John B. Marek is a storyteller with dirt under his nails who weaves tales inspired by a lifetime immersed in nature. His insightful essays and award-winning fiction delve into the complexities of sustainable living, the heart of rural communities and the thrill of outdoor adventure. You can find more of his writing at johnbmarek.com. He recently published a new short story titled “A Sliver of Moon” and you can read it for free here.
This Labor Day marked the end of an era. For years, the holiday has been my designated time for garage cleaning, a tradition born from necessity as piles of moving boxes cluttered my first condo in Perrysburg some 30 years ago. One item has persistently challenged my resolve amidst the jumble: my golf clubs. Their presence, or more accurately, their impending absence, is a bittersweet reminder of life’s evolving seasons.
Golf entered my life as a shared adventure with my wife. In Perrysburg, we had moved from the rigorous homesteading chores of our “little house on the highway” to the relative freedom of a condo and were eager to carve out our routines and shared interests. Taking up golf together felt like a statement about the kind of couple we aspired to be – active, outdoorsy, always learning. Those Friday evenings at Tanglewood were more than just rounds of golf; they were chapters in our early marriage, filled with laughter at our mutual ineptitude, quiet conversations between shots, competitive spirit and the simple joy of being together. The sport became a metaphor for our relationship – sometimes frustrating, often rewarding, always requiring patience and perseverance. In retrospect, those were golden hours, not because of the golf itself but because of what it represented: time invested in each other, a shared language of inside jokes about slices and putts, and the gradual building of a life together.
Our move to North Carolina a few years later brought grand visions of a golfing paradise. In our minds, we would seamlessly transition from casual Ohio golfers to semi-regular players on picturesque Southern courses. Reality, as it often does, had other plans. The logistical challenges – longer commutes, higher fees, more difficult courses – slowly eroded our enthusiasm. This phase mirrored our broader experience of relocation: high hopes tempered by unforeseen obstacles. Golf became less of a bonding activity and more of a measure of our struggle to adapt. Our declining frequency of play paralleled a subtle shift in our lifestyle as we grappled with new jobs, a new community and the realization that transplanting a habit isn’t as simple as transplanting ourselves.
As my career progressed, particularly at R.S. Byrnes, golf transformed from a personal pastime into a professional obligation. The sport, once a source of relaxation, became fraught with the pressure to perform – not just on the course but in the subtle dance of business relationships. I found myself longing for the simplicity of those early days at Tanglewood, where a bad shot was just a bad shot, not a potential faux pas in front of a client. This period forced me to confront the dichotomy between personal enjoyment and professional expectations. Golf, which had once been a canvas for personal growth and relationship building, now felt like a test I was perpetually unprepared for. The internal struggle – between wanting to excel for career advancement and resenting the pressure – mirrored larger questions about career choices and personal authenticity.
When I transitioned to the more public-facing economic development world, I was often expected to participate in charity golf tournaments. These events were a common platform for networking with local businesses, community leaders and potential investors. They were low-stress events that not only helped raise funds for worthy causes but also reinforced my organization’s commitment to the community and its overall public image. I began enjoying, or at least not despising, my time on the course again.
Then I started having back problems. I noticed they often corresponded with my golfing adventures. My doctor confirmed my suspicion, saying I either needed to quit golf or learn to play it correctly. The doctor’s ultimatum coincided with a broader reevaluation of priorities. Physical health, long taken for granted, suddenly demanded attention. This wasn’t just about giving up golf; it was about acknowledging that I was entering a new phase of life, one that required more careful stewardship of my body and time.
The decision to step away from golf wasn’t made in a single moment but was the culmination of gradual changes – in interests, in physical capabilities, in how I viewed the best use of my leisure time. It reflected a shift from externally motivated activities (like charity golf tournaments) to more intrinsically rewarding pursuits.
For a decade, those clubs stood in my garage – not quite in use, yet not quite discarded. They became a physical manifestation of the difficulty we often have in letting go of past versions of ourselves. Each Labor Day, the ritual of considering their fate was less about the clubs themselves and more about grappling with change, nostalgia and identity.
The clubs represented more than just a sport; they were a tangible link to different seasons of my life – the condo years, the ambitious career climb, the social circles now changed or left behind. Holding onto them was, in some ways, holding onto those memories and the person I was in each of those stages.
As I finally moved the clubs out of the garage this year, I was struck by the complexity of emotions this simple act stirred. There’s a bittersweetness in consciously closing a chapter of one’s life. The clubs carry with them echoes of laughter from those summer evenings at Tanglewood, the nervous energy of client meetings on the first tee and the frustrations and small triumphs that pepper any golfer’s journey.
Letting go of golf isn’t just about creating space in the garage; it’s about making peace with the passage of time and the evolution of personal interests and capabilities. It’s a recognition that growth often requires leaving certain things behind and that the personas we occupy in different phases of life aren’t meant to be permanent.
As I contemplate the fate of these clubs – attic or Goodwill – I’m reminded that life’s richness comes not from clinging to every past experience but from fully inhabiting each phase as it comes. The clubs may go but the lessons learned on the course – about patience, humility and the value of shared experiences – those remain, like a well-used golf ball in a bag pocket. The decision of where these clubs will ultimately rest is more than a practical choice; it’s a final act in a long relationship with a sport that, for better or worse, shaped portions of my personal and professional life. Whether they find a new home with an aspiring golfer or become a time capsule in my attic, they stand as a testament to the ever-changing nature of life and interest. Ultimately, the most valuable golf lesson wasn’t about proper swing technique or reading greens but about the importance of adapting to life’s changing course. As I close this chapter, I’m grateful for the role golf played in my journey, even as I look forward to the new pursuits and passions waiting on the horizon.