One random Monday many years ago, before two kids were in the mix, I decided to knock out 18 at Lions Municipal in Austin, Texas by myself. Real ones know Lions. A cool layout, a despicable opening tee shot, historical significance, and no one cares if you play the back nine shirtless.
I used to be good for two or three solo rounds per year. They’re great. I won’t sit here and tell you I prefer them to one of those Sunday morning foursomes — that looks like it’s going to be a threesome because no one’s talked to Blake since he left the bar the night before — but they’re a great change of pace for a 10-ish handicap who follows too many swing coaches on Instagram. I find them necessary. That afternoon, they paired me up with a man whose name escapes me, but whose vibe does not: Let’s call him Mike.
I shook Mike’s hand on the first tee, not realizing that this heavily tatted up man in a Papas Beer t-shirt was taking practice swings in Crocs. I’d love to tell you that I didn’t make any assumptions about Mike’s game that day, but I did not anticipate the lowest stress 74 you could imagine anchored by a Kawamura-like tempo. I guess you have to swing easy when you’re rocking Crocs. Mike was that dude.
The first few holes were quiet. I think he could tell I was looking to relax a bit and not completely let it rip. Mike was on his day off as evidenced by the pile of empty Lone Star Lights piled up in the back of his golf cart. When I realized he was already a few deep by the time we hit our tee shots on 3, I hilariously wondered if he’d still be standing by the time we made the turn. That was a silly thought. Mike was clearly the kind of guy who can put back a dozen beers or so and look none the worse for wear. The completely opposite of me.
As Mike generously asked if his music was too loud, a playlist that skewed on the heavy side of the ‘80s and ‘90s, I told him to let it rip while undoubtedly taking a sip from my one and only front nine Coors Light.
As the day progressed, Mike and I became solid golf course acquaintances. We complemented each other’s good shots, discussed the Austin municipal golf landscape, and ripped on other groups for slow play. Nothing too deep. Unless you count reading energy as deep, and if that’s the case, then, yeah, it got deep.
As the sun began to set behind the trees along 15, Mike let me know he could read people’s energy. I didn’t dig into this too much, but when he told me mine was good, I was pretty fucking stoked. You might think, “Of course he told you this. He wouldn’t make it awkward by telling you your energy was lame.” Uhh, yes he would. Mike didn’t give a fuck. You should know that by now. What’s important, though, is that Mike dug my vibe. I dug his. Vibes were good across the board.
The 18th at Lions is a short and simple par 4. You don’t need driver, but I don’t know how I’d sleep at night if I didn’t hit driver. I slid the headcover off my Callaway one final time. As I approached the tee box, Mike did something bold: He gave unsolicited swing advice.
“Hey bro- you’ve got a good swing. You just need to embrace your pimpness.”
It might surprise you to learn that no one’s ever said that to me before. I’ve been given plenty of swing tips that I didn’t ask for, but this one had my brain in a blender. He elaborated. “Aim down the middle and swing your swing. Don’t think about it.” Of course. Simple, yet effective. Stop being a bitch. Trust yourself. It all made sense. I hit the fairway. A little necky, but I still hit.
We shook hands and went our separate ways. I need to start taking the occasional Monday afternoon off so we can run it back. I need more Mike in my life.
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