Golf – a game of patience, precision, and… plenty of frustration. For most, it’s a relaxing Sunday pastime. For me? It’s a brutal reminder that I should have stuck to something simpler, U suck at golf like knitting. I’ve played golf for years, yet the only thing I’ve ever mastered is the art of making an absolute fool of myself on the course.

My golfing journey started like most people’s: full of hope and misguided optimism. I bought a shiny new set of clubs, a hat that screamed “I’m a pro,” and a pair of socks that only real golfers would understand. Armed with all the gear, I walked onto the green ready to conquer the game. What I didn’t anticipate, however, was the sheer difficulty of not embarrassing myself every time I swung a club. And that’s where the “Tales from the Worst Golfer Alive” begin.

The first time I took a swing, it felt like magic. The ball soared—well, it would have, had I actually connected with it. Instead, my club missed the ball entirely, sending a gust of wind into my face. I stood there, frozen, as my friend Mike let out a loud “Fore!” in the most mocking tone possible. That’s the first lesson in golf: even if you mess up, your friends will always be there to remind you that you’re terrible.

But no, I wasn’t giving up that easily. I persevered. My second swing? Same result. And the third. And the fourth. At this point, I felt like I was in an endless loop of failure, each swing worse than the last. But every once in a while, I’d hit the ball—usually when I wasn’t trying to—and it would go about 20 yards in the wrong direction. I'd give a victory fist pump as if I had just sank a hole-in-one, much to the confusion of the more seasoned golfers around me.

As I continued to play, I discovered something: the more I played, the worse I became. My putting was particularly atrocious. The ball never seemed to want to go in the hole. I’d line up, take a deep breath, and then—nothing. The ball would slowly roll past the hole as if it were giving me the middle finger. It was as if the game was in on the joke, and I was just the punchline.

Yet, despite everything, I couldn’t stop. Golf, for all its brutality, was addictive. I’d show up again and again, eager to prove to myself that I could improve, even though deep down, I knew I wasn’t cut out for it. In fact, at one point, I became a regular at the golf range, not for my improving skills but because I could hit a few balls into the driving net and feel like I had accomplished something. I started to feel like I could almost pass for a golfer—if you squinted and ignored the way I mishit every single shot.

The biggest surprise of all? Golf taught me patience. Not because I was getting any better, but because I had to wait for others to finish their round while I searched for my lost balls in the bushes. And let’s not forget the countless hours spent walking aimlessly around the course, contemplating life, and wondering why on earth I couldn’t just be good at something for once.

So, here I am: the worst golfer alive. But at least I have my story, my clubs, and a hat that still says “I’m a pro.” And you know what? That’s enough for me. I may not ever be great at golf, but I’ll always be the one who swings hardest, shanks the most, and somehow always seems to find the water hazard.