A Love Letter to Golf

My wife knows how much I love golf.

She knows the look. The energy. That golden-retriever excitement that kicks in the moment I’m heading out to play. She knows it makes me happy, and she supports the things that bring that kind of joy into my life — one of the many reasons I love her as much as I do.

She just doesn’t feel golf the way I do.

Not because she doesn’t care. But because what the game connects me to is hard to explain if you haven’t lived it.

Golf taps into the same part of me that once believed, without irony, that I might be the hero.

It's the bottom of the ninth. Game 7. The game is tied. The crowd is on its feet.

And somehow, impossibly, McCarthy steps to the plate.

That belief used to live everywhere when we were kids. Before odds. Before realism. Before someone explained who we weren’t going to be.

Most of that belief had to grow up.

Except on the golf course.

Every round starts the same way.

I hit a few balls on the range. One drive jumps off the face. An iron feels heavy and pure. A couple putts fall when they shouldn’t. And just like that, the optimism creeps back in.

I’m feeling it today.
This could be the round.

I know better. I’ve been doing this long enough to know how it usually goes. I’ve striped perfect drives and butchered the wedge. I’ve hit a par three to ten feet and walked off with bogey. I’ve watched good rounds unravel not because I played badly, but because golf decided it wasn’t done with me yet.

And still, standing over the next shot, I believe again.

I’m a Buffalo Bills fan.

Wide Right.
The Music City Miracle (or illegal forward pass).
13 seconds.
The clear completed pass that somehow gets ruled an interception.

Yes, Bills fans keep receipts.

Moments where it felt like we did enough to win and still lost. Questionable calls. Bad breaks. That sinking feeling that maybe the universe itself is against you.

Golf feels exactly like that.

You prepare. You practice. You hit the shot you’re supposed to hit. And sometimes it still slips through your fingers. You walk off dejected. You think, I need a break from this.

And yet.

Golf isn't just about the shots.

It's about who you're with.

Four hours alone with your son, just talking about life between holes. Your cousin giving you shit for topping another drive. Your best friend still bringing up that three-putt from two years ago.

Time with your dad. Time with your son. Time with your best friends.It’s the same feeling as playing catch until the sun goes down. Squeezing in a round after work before dark. One more hole. One more swing.

That same quiet urgency you felt as a kid, trying to get everything in before the streetlights came on and you had to be home.

Golf is our Sandlot.

We all remember the moment when Smalls closes his eyes, catches the fly ball, and suddenly belongs. No explanations. No credentials. Just acceptance.

That’s golf.

You don’t have to be great.
You just have to show up.

Standing over the ball, for a split second, I get to imagine hitting it like Scottie Scheffler. Do I shoot 60? No. But every swing is a reset. A clean slate. A new chance.

That’s why you can make triple bogey and still stand on the next tee believing something good might happen.

That’s not stupidity.

That’s hope.

That’s why I keep coming back.

Not because I think I’ve cracked the code.
Not because I expect it to be fair.
And not because I believe the heartbreak will stop.

I come back because every round gives me a few hours where belief is allowed again.

Where a good swing still feels perfect.
Where one shot can change the day.
Where a bad hole doesn’t end the story.
Where the sun is going down, the round is almost over, and there’s still time for one more.

One more hole.
One more swing.
One more chance before the streetlights come on.

That feeling is fragile. It doesn’t last long. And it doesn’t always end the way you want it to.

But when it shows up, even for a moment, it’s worth everything that came before it.

And sometimes, that’s the whole point.