Skip to main content

Chasing 70

In this episode, Chasing 70: A Respectful Negotiation with Gravity

They say golf is a game of misses.
If that’s true, my first round of the year at Rancho Carlsbad was a masterclass in missing efficiently.

After a four-month hiatus—during which my golf clubs quietly evolved into a self-sustaining garage ecosystem—Lori and I returned to our local par-three proving ground. Rancho Carlsbad is a par-54, just 1,983 yards long. That sounds forgiving until it exposes every weakness you’ve been politely ignoring during the off-season.

I finished with a 78.

In most contexts, 78 is respectable. On a par-54, it means I spent a fair amount of time “getting my steps in.” But here’s the real motivation: I turn 70 this August.

As a core principle of my Great Un-Working Lifestyle, I’m putting it in writing:

I want to shoot my age by my birthday.

The Bald-Headed Man Course

Around here, we have a nickname for Rancho Carlsbad.
We call it the Bald-Headed Man Course.

First, because there are no woods. None. Zero. Zilch. Drivers stay in the trunk. This is a game of irons, wedges, and whatever emotional stability you brought from the parking lot. Golf stripped down to its shiny scalp. Every miss is personal.

But there’s another reason for the name: the greens.

Some of them are domed. Not just sloped—domed. Like someone flipped a cereal bowl upside down, spray-painted it green, and said, “Good luck.” No matter how pure the tee shot feels, the ball lands, pauses, considers your optimism… and then politely rolls away.

You’re always left with an uphill putt. Always.

The Good News, the Bad News, and Gravity

Here’s the good news: I can finally hit greens from the tee.
No search party. No, “I think it kicked left.” Just green.

I’m landing the ball on the dance floor like a man who finally read the instruction manual. Then gravity shows up to collect the rent.

If the green is a dance floor, I’m the guy trying to dance uphill in socks. Everyone else looks graceful. I look like I’m negotiating terms with a dimpled white ball. Putting is where gravity cashes its checks—and it’s the entire difference between a 77 and something that starts with a 6.

The Plan: How to Stop Fighting Physics

So here’s my Practical-ish Plan, shaped by the laws of the universe:

Trust the First Read.
If you stare at an uphill putt too long, your brain invents side breaks, wind patterns, and unresolved memories. Look once. Pick a line. Roll it.

Lag Is Survival.
On domed greens, you’re not trying to make everything. You’re trying to leave the ball close enough that gravity doesn’t get a second chance. Two-putt golf is grown-up golf.

Quiet the Wrists.
My wrists have been far too expressive. For 70, the stroke gets boring. Shoulders move. Wrists freeze. Ego stays quiet.

Practice the Boring Stuff.
No one posts videos of three-foot uphill putts. Unfortunately, they decide everything.

The August Deadline

Shooting your age is golf’s ultimate humblebrag. It says, “I’ve survived seven decades, and I still know where this little white ball is going—eventually.”

Once I touch that magic 70, I’ll head back to full-length courses where the woods live and excuses thrive. But for now, if you see a man staring intensely at a three-footer like it holds the secrets of the universe…

That’s just me.
Not fighting the course.
Just negotiating with physics.

I’m Patrick Ball. Stay curious, ask questions—and remember: a three-putt on a Wednesday morning is still better than a three-hour meeting on a Monday.

Labels:

Comments

Post a Comment

Most Popular of All Time

That Fateful Four-Letter Word

In this episode, A Masterclass in Efficiency. For nearly four months, the western border of our property has stood as a living monument to determination, dubious planning, and forensic-level lumber acquisition. Since February, our neighbor Steve has been conducting what can only be described as a masterclass in deliberate calculation. This was never going to be one of those slick home-improvement shows where a cheerful pair of men installs a fence between commercial breaks, sipping lemonade. No. This was real life in retirement. We scaled the vertical wilderness of our hillside. We mixed concrete with the precision of medieval alchemists. We bled, we sweated, and we fought hand-to-hand with a buried tree stump that had the structural integrity of a Cold War bunker. By this week—May 16th, for those keeping score—the glorious end was finally within reach. The fence stood proudly, the line was straight, and victory practically hummed in the air. Only one major task remained: installing t...
Post a Comment
Read more

Truth for Sale

This episode is inspired  by Elton John & Bernie Taupin On Memorial Day, I took my first bike ride  since the accident , seeking proof that my legs, lungs, and nerves still remembered the road. The morning air carried that familiar Southern California mix of ocean haze, exhaust, eucalyptus, and sun-baked asphalt. My tires hummed across pavement I’ve ridden for years. Somewhere between the steady click of the chain and the rhythm of my breathing, Elton John and Bernie Taupin’s The Captain and the Kid found its way into my ears. There’s a strange kind of magic when the cadence of a ride syncs perfectly with a song you know by heart. Suddenly, the music and lyrics stop being background noise and become a lens. And through that lens, the road started talking. I've been cycling on this road some, Can't help feeling I've been showing my friends around. I've seen it grow from next to nothing, To a giant eatin’ up our town. Called up the tealeaves and the tarots, Asked the...
Post a Comment
Read more

When Nature Comes to You

Sometimes the best way to experience the world isn’t to go searching for it, but to sit still and let it come to you. Lately, the view from my reading chair has become a vibrant little stage. Our backyard feeder has drawn a steady parade of wildlife—bold flashes of blue from the Western Scrub Jays, brilliant bursts of color from the Hooded Orioles, and Purple Finches—transforming quiet afternoons into a chorus of motion and song. But the most captivating performance unfolds just inches beyond my window. For the past couple of weeks, a young hummingbird mother has been perched on her tiny, beautifully woven nest. Hummingbirds usually seem made of pure nervous energy, yet here she is: perfectly still, patient, and devoted. Watching her quiet vigil - day after day - has felt almost magical. Life seems to be blooming in every direction right now, renewing itself in real time. It’s a gentle reminder to slow down, look outside, and notice the quiet miracles surrounding us. John Muir once wro...
Post a Comment
Read more

The Eighth Wonder of the Suburban World

Mark your calendars, folks. Update the history books. Notify the Smithsonian. Move over, Pyramids of Egypt. Step aside, Hoover Dam.  Future civilizations will speak of this day in hushed, reverent tones. May 22, 2026, will forever be remembered as the moment humanity reached the pinnacle of suburban engineering excellence. Earlier today, my neighbor Steve and I drove the final screw into what can only be described as the most overbuilt property divider in North County. The Fence! And then there’s the gate. Good grief, the gate. Calling it just a gate is almost disrespectful. It looks like the entrance to a medieval fortress or to Hogwarts Castle. It swings open with the heft of a bank vault and closes with the wave of a magic wand. At this point, we’re considering applying for FAA clearance to install a helicopter pad on top of it. This glorious odyssey began in early February, the primitive era. From the start, we made a sacred pact: we would not become one of those people. You ...
Post a Comment
Read more