Article #1 – "The Lefty"

I don’t hate golf, I just didn’t grow up around the game. We didn't belong to a country club. My dad didn't even own a set of clubs. The closest I got to a golf course before age thirteen was the Pirate's Cove putt-putt during spring break.

So, in 8th grade when my two best friends asked me to play our local par 3, I had some work to do. Step one, get clubs. Close your eyes: Pretend you're a thirteen-year-old with a penchant for hobby hopping, your parents are reluctant to invest in your latest passion project, and you need to find golf clubs. Now, imagine you're left-handed.

I honestly don't remember how I sourced clubs for that first round. I'd love to tell an inspiring story about getting up at 5AM to work a paper route until I saved up enough to buy some Ping Eye 2s, but I probably used some birthday money to snag a set at a garage sale. Both my friends were right-handed. Neither of them were particularly skilled, but their knowledge of the game was miles beyond me.

To say it was humbling is an understatement. Air-balling a free throw is humbling. Reeling in an empty line is humbling. Learning to play golf is embarrassing, like skinny dipping in a public pool. I didn't know how to interlock my fingers, hell, I didn't even know how to tee up a ball. The phrase "you should probably pick up" was used more liberally than butter in a Paula Deen recipe during my first round.

Looking back, playing that par 3 wasn't just an introduction to golf—it was a life transition.

Being quiet during someone's backswing. Teeing off in front of strangers. Raking the trap after a bunker shot. Putting for a quad after putting for bogey. Shaking hands after a round. It wasn't a lesson in sport, it was a lesson in how to carry yourself.

That's the thing about golf—it forces you to grow up a little. Don't get me wrong, not everything you learn is a life requisite. You can look sharp without tucking in your shirt. Cursing aloud in rapid succession can, in fact, be therapeutic. Wearing a hat indoors doesn't make you a savage. But if you strip out the stuffy country club bullshit, it's a special game.

I never fully obsessed over golf, but I hit one or two decent shots—enough to keep me coming back. Decades later, I still haven't taken a private lesson. I'm using the same beginner's lesson from my first time out: interlock your fingers, straight arm, head down, and slow down. Eventually, I upgraded to a legit set of clubs, TaylorMade Burner irons. Even though they rarely see the light of day, I keep holding on to them in case any of my kids catch the bug… they're all right-handed.