1,859

Written by Stephen Moloney (@TheCheeky9)

Five years. One month. Two days.

You add that all up and it makes exactly 1,859 days.

1,859 days since my father offered me twenty euro and a spin to go play 9 holes at a local course.

I was 24 years old back then. I was broke from trying to make it as songwriter, and then just a “regular” writer. I was staying up until 1 & 2 in the morning working on songs, scripts for films, television shows, anything that could possibly get me a sale. I wasn’t on the dole, because in my mind I felt I had a job. I’d sold my car months previously because I couldn’t afford to keep it on the road. I hadn’t been on a golf course in probably two years, having been someone who’d played really regularly – even through college. And, little did I know at the time, but I was only a few months away from winding up going through quite a severe depression.

So, after some convincing – because I had work to do – I took my dad up on his offer. I grabbed my clubs. Grabbed my shoes. Threw a banana and a bottle of water into my bag (the standard order). And we went.

Now, I couldn’t remember the last time I’d swung a golf club. I’d done some chipping here and there in our garden, but nothing apart from that. So, as I stood on that first tee, a nice little 118 yard par 3, the sun beating down on me and not even the faintest sigh of a breeze to be felt, I made a decision … I was just going to enjoy myself.

See, when I’d been able to play golf regularly, I used to love “the grind” of golf. I used to love going to the short game ground at the club where I was a member and spending a good two hours chipping, putting and hitting bunker shots. I used to love getting up at 7:30 in the morning during the summer and driving into the course so I could go out and play 18 with no one for company but the greenkeepers. I used to love trying to get my handicap lower by playing in the weekly competitions. I used to love trying to break 80 … but not the annoyance that came with, inevitably, not doing that. I used to love … just everything about trying to get better at golf.

On that tee, however, I knew that wasn’t the order for the day. I knew I was going to be rusty. I knew I was going to slice the odd iron shot and top the odd drive. I knew I was probably going to be garbage on and around the greens. But I also knew that I had no idea when I’d be back on a golf course again. The optimistic side of me thought it would only be a few months max. Whilst the realistic side of me? He didn’t want to answer. So, because of that, the only thing I was determined to do was just enjoy the fact I was going to be able to play some golf.

And that’s what I did.

In the hour and a half/two hours it took me to get around that 9 hole course, I did all the things I knew I would … but I also made a couple of pars. And I also hit some absolute peaches of shots. And, for the first time in probably two years, I felt truly happy. I felt normal. I felt like myself … or who I used to be at any rate.

Once I’d then finished my round, though, and was waiting out by the gates of the club for my mam and dad to come pick me up, shirt sticking to my back and legs aching, I made a promise to myself. A promise that once I’d made it as a writer, I’d come back to that 9 hole course one day and play another round – and on that day I’d be paying for it with my own money and driving there in my own car.