully understand what I’ve agreed to, but suddenly there are men walking around with swords.

Actual swords. Long metal skewers stacked with meat.

It felt like the Three Musketeers had changed careers and decided to feed me personally. Beef. Pork. Chicken. Lamb. Things Noah probably had on the ark just in case.

They just keep coming. Slice after slice. No questions. No judgment. Just an endless parade of protein.

At one point I’m convinced there’s a second kitchen in the back where Noah himself is cooking pairs of animals and sending them out one by one.

We order wine. Red wine. A bottle becomes another bottle. It pairs beautifully with what can only be described as a third-world country’s worth of cow.

I am full. Then I am fuller.

Then I am questioning my life choices but powering through because this is a golf trip and this is how memories are made.

Then the bill comes. I brace myself.

I am expecting damage. Real damage. Three hundred dollars, maybe more. Worth it, but painful.

The server drops the check. Seventy-five dollars each.

With wine!

I stare at it.

I just ate an irresponsible amount of meat, drank good wine, and feel genuinely happy. And it cost less than a forgettable round of golf and a logoed polo I didn’t need.

This is a win.

We walk back to the condo glowing. Full. Content. Slightly drunk. Spiritually complete.

And we are immediately met with sad faces.

Empty pizza boxes. Half-eaten slices. Unfulfilled palates. Regret hanging in the air.

They ask how dinner was.

We tell them.

We describe the meat swords. The endless cuts. The wine that kept appearing. The parade of protein that would have changed their lives.

The looks on their faces said everything.

Lonesome. Hollow. Reflective.

That condo was filled with regret that night, I tell you.

And here’s the lesson.

Being frugal is fine. I respect it. Don’t overspend on crap. Especially expensive golf crap.

But do not miss out on meat swords and wine.

Frozen pizza will always be there.

That experience will not.

And no one has ever looked back and said, “Man, I’m really glad we stayed in and ate frozen pizza on a golf trip.”