Game On

It’s the late afternoon of Christmas day. Mum’s at home cooking a baked dinner for tonight while Dad, Nate and I are about to arrive at Botany Golf Course for a quick round.

When we get there, I get out of our tiny, silver, hatchback Toyota, grab the set of rusty Facebook Marketplace clubs Dad bought for me, and walk right on without paying.

We love playing here, because to us, Botany is The Peoples Course—or in other words, it’s hardly taken care of, so no one really ever notices if you’ve paid to play or not. This also means the course looks like The Sandlot with its yellowed grass, mounds of dirt and graveyard of broken tees—but regardless of its flaws, this place is home.

It’s also where Dad’s been trying to teach my brother and I how to play golf for the past four years to no avail. Well, in all honesty I’m underselling my brother and I because we have gotten slightly better. At least half the time I can actually crack the cunt and send the ball flying—while the other half of the time, my shots either spray out into the bushes, never to be seen again, or just miss the oncoming traffic flying down Foreshore Road.

It really is a thrill when you do hit the ball properly and your Dad and brother are both yelling out “Fucking hell,” as they watch the ball soar through the air like the planes taking off from Mascot Airport.

I usually showboat on the rare occasion this happens, but today I’m playing it cool, I actually want to focus on my game and not get caught up with making my usual smartass comments—even though in all honesty, that’s half the fun of competitive sport—shit-talking your opponents, especially if they’re your family.

Anyway, today I’m going much better than I usually do. My shots are on target and I’m only going one or two over par. That’s at least until I start counting my shots and worrying about how many it’s taking me to get to the hole.

I think I’ve realised this is where I screw up my game—when I start thinking about the final score versus just focussing on the shot in front of me. Similar to life when you get caught up worrying about what’s next, you neglect what matters most, right now.

So that’s why when Dad asks me if I want to go down for a game of golf with my brother, I say yes, even if I’m tired from being out all day, and don’t really feel like playing—because this is one of the only extended period of times us boys get to spend together, and I know there’s only so many of these left.

So why not focus on this moment while I can and not get caught up worrying about my career, relationship status and everything else running through a twenty-five year olds—because eventually, the game’s going to end.

Thankfully though for now, it’s game on and I’ve got a shot to hit.

Fuck.

I’ve just hit the ball into the pond.

Everyone’s laughing.

I love this.