I Wasn’t Always a Snowman Golfer
There’s a version of me on the golf course that didn’t believe life was still great with an eight.
That guy?
He was a problem.
We’re talking early 2000s. Mid-20s. Still thought I was competitive. Still thought I could “figure it out.” Still thought if I just tried harder, golf would reward me for effort.
I was playing with the Canadian crew – the same degenerates from the Myrtle Beach pizza story – and we’re out at a local muni in Michigan. Probably Maple Lane Golf Club… but honestly, they all blur together now.
What doesn’t blur?
That round.
Everything Went Wrong
Not regular bad.
Banana-slice-off-the-planet bad.
- Tee shots? Gone right.
- Approach shots? Topped.
- Recovery shots? Worse than the original problem.
- Divots? I was basically strip-mining the fairway.
- Putts – 4 per hole
If there was a wrong way to hit a golf ball, I found it. Repeatedly. With enthusiasm.
And with every hole… I got hotter.
Not “ah shucks” hot.
Not “laugh it off” hot.
Hulk Smash hot.
The Moment
At some point (and rage doesn’t timestamp itself) I snapped.
I started throwing things.
First the Ball?
Then a Club? (Helicopter style none of that Javelin nonsense, I’m not a savage!)
Bag? Kicked it like it stole my wallet!
And then… I escalated. Yup!
There was a green metal trash can on the golf course. You know the one. Half full of:
- Hot dog wrappers
- Empty beer cans
- Prov1 Boxes from the lunatics who keep losing balls like me
I picked it up…
…and absolutely launched it. Well I mean it went three feet – but I still threw the damn thing! Probably sliced that too!
(Look out squirrel!)
Aftermath
Trash everywhere.
Looked like a raccoon on steroids hosted a tailgate.
And the guys I’m playing with?
Silent.
Not laughing.
Not chirping.
Just… staring.
Because they’d never seen me like that.
That wasn’t competitive.
That wasn’t intensity.
That was a grown man losing his mind over a game I was paying to play!
Fast Forward 20 Years
I still play like garbage sometimes.
Okay – often. (Jerks!)
Last year on a hole I took three full swings with my bazooka… and hit nothing but dirt.
Three clean divots.
Ball didn’t move.
At that point, it looked like a Bigfoot Foot Print (Get me some plaster cast Martha, I found him!!)
So I stood there for a second…
Looked down at my bright orange Callaway golf ball…
…and I just started laughing.
Like actually laughing.
Picked the ball up.
Drove over to my cart partner.
Dropped next to him like nothing happened.
No anger.
No tantrum.
No garbage cans harmed in the process.
So what Changed?
Nothing about my golf game.
Everything about my perspective.
Somewhere along the way, it clicked:
You’re not out here to prove anything.
You’re out here to be out here.
- Dudes
- Fresh air & a stogie – why not I’m a man of many parts.
- Bad swings
- A couple Miller lites
- And a story or two you’ll never live down
That’s the deal.
The Callback (Because They Never Forget)
To this day, my buddy Chris “Bro” will still bring it up:
“Hey, remember when you threw that trash can?”
Yes.
Yes I do.
Because that was the day I learned:
If golf can make you that mad…
You’re doing it wrong.
The Closer
You see my lads and lasses, I wasn’t always a Snowman Golfer.
I had to earn that.
Somewhere between throwing a garbage can…
…and laughing at three missed swings…
…it clicked.
You don’t beat golf.
You survive it.
You enjoy it.
Or it beats you.
So now?
I’ll take the eight.
I’ll take the laugh.
I’ll take the drop next to my buddy and keep it moving.
Because —
Life’s still great with an eight.
Snowman Note: No squirrels, or playing partners were harmed in the making of this round. Pride and that poor metal trash can took the biggest hit.