• This guy hates himself

I “bought” my golf clubs from the basement of an apartment building I once lived in. I don’t feel bad about it. They looked like they had been sitting in musty basements for years, and I’m almost certain they came from the well-to-do college-aged kids that lived below me and drank themselves dumber on Natty Light each day. The clubs were rust-beaten and neglected, tucked away in between a pair of ancient tube TVs and covered in spiderwebs. In my mind, I rescued them.

Like so many, my experience with golf up to that point had been with the two far ends of the spectrum: putt-putt and driving ranges. I gave up putt-putt when I stopped going on junior high dates, and though I love driving ranges—there’s nothing quite like hitting a golf ball really fucking far—I always gnarled my hands with blisters by, number one, never really knowing how to hold a driver properly, and, number two, always trying to hit the golf ball past some unattainable distance or structure. It was time to move on.