Struggling at the game of golf is par for the course
Wed, 04/30/2025 - 9:59am
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By:
Patrick Villegas, Patrick@thedanielislandnews.com
When I was a young teen, my dad woke me up one Saturday morning for a lesson.
He had recently bought me a set of inexpensive golf clubs and lined up a golf pro at the Charleston Air Force Base to give me some pointers.
There was no Topgolf back then, and I really hadn’t held a golf club other than those battered putters they dole out at miniature golf.
I recall wearing an oversized, collared golf shirt, awkwardly carrying my clubs to the car, and heading out to the base with my dad.
We pulled up to the course and walked into what felt like the most intimidating environment ever: the golf clubhouse.
Not that it was fancy by any means, and there was certainly no scoffing or feelings of exclusivity.
But for sure, I had a golf ball-sized pit in my stomach.
It felt like the day neighbors watched me bring home my first newborn: I had no clue what I was doing.
So there I was, standing in a line next to what appeared to be dozens of professional golfers smacking and chipping their ball miles into the air.
My instructor put me at the far end of the range, and then, the valuable life lessons began.
Be patient.
Stay focused.
Be disciplined.
Take your time.
Let the club do the work.
It was like listening to an old sage giving a young buck the secrets to adversity and success.
Until he saw me actually swing.
“Don’t swing it like a baseball bat.”
“You are swinging too hard.”
“No, you can’t hit on the real course just yet.”
“Keep at it. I’ll be back,” he mumbled. “Maybe.”
It was hot. It was humid. It was frustrating. It was miserable.
Whiffing the ball over and over and over again. Topping the ball five yards in front of me. Seeing my best shot careen 90 degrees directly right.
Yes, the valuable life lesson I learned that day is that there is a heckuva good and sane reason why so many golf clubs collect dust in garages.
The game is tough. It’s mental. And requires performing an act your body was never meant to do.
I took the rest of my five other lessons that summer. And then politely came home and put my clubs away to rust.
That day forward, my dad never forced me to play. He understood.
He knew there would eventually come a time when I would give it another shot.
And I did.
I tried again. I practiced. I got a little better. And I finally got to play on the big course. Now there is no other place I’d rather be, whether with family, friends, strangers, or alone.
If you’ve seen me play, you know I’m still an amateur – a hacker. I still top the ball. I still miss right. I learned how to yell, “Fore!”
But I will always recall fondly the day my dad woke me up on that Saturday morning for a lesson.
A series of lessons.
Be patient.
Stay focused.
Be disciplined.
Take your time.