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.
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.
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