70 Staples – Not broken. Rebuilt.

I come from what you might call strong golf genetics.

My mother was an LPGA teaching pro. My father was a scratch golfer who was missing three fingers on his right hand, which frankly feels like showing off. Between the two of them, I should have come out of the womb with a seven iron and a calm, confident backswing.

Instead, I came out confused.

To this day, I am convinced I was switched at birth with someone whose parents preferred indoor hobbies and snacks.

Even ten years ago, when I last attempted golf, I played rarely and badly. There was no growth curve. No promising flashes. Just a long-standing commitment to mediocrity.

So naturally, when I met a new friend on a Friday night who told me she was learning golf and loved it, I said, “Let’s play tomorrow.”

This is what confidence looks like when it has no supporting evidence.

We made a tee time for Saturday morning. Somewhere in the conversation, it also came up that both she and her friend knew my brothers very well, which added a nice layer of family reputation to what was about to unfold.

Nothing like representing the family name while actively dismantling it.

I arrived early, because if I am going to struggle, I like to be punctual about it. I grabbed a cart, loaded up my clubs, and confidently headed toward the driving range like a woman who knew exactly what she was doing.

I did not.

About halfway there, I heard a sound that can only be described as equipment giving up on me.

I had forgotten to lock down my clubs.

They launched themselves out of the back of the cart and scattered across the grass and dirt like they were making a break for it. Which, in hindsight, was probably the smartest move made all day.

I gathered them up, brushed off what remained of my dignity, and proceeded to the first tee.

My friend had brought another friend along, who was just riding with us and turned out to be equally funny, equally engaging, and unexpectedly invaluable when it came to locating and retrieving the many golf balls we generously distributed across the course.

By hole one, I had already begun negotiating with myself.

By hole two, I was questioning my life choices.

By hole three, I had accepted that I was not so much playing golf as I was participating in a loosely organized outdoor activity.

I shot an eight on the first three holes. Not total. Each.

At that point, the scorecard stopped feeling like a measurement tool and started feeling like a personal accusation.

And yet.

Somewhere between the questionable swings, the ground balls, and the occasional shot that went impressively in the wrong direction, something shifted.

We laughed. A lot.

We saw three bald eagles, which felt like a reward for simply showing up. We encountered two out-of-bounds markers that I became intimately familiar with, and one raccoon who appeared friendly but had the energy of someone who had made a series of poor decisions and was not done yet.

By the end of eighteen holes, I had managed to scrape together a 101.

And here is the part that surprised me.

I had an amazing time.

Not a “well, that wasn’t terrible” time. An actually, genuinely good time.

I went home, sore in places I had forgotten existed, and immediately did what any reasonable person would do after proving they are not good at something.

I spent an absurd amount of money on golf equipment I absolutely do not need but now consider essential to my future success.

New grips. Accessories. Things with names I do not understand but feel strongly about owning.

Because clearly, the problem is not my swing. It is a lack of proper gear.

I also, without fully realizing how it happened, made two instant friends and got myself committed to playing in a tournament in a month.

A tournament.

There are people preparing for that with skill and intention. And then there is me, still sore three days later, wondering if ibuprofen counts as a performance enhancer.

But here is what I keep coming back to.

Somewhere between the flying clubs, the disastrous front nine, and the wildlife sightings, I remembered something I had not felt in a while.

It is fun to be bad at something.

It is fun to start again.

It is fun to say yes before you have time to talk yourself out of it.

And it is especially fun when you find yourself standing in the middle of it all, laughing with people who felt like strangers twelve hours ago and now feel like you have known them forever.

So here’s to the 100 Club.

Where the swings are questionable, the scores are high, and somehow, life is exactly where it should be.