He called one day after suddenly being diagnosed with an ascending aneurysm during a routine physical. Fast-tracked to surgery, reaching out to old friends just in case he didn’t make it through the procedure. To this day, I am grateful he thought of me, instantly mourning our time apart. Moved and amazed by his vulnerability and courage, his ability to trust in God’s sovereignty, no matter the outcome.
To no one’s surprise, given his lifetime of being a competitive athlete, runner, cross-country, track, and Nordic-ski coach, he survived. Telling me all the details when he invited me to play a round of golf at a beginners track devoid of sand, water and anything over two-hundred yards off the tee. Slowly building back his heart strength.
In time, we became golf partners, playing twice a week. Retirees needing a time filler, excited to geek out on our games. And for me (unspoken of course—as guys do) he became a lifeline, for I had few friends, always a lone wolf, isolation my tendency.
But the game bound us together like blood brothers. Our burning, obsessive love of using sticks in a field was hard-wired into our DNA. We were manic, rarely taking a day off (unless injured, enduring a natural disaster or attending the death of a family member—but even then, there had to be a way to get in nine holes).
We shared so many quirks. Senior walkers who loved to play fast, first tee-time types. Irritated when stuck behind a crack-of-dawn fivesome (each driving their own cart), bothered when waiting for greens to be mowed, cringing when young people blared music from portable speakers. Livid when people teed off on the tenth hole. Often counting off the seconds it took for people to hit the damn ball. Apoplectic when newbies waited until the group was off the green before teeing off on a four hundred-yard par four.
Given his personality, he proved to be a savant and a true student of golf. He analyzed every aspect of his swing, driven by stats, researching equipment, an approach quickly lowering his handicap. I have never seen someone improve so quickly, making me doubt my game as a feel player over the years. Constantly searching for the slot, repeating the same mistakes season after season. He pushed me to be better and more consistent, a humbling process forcing me to learn from his example.
But the game — oh, the game — not only reunited us as friends but somehow acted like a fountain of youth. As if an elixir, a miracle drug helping us forget our physical limitations and numbing our daily aches and pains. Resurrecting our inner child, happy-go-lucky kids chasing after a dimply, white ball.
Our friendship deepened. When driving together to our favorite course, an idea took hold when I invited him to visit our condo in Colorado.
“We should golf along the way.” He said.
A casual comment, shared by a myriad of golfers, filled us with excitement. But rarely does such an idea become reality given jobs, family, and spouses. However, at our stage of life, the suggestion instantly ignited a need deep inside. And once unleashed, our plan soon morphed into a bucket-list trip, demanding that we traverse across the Midwest. A road-trip only the young and foolhardy would attempt. Keenly aware that our bodies might not hold up.
Seven states in seven days. Ten ‘must-play’ public golf courses. Over 1900 miles of driving.
We knew better, of course.
After all, I have two artificial hips, both replaced over twenty years ago, occasionally creaking as if needing oil like the Tin Man. Playing a putter only because it allows me to scoop up the ball without reaching down. My swing, like Mr. Roboto, golfing most of my life with degenerative arthritis, muscle memory keeping my hips from turning. Far more debilitating, however, are my frail nerves, as if I were ground zero for the yips. Unable to relax when playing, always trapped in my head. Under pressure, an arms-only takeaway and follow through. Known to produce a shank so severe the marshal has to speed people ahead on the adjoining fairway.
And my friend? Wired, charging into a round like a first-grader after three Red-Bulls. Often plowing down the middle of the first fairway, unaware his playing partners were yet to tee off. A numbers fanatic, measuring drives and perpetually checking his golf watch, filling the silence with “well,” or “it will play.” He doesn’t bother looking for a True-Feel but searches for an AVX as if a lost child. Often walking alongside and giving a play-by-play of his last swing. Laser-focused but absent-minded, typically losing three or more head-covers per season.
More impressively, he is a medical miracle. Seven different meds, every morning with a banana. Beta-blockers (off and on—a marvel) to keep his heart resting at 60 beats per minute, sometimes napping early afternoon, religiously following a heart-healthy diet with no alcohol. Daily back exercises for degenerative discs in his lower back. Strong, zero percent body fat (no exaggeration), walking hilly courses, often working out twice a day.
Yet, in planning the golf trip, I worried about our health, half-expecting one of us wouldn’t make it through a round. A real-life example of the proverbial golf-joke — ‘Yeah, it was a slow round. My friend passed away on hole nine, and I had to drag him along until I finished eighteen.’
Dates became set in stone, both of us unable to throttle back our burgeoning elation, psyched for the trip. Even a casual mention of what we had planned made friends and every golfer envious, wishing they could do the same.
However, there were reservations. It was never a question of compatibility. We knew each other so well, comfortable and natural when together, able to banter, tease, and laugh at our peculiarities. Though we shared a deranged passion for the game, in some ways, we were opposites.
He is a Type A, schedule-driven planner; deviations throw him for a loop. High energy, slight OCD, occasionally hyper, a verbal processor, loving to chat about the minutiae of the game, constantly on the move, unable to slow down.
In contrast, I am an extreme introvert, preferring to play alone, walking the course therapeutic, reveling in the quiet. Aghast when paired with unknown golfers, knowing every back route between holes at my home course. A single, hated by every foursome when I catch up to them on the next tee.
The plan came together, searching must play courses, finalizing a route across North and South Dakota, Wyoming, Colorado, Nebraska, Iowa and Minnesota. Thirty-six holes a day, with three rest days (only eighteen holes). Yes, travel would be a grind, but surely we could drive three to four hours, crash into a cheap hotel, shower, eat, rise the next morning and repeat the process.
What the hell were we thinking?
Of course, our adult children questioned our sanity and worried about our safety. Telling us not to drive late at night (an eight o’clock bedtime was a stretch). Our wives were supportive (secretly happy to have us out of the house for a week), but worried, since we both had cataracts and floaters (seeing multiples when a pair of car headlights came our way).
In truth, only in retrospect did we realize our buddy golf trip had developed into something more…as if morphing into a survival-of-the-fittest quest, a once in a lifetime opportunity. Feeling as if a personal odyssey we had to finish at all costs.
Setting off, our mood was giddy, euphoric, knowing what we were about to do was a rare gift, unencumbered by age, responsibility, finances, or the guilt of being away from family. Where we could be fully present, with nothing on our minds but playing the game we loved.
We drove from state to state, the miles accumulating, teeing off on one magnificent course after another. Surprisingly, after concluding each round, the quality and awe-inspiring beauty of the track seemed less inspiring. Of course, we talked about our rounds but spent less time on the strokes left behind, each scorecard given only a cursory glance before being quickly stuffed into our bags like every other. Certainly, the layouts will never be forgotten, but, strangely, golf became secondary, far less significant to what we were experiencing together.
During our eight days together, the game brought out the best and worst in both of us. Being with one another twenty-four-seven drew us close like brothers, but also produced annoyance so severe, murderous thoughts crept in, imagining burying each other’s bodies in a ponderous sand trap. (hoping some helpless slug would slice off a nose with their sixty-degree wedge)
The trip embodied all it means to be human. A microcosm of life condensed into mere days, replete with highs and lows, relational spats, irritation, and the unforeseen, surreal, fated, and hilarious moments that occur when playing a game that cannot be mastered. Filled not just with miraculous shots, birdies, or lucky breaks, but memories that will never me forgotten:
Like our auspicious start, setting off at dawn the first day, three hours to Hawktree, Siri routing us to a maintenance shed, a worker saying, “Go that way, turn left, left, and left to the clubhouse.” What? Barely making our tee time. Shocked by the hour-plus frost delay. Eyes pinned on the sugar-crashing-too many donuts starter, a sleepy-eyed retiree, using a pudgy finger to scan an old fashion clipboard. Playing thirty-six holes, the course packed, watching turtles zoom by and seasons change when waiting on the tee box.
Hours behind schedule, hitting the road at dusk, fueled only by gas station pizza, dill-pickle sunflower seeds, Diet Coke, and candy bars. At one point, forced to a complete stop in rural South Dakota (single-lane highway under construction), not a soul in sight, car idling as we waited for a boom-truck operated light to turn green (eight minutes). Hilariously, rushing out to pee over a guardrail before returning to the gravel road. Deer lurking in the gullies, eyes gleaming red under a full-moon, fawns wobbling across the road, forcing us to brake hard.
We collapsed overnight in Rapid City, rising early for a tee time at the Golf Club at Red Rock. Spectacular course, target fairways, severe undulations, and killer par fives. Holding our breath on every shot. Unable to stomach another five-hour afternoon round, we bolted to Torrington, Wyoming, to play Cottonwood. Wide open front. The back nine like something out of the twilight zone — tight, tight, tight, as if the wood gods were closing in on us, my buddy pulling off a miracle shot between two thick branches of an enormous oak tree. Bedding down in Cheyenne, our third state along the way.
Day three was a grind (low blood sugar and dehydration), two eighteen-hole rounds at different courses. Throwing clubs in the morning at Cheyenne Country Club, before driving to Marian Butte in Loveland, Colorado, for our afternoon round. Paired with a local who knew the course, constantly spraying his driver face with baby powder (like most retired accountants).
We finally made it to Estes Park, our original destination, crashing overnight at the condo, rising early the next morning for a hike to Gem Lake. Like idiots, deciding to walk our golf round, (my buddy convinced I was trying to kill him). Playing during prime time, small-town golfers irritated by the pace of play. This caused a spat between the two of us when, as we waited to tee off on five, he suddenly took off and demanded I follow him back to the opening tee.
“He has a bit of ADHD,” I sheepishly explained to the other twosome, puzzled to see him striding down the first hole. Which pissed me off when we quickly caught up to the pack by hole eight. Made worse when a ranger accidentally snagged my pull cart while I was using the restroom at the turn, toppling my bag, balls spilling all over. Grrr. I sculled a short iron into gully rocks on the back; the ball ricocheted straight to my feet, my friend doubling over in laughter. I didn’t say a word.
We played Estes one more day, with a single named Mike acting as our personal caddy, though he struggled to break one hundred. The next day, traveling east, three hours on I-90, stopping to play another small-town muni near North Platte, Lake Maloney. Getting the stink eye for arriving early (the course nearly empty) and chased down by a former rodeo clown (now their teaching pro) and the lawn-mower guy for driving our cart in the rough instead of the fairway. Bedding down in Gothenburg, Nebraska, our fifth state.
Rising early to play Wild Horse (our favorite, generous fairways, no-chance rough), enjoying our early morning pairing with a laid back duo. On our own in the afternoon, bursting a blood vessel when, on the thirty-sixth hole, a foursome in front of us spent damn near thirty minutes looking for a lost ball. Again, jumping into an increasingly smelly Prius, traveling three hours to Council Bluffs, Iowa. Siri (that bitch) routing us to The Inn, a low-cost housing facility. Too tired to reroute, booking minutes later at the first hotel we saw, lumbering down a hallway that seemed as long as a par five.
The next day, thirty-six holes at Bent Tree in Council Bluffs, Iowa, our sixth state. Overwhelmed when seeing the course, such a challenge with many elevation changes, struggling to find our confidence. Humid and hot, with the wind a factor. Only realizing it was ninety-five degrees that afternoon when collapsing back into a stifling car.
Three-hours later, arriving in Marshall, Minnesota, our last and seventh state. A great meal, but the conversation waned, both of us lost in our phones, dreading one more night in a crappy hotel room.
Road weary, mentally fragile, we played Marshall’s public course, a tight, tree-lined layout, highly rated in southwestern Minnesota. Too tired to take practice swings, just wanting to be done. Finally, mercifully, we finished, collapsing into the car, our golf shoes smelling like a gas leak, half-expecting the car to go up in flames.
Quiet between us on the three-hour ride home, football on the radio, adrenaline leaking away, almost numb from fatigue. Unspoken, the primal, urgent need to get away from one another, angst-ridden kids, minutes away from bickering, the miles seemed insufferable.
And when it was over, it felt bittersweet — a strange mixture of relief, grief, and longing. Such a dichotomy, for both of us, at certain points, wished the trip would never end, but after the last putt, we were so ready to be done.
Believing, like most golfers do, as time passed, we would never forget the enthralling beauty of each course, our favorite holes imprinted into memory, eager to strut with our scorecards, excited to share our photos with family and friends.
But in retrospect, a golf trip is never about the courses played, spectacular holes, or awe-inspiring layouts. Not really. In truth, no matter where you play, the adrenaline rush off the first tee is always the same, hearts pumping with joy when flushing it down the fairway. And each green (whether pressed, rolled, aerated, or thick like carpet), a test of nerve and metal, putting like life, where there are no gimmes and fairness is but a myth.
No, what we needed was a new challenge, an opportunity to test our games, to execute shots under pressure, no matter the elements. When I think about it, our cross-country trek amplified all that is pure about the game. An individual battle, each layout pushing us to the brink.
And as each day of our journey passed, we became increasingly sated, grateful, and proud. My, so proud. Basking in the feeling of conquering every course as if finishing an Iron Man triathlon, beating back the doubt that comes with aging.
Deeper still, driving through seven states, confined within a compact Toyota with spotty Wi-Fi and radio reception, we grew closer. When you’re with someone twenty-four-seven (lamenting the decision to share cheap hotel rooms), conversation moves from the mundane and superficial, to the sacred. Trust builds, hearts become bare. He shared how close he came to dying. And I opened up about my abusive childhood. Along the way, delving into faith, religion, politics, and our hopes and fears. Where else can you be so honest except with a spouse or lifetime partner?
On display during conversations at dinner — deep and heartfelt, light-hearted and silly. Often laughing so hard, tears came to our eyes. Especially when he told me about the time he forgot to remove the gas nozzle when filling up his car. He drove around with the hose dangling out of his fuel opening. The tension and brief spat we had mid-week at a packed course. Of discovering hidden gems, like T-Martins, with the best homemade food in the Midwest, a hot roast beef sandwich large enough for a family of four.
Leading me to this truth: golf embodies what we all need in life. A passion or hobby verging on the delusional, a catalyst exemplifying what it means to be human. Replete with emotional highs and lows, moments of unbridled joy and agonizing defeat, the life pendulum swinging with every shot. And it seems to me we all take for granted the joy simple play brings, adulting instantly making us forget. Hence, I need to put this in writing, unwilling to let the memory slip away like our friendship once had.
Of course, once the trip was over, I ghosted him. Failing to respond to my friend’s texts to get together and golf. I spent the next ten days off the grid, a sabbatical of silence, feeling guilty I couldn’t find the energy to respond. I needed time to decompress and recenter.
But in time, we were once again traveling to our favorite track, sticks piled into the hatchback, push carts rattling with every bump. He was excited to catch up, making me bite my lip (we just spent a Frickin eternity together on the road trip!).
But honestly, it felt good to be back together. His enthusiasm was infectious, making me realize anew how much I appreciated his friendship. Not surprisingly, he was already planning his golf membership for next season, figuring out yardages, posting final scores to GHIN and talking about a golf trip for next summer.
A week ago, I would have blanched at the very thought. But I’m slowly warming up to the idea.
For the game—oh, the game — calls, a soft whisper that grows louder and louder as the winter calendar flips toward spring. And for golfers, few things in life are more intoxicating than dreaming about a golf trip. The anticipation, even if the plan falls apart, brims with promise. But should it happen? You can only hope it exceeds expectations and becomes something more…
Courses Played:
Hawktree Golf Club, in Bismarck, North Dakota.; Golf Club at Red Rock in Rapid City, South Dakota; Cottonwood Golf Course in Torrington, Wyoming; Cheyenne Country Club in Sheyenne South Dakota; Marianna Butte in Loveland Colorado; Estes Championship course in Estes Park, Colorado; Lake Malony Golf Course in North Platte Nebraska; Wild Horse in Gothenburg, Nebraska; Bent Tree in Council Bluffs, Iowa, and Marshal Golf Club in Marshall, Minnesota.