The Real Ones

Who are the real ones? Who are the golfers who got the itch? The ones who trade family time, vacation time, and free time for the “grind”?

They are the ones waiting for a flight and testing out their weight shift in the airport. The ones whose YouTube algorithms are full of Masters recaps and Tiger highlight videos. The ones who have been trying to get better for a lifetime. The ones who wake up early on a day off, dress to impress, and arrive early, only to then be disappointed by their inability to perform. Not all golfers have this problem.

The real ones have calluses on their inner fingers and palms from the club grip. The ones with a thousand dead gloves in the trunk. Leather worn away by the relentless dream of the under-par score. The ones with a thousand inputs into golf apps and scratches on scorecards of a million different flavors, trying to somehow make meaning of all the work and strife.

These are the real ones. The real nut jobs.

The ones who come out at sunset and daybreak to chip on the chipping green because golf today was too expensive but you needed the practice. The ones with the dark tan halfway up their arms. The ones with grass clippings in their trunk and the smell of old socks and bag towels permeating the cloth seats of their old beater car.

I like these people. These are my people.

Now, in life, you will fluctuate in and out of being one of these masochists. Kids will come. Jobs will take away free time. Wives will demand an apple-picking adventure on the only Saturday you had left.

Then, around the holidays, the itch will begin.

You find yourself rolling over to your phone at night to watch “Tempo Town” videos with Freddie Couples and wonder: how do they do it? How do they maintain such a high level of play and an effortless cool?

Like the Paul Newman of golf.

The next day you dust off the neglected putter. You figure you can at least practice that.

Unfortunately, that is a gateway drug. The door is open. The fever begins, and you spend months trying to take control of a game that has none. Trying to be like Freddie, like Jack, like Arnie, like Tiger. All of your dreams and hopes are dashed with each round, but hell, it’s better than working.

These are the natural ebbs and flows of the addicted golfer. The ones who find a spare TV at work just to watch the final five holes of each major. At least you get to see those.

You will meet many “golfers” in your life, but immediately you can tell whether they are like you or not. The kindred spirit is quickly recognized.

Many of those who occasionally play will claim they are a golfer, but only a select few will be able to call themselves true golfers.

All are welcome, but few are recognized.

These, my friends, are golfers.

They have earned it.