CHICKENPIE.The first tee at Wack Wack on a Sunday morning doesn't care about your Slack notifications. Doesn't care about the email you haven't replied to. Doesn't care that you're technically still on call.
It just wants you to hit the ball. And for four hours, that's the only thing that matters.
The Walk Is the Point
People ask me why I play. They expect some answer about hand-eye coordination or fresh air. Here's the real answer: golf is the only place where being bad at something is celebrated.
The duffed shot into the water hazard, the drive that barely made it past the ladies' tee — nobody's filming it for Instagram, nobody's ranking you, nobody's sending a performance review. There's a strange freedom in that.
The Scorecard Is a Lie
I've played rounds where everything went wrong and walked off feeling lighter than when I started. And I've shot personal bests that felt like autopsies — clinical, satisfying, completely hollow.
The scorecard measures a number. It doesn't measure the conversation you had with your playing partner about whether to change jobs, or the moment you finally stopped thinking about your grip and just swung.
That's the Sunday ritual. Not the swing. Not the putt. The permission to stop optimizing for a few hours.
If you've been running on fumes, maybe the answer isn't another productivity app. Maybe it's a tee time.
See you on the fairway.
