It’s summer, it’s Sunday morning, and I’m in Columbus. That means I’ve got a standing engagement at the golf course with my Sunday morning group.
The same three guys have been playing golf at the same course for years now. I’m not sure how many times we’ve played or for how long, but it’s been so often that it feels jarring when another person joins our trio to make it into a foursome. The newbies don’t know where to stand on the tee, or they talk too much, or they play slow. Our little group walks and plays “ready golf,” where everyone goes straight to their ball, gets set, and hits their shot when the way ahead is clear. To our way of thinking, bad golf can happen to anyone from time to time, but slow golf is inexcusable.
I’m the worst golfer in our group. That used to bother me, but it doesn’t anymore. I don’t practice like I should or work on my game, and I don’t play as much as I would like, either. When you don’t make the effort to try to get better, how can you expect to improve? But I do like those calm Sunday mornings, like today, when the air is cool and the course is quiet and the grass has that fresh smell and our merry band works our way around the familiar links, talking about nothing in particular.