(and why I will never play it)
There is a way to play golf that would dramatically improve my scores and reduce those 8’s.
I know this. Everyone knows this. It has been explained to me dozens of times by men who shoot in the low eighties while barely breaking a sweat.
Old Man Golf is the strategy where you stop trying to be a hero, hit safe shots, take your bogey, and move on with your dignity intact.
This is not a secret.
This is not advanced physics taught by Bill Nye the Science Guy.
This is not hidden PGA Tour knowledge passed down in whispers behind the clubhouse by dudes named Harris, Wyndham or Chandler.
It’s basic math and patience.
The idea is simple. You don’t try to hit miracle shots. You don’t try to cut corners. You don’t attempt things you have no business attempting. You just play boring unfun golf.
Instead of smashing driver on every hole like you’re auditioning for a long-drive contest, you hit something sensible. Maybe 150 yards. Then another 150 yards. Then a wedge. You two-putt. You walk away with a bogey. Maybe even a par if the golf gods are feeling generous.
Do that all day and suddenly you’re shooting in the eighties.
Life is great. Except… that’s not the life I want to live.
No matter how many times I tell myself I’ll play smart, the second I see a hole over 250 yards, my brain shuts off and my ego takes over.
Driver. Every time.
Water on the right?
Trees on the left?
A narrow landing area the size of a postage stamp?
Doesn’t matter.
I pull the driver anyway, despite having roughly the same level of control over it as my kids have over doing their chores without being reminded fourteen times.
There will be a perfectly good layup area sitting right there. Wide fairway. Safe angle. Easy second shot.
And I’ll ignore it completely because I could hit it.
Sure, I could hit it.
I could also win the Powerball.
Neither is happening.
But logic doesn’t enter the conversation.
Instead of laying up left, I try to carry water I’ve never carried before. Instead of punching out sideways, I try to thread a sand shot over trees like I’m suddenly Phil Mickelson.
One shot from the trees.
One from the pine straw.
One from a bunker.
One topped ten yards back into play.
Now I’m finally standing on the green after six or seven exhausting swings, sweating, annoyed, mentally calculating if I’ve reached some scorecard maximum for the day.
Jungle.
Desert.
Beach.
Pine forest.
Occasionally water.
And the thing is… I know better.
I know exactly what I should do on almost every hole. I know where to lay up. I know what club I can actually hit (7i) to avoid the big number.
I just can’t bring myself to do it.
Because somewhere deep down, I still believe that this time is different. This time I’ll pure it. This time it’ll work. This time I’ll finally hit the shot I’ve been imagining for twenty years.
It almost never does.
And that’s why Old Man Golf will remain a concept I respect but refuse to adopt.
I admire the patience. I admire the discipline. I admire the lower scores. (Sort of)
But I also know myself.
So yes, I could play smart. I could lay up. I could shoot under 100..
But where’s the fun in that?
I’ll keep pulling driver.
I’ll keep trying dumb shots.
I’ll keep living in the land of “I could hit this.”
And I’ll keep walking off greens shaking my head, wondering how it all went sideways again.
Because I ain’t ever doing that shit!