Let’s hear it for absolutely launching a drive into the wrong fairway. This is a safe space, and we can level with each other. I’m not talking about some middling rope hook—I mean a soaring miss that easily sails over whatever foliage or waste area some ivory-tower architect placed there as a “boundary” for respectable players. Behold the joy about to come.
Sure, at first you’re sheepish. But as the ball careens ever farther away from the recommended target, a smile creases your lips. You realize that today is a good day to laugh at God. Your ball isn’t going into someone’s patio furniture—it’s about to bounce gently on a bed of short grass. You have no idea, but you’re pretty sure you have an angle, and even announce it to your foursome. Because you are playing 12-dimensional chess. This is the galaxy-brain move. The other idiots, playing the hole as designed, are lemmings. You are Meriwether Lewis gazing out over the Pacific Ocean for the first time, tears welling in your eyes.
Not only that, but you’re also about to experience one of the small pleasures that this CIA black-site torture chamber of a sport can provide: a little mid-round jaunt by yourself. The group heads off the tee. You hang for a few yards, then break away. Their voices grow softer, and the aperture of your soul opens ever so slightly. You’re alone now, which is great because you could use a break. The guy who joined your group on the first tee is alright, but he does that thing where he says “Nice shot” the moment your clubface hits the ball, well before one can actually determine whether the shot was, in fact, nice. You felt that the Bluetooth speaker came out a little early for your taste, and maybe this isn’t the place for that Imagine Dragons live album, but you didn’t say anything. Plus, you could really use a chance to get into your head and focus. Get back to the basics, step into your practice. You recall an Instagram reel you saw three nights ago from bed. It was about the necessity of having a pre-shot routine. You should do this, you think.
Listen, you’re not a grump. This isn’t killjoy stuff. You’re just taking a little me time. It’s getting meditative now. With each step through the rough, then the trees, then the other rough, you hear the irons do their little clinky jangle. There’s probably an email waiting for you on your phone, but none of that matters anymore. You’re too busy living in the moment. You are a Benedictine golf monk who doesn’t even know what an iPhone is. Have you ever really looked at tree bark? Like, really looked? You’ve always insisted that you would rather play the course across town, but you know what? This place is actually underrated, you think. The bunkering is understated. You swear this would be an elite hole if they just played it backward. Shit, when was the last time you called your mom, just to say hi? You’re gonna do that. Maybe not tonight. But soon.
In the other fairway, you hear the sound of a 9-iron plunging into the earth, 4 ½ inches behind a ball. This is followed by a horrifying expletive that carries faintly but clearly through the trees. A smoke signal from another life—but not yours. You arrive to find your ball luxuriating on a pillow-top mattress of paspalum. The angle you mentioned off the tee? You spoke it into being. That mega-slice carried far enough to give you a window. You’ve taken the greenside bunkers out of play. Yes, you should be aware of tee shots coming from the group actually playing this hole and wondering why the hell someone is aiming the other way, but no matter. You’ve got a perfect 8-iron.
The wind picks up gently. You stand behind the ball, firm in your conviction that this is how your new pre-shot routine begins. You move onto the waggles. One last glance. The swing is grooved from the moment you get to the top. Gravity takes over. Compression happens. Everything is fireworks, monster trucks, bald eagles, Evel Knievel rocketing over Snake River Canyon.
For a moment, there is only stillness. You wait. You hear eternity in the rustle of the leaves. You will rejoin the group as a different person.
Then you hear it: A soft, surprised cheer emanates from the direction of the lemmings. You’re on in two. But you knew that already.
Charlie Warzel has been a Broken Tee Society member since 2022.
