There are two versions of me.

There’s the version that wakes up at 6:30 a.m., slams pre-workout like it’s a moral obligation, hits the gym, and spends a disciplined 90 minutes pretending I understand progressive overload while staring at myself in the mirror between sets. That guy tracks protein, cares about posterior chain activation, and uses phrases like “mobility work” without irony.

And then there’s the version of me that willingly pays money to walk around a massive field for four hours chasing a small white ball that I, personally, keep launching into nearby forests. That second guy plays golf.

Golf is a strange sport. It’s athletic, but not in the traditional sense. You’re outside, you’re moving, you’re swinging; but you’re also standing around waiting. A lot. Sometimes it feels like golf is less of a sport and more of a social experiment designed to test how long adult men can coexist without clear instructions.

Let’s be honest: golf is the last remaining frat for middle-aged guys. There’s networking, vague business conversations, someone telling the same story they told last week, and an unspoken agreement that we’re all here to “relax,” even though everyone is quietly furious about their last shot.

It’s also one of the most male-dominated, historically white spaces you can find, which is slowly changing, but still very noticeable when you look around and realize every fourth guy is named Dave and they all own the same pair of khaki shorts.

And the space it takes up? Incredible. Acres of sculpted nature. Perfectly trimmed grass that exists solely so we can hit things across it. You look at a golf course and think, “This could’ve been a forest,” but instead it’s a highly maintained landscape where we lose $6 balls in decorative water hazards.

Compare that to the gym; efficient, contained, predictable. You go in, you lift heavy things, you leave. Two hours max, even if you’re taking your sweet time between sets scrolling your phone. The gym fits into life. Golf becomes life for the day.

A fourball can take four hours. Four. Hours. That’s an entire Saturday morning and part of your afternoon. You could complete three full workouts in that time. You could meal prep. You could watch a movie. Instead, you’re debating whether that last shot was a seven iron or an eight while an older couple ahead of you moves at the pace of continental drift.

But here’s the twist: those same retirees somehow transform into Olympic speed-walkers the moment they’re behind you. And yet… golf has something the gym doesn’t. The gym is for looking good and feeling good physically. Golf is for the soul.

It gets you outside. Away from screens. Away from emails. You’re walking, breathing actual air, maybe seeing a deer if you’re lucky. There’s something absurdly satisfying about one clean shot. That one time you hit the ball exactly how you meant to; that keeps you coming back despite the previous twelve disasters.

And that’s really the hook. You’re not playing against anyone else. Not really. You’re playing against the version of you from last week. Trying to improve by inches. Trying to figure out why a sport that seems so simple is actually impossible to master.

And somehow, despite everything I complain about; the time, the pace, the cost, the existential frustration of slicing into the trees; I’ll still book another tee time next weekend.

Because once that one perfect shot happens, you forget all the bad ones. It’s a terrible game.

I love it.