Dying Words
Most people who have played tournament golf as a youngster have dreamed of playing at Augusta National Golf Course and competing in the annual Masters tournament that is held there. I certainly did.
I’m thinking of this as I watch the amateur golfer, Michael Thompson, hitting into the 16th hole on that course at that tournament. He’s 20 years my junior.
When I was a kid, I had an incredible record as a high school golfer. I went into my matches prepared to win and, in my senior year, won almost all of them. So good was I that I was one of the top 10 high school golfers in the state. That was 25 years ago.
I recently started playing again. I’m a 4-handicap. And still dream of playing in the Masters.
Or, at least, I used to dream of it - until just now. Just now - I realized it will never be me.
This happens to most of us high school athletes. For a moment, we were somebody; a somebody with a bright-eyed possible future. Then, head down, we live our lives only to look back and see the promises of a glorious future fluttering behind us like shabby moths.
When I was 30-years-old my Pop asked me why I stopped playing competitive golf. I stopped because I didn’t have the time to commit to it. I had a life to begin.
“That’s a shame,” he said. “Because there were a lot of us old guys ready to invest some seed money in you just to see how far you could go.”
“Pop,” I said. “Those are words you should’ve died with.”
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