Back 9, Saturday Morning, Balboa

I wake at 5:15am for my 6:20 tee time.

It’s far easier to get out of bed for a round of golf than it is for a day of work, regardless of how much you enjoy what you do.

I skip the morning joe — I’ll grab a $3 cup from the club snack bar before heading home. I’m only playing 9 holes anyway, so that should have me sipping coffee at around 8:30am (plenty appropriate).

It’s 60 degrees, but by the time we’re done, it’ll be 75, so I opt for some shorts, a polo (that is a frustratingly similar blue to the shorts), and a light crewneck sweatshirt.

Side note: I lost all my clothes in the LA wildfires in January, so I have very limited options as far as fits go. I’ve yet to replace my golf shoes, so I rock the classic white reeboks that keep me close to the ground.

Today’s round is particularly special.

It’s the last time (for a long time) I’ll play golf in the the state I’ve called home for the past two years.

I move from Los Angeles to Nashville in two short weeks, and my steady playing partners and best friends (Tim and Matt) have seen me shave a few strokes off my handicap. I’m grateful for them for more reasons than that.

There’s something to be said about making best friends in your adult years. Perhaps you can relate. It’s difficult, it’s slow. There’s no university or sports team automatically collecting people of similar interest together.

There is the church, and the church brought me these guys, and these guys like golf, and that certainly helps.

I digress.

I convince myself “last go, best go,” hoping to end this season of life with some fireworks. Praying for something 40-44, though I’m not one to complain as long as I’m sub ~48 or so.

When you’re only playing 9 holes, you can always pretend that you’d score better on the other set of 9 anyway.

A beautiful morning, getting warmer by the minute, a growing sense of premature nostalgia, knowing this is my last go at it with the fellas. It had all the makings of a round that would hold a special place in my heart.

Paired with a early-30s guy named Dan, who was quick to thank us for not being 90 years old and for not speaking a different language, we each got off to pleasing starts.

But you can’t have the good without the bad.

Despite an otherwise wonderful half-round, hole 17 left me puzzled.

A 215 yd par 3 left me no choice but to go 5 wood, though I hit more dirt than ball, sending it 100 yards into the air, and only about 150 yards long.

My “approach shot” on the long par three lands on the fringe. My 50 foot par putt, errant. My bogey putt, just high and long of the hole.

I often remind myself, a bad day out on the golf course is still a splendid day. And this was but a small blemish on a rather ideal day on the golf course. I shan’t complain.

A win for the team to say the least — my ball couldn’t quite make the uphill climb for birdie, as I leave a 30 footer maybe 6 inches short.

Few things sweeter than a tap-in par. Matt and I experience that feeling firsthand.

Tim on the other hand sinks himself a 20 footer for birdie, which is in fact a sweeter feeling than a tap-in par. Special stuff.

Green-side bunker trouble would’ve had me panicking just 6 weeks ago. A 10 second lesson from a scratch golfer has improved my bunker game tenfold.

Club face wide open, 90% weight on front foot, swing all the way through.

Placed him kindly 10 feet from the hole, only to follow up with a slow-rolling, down the hill, right-to-left par save.

Bliss.

A highlight not for my own sake, but for my good friend Matt. As his 50 foot birdie putt trickled into the hole to cap off the round, none of us could help but lose it.

The 18th green saw pars from both Tim and myself, capping off a round well played by all.

I play my best 9 ever. I can’t help but think the good Lord found it in Himself to bless our final round together (for some time).

Each day you find yourself stepping up to a tee box, consider yourself blessed.

It’s a beautiful game we play — one that parallels life in many ways.

Tune in next week for more of my thoughts on golf.

—Luke Mangan