The Eighteenth Fairway

They called him Doc

Not just because he fixed stomachs in the city hospital, but because he had a way of diagnosing a defect in a golf swing with surgical precision. But out here, among dew-draped greens and wind-swept fairways, he wasn’t a doctor. He was a seeker. A man among friends chasing rhythm and stillness. But something was off this past week. His swing lacked soul. His presence—usually so grounded—felt scattered.

On Sunday, he chose solitude, as he had on a few occasions before. No scorecard, no stakes, no audience. Just a bag of clubs, a mind crowded with memories, and a heart full of questions. 

The first hole did not offer any comfort. The swing was stiff. The rhythm felt foreign. Shots veered to the left or the right. Putts lipped out. Small flaws—but enough to unravel the thread. The silence, usually soothing, only echoed his unrest.. The quiet, usually soothing, only echoed his doubts. By the seventh hole, he considered turning back.

Tired, he sat on a low stone by the edge of the fairway. The breeze moved through the grass like a whisper. He watched a squirrel pause, look at him, then continue on, untroubled.

And slowly, so did he.  Slowly. Not untroubled but moved on. 

His mind drifted—not to the course of wind direction, but to last Monday. but to last Monday. A 28-year-old woman. Pain abdomen. A young mother of two. She had come in so ill. Too ill. They had tried everything—he had. And still, they lost her. He had given his best. His team had done everything. But it had been futile. And the result was adverse. The kind of results that haunt you in the quiet. The kind you carry into the rough when your tee shot goes astray. He hadn’t let himself grieve—not fully. Not with his team watching, not with the next patient waiting. But now, every missed putt brought it back. Every mis-hit reminded him of outcomes he couldn’t fix.

He stood at the edge of the fairway, gripping the club too tightly, the round already slipping through his fingers like sand. The scorecard felt heavier than it should. He swung hard. And watched with despair as the ball disappeared deeper into the woods. 

Medicine and golf—his twin devotions. Both required presence. Both were, to him, forms of meditation. He had been a doctor for 25 years and a golfer for 15. His father—also a doctor, also a golfer—had taught him that. Taught him the swing, yes, but also the silence between shots. But, today he was missing something. He looked harder inside his head (and his heart....) 

Then—like a whisper breaking through the noise—he remembered something his dad once told him.

“Just like medicine, Golf isn’t really about the swing or the score,” Dad had said, during one of those long walks between holes, the kind where the sun was kind and time felt slow. “We chase both like they matter most, but what the game is really about… is presence."

He remembered his dad pausing, watching the wind stir the trees. “It’s about showing up. One shot at a time. Standing over the ball with your full attention. Feeling the ground beneath your feet, the breeze on your skin, the rhythm of your breath. Not caught in the last mistake. Not rushing toward the next hole. Just—here. It's always presence.”

The words settled in him now like a deep breath. 

He stood. No adjustment to his grip. No practice swing. 

Just breath.......... Just Presence.

Hole by hole, something shifted. He stopped forcing. Stopped correcting. He started allowing. The 11th hole gave him a perfect 7-iron shot. The 14th, a chip that kissed the flagstick. By the 17th, his stride had softened. The swing was still imperfect, but it had feeling again. He was present in the game.

Then came the last hole.

The sun had climbed now, warming the fairway, chasing the last of the morning’s fog. He looked back at the path behind him—each hole a reflection, some jagged, some smooth.

He swung. The ball flew—not perfectly, but true enough. A gentle fade, landing just short. He smiled. As he walked, he noticed the wind had picked up. The scent of grass, earth, and distant rain filled the air. The wind seemed to whisper—not advice, but approval. Not for his score, but for his showing up. For staying. For trying.

He reached the green, lined up the putt, and paused—not to analyse, but to feel it. Then, with a stroke light as a breath, he sent the ball home. The putt dropped.

No celebration. No relief. Just a nod to the sky. A quiet acknowledgment of what he’d carried — and what he’d let go.

The game was over. The round complete. But somehow, he felt like it had only just begun. 

Presence

(What Dad told me)

It’s not about the swing,

though you’ll spend years chasing it.

Not about the score,

though you’ll glance at it too often.

He said,

“Golf teaches you to show up.

One shot at a time,

one breath, one stance,

right here, right now.”

The wind may shift,

the green may trick you,

your hands may falter—

but presence,

that’s what steadies the soul.