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

Sunflowers, French Steel, and the Yellow Jersey

Watching Le Tour de France this year, I found myself transported back to August 1983 as the Peloton in Stage 10, Bastille Day, flowed through the French countryside like a brightly colored ribbon. I was in my twenties, visiting family in the Charente-Maritime region of France, completely obsessed with bicycle racing—and convinced I was much stronger than I was. My connection to cycling—and to France—runs deep. I was born in France, and my very first real road bike, at age fifteen, was a Mercier . To me, it wasn’t just a bicycle; it was a work of art made from beautiful French steel. I rode that bike for miles, through high school, into college, and until the day someone decided they needed it more than I did. I hope they at least appreciated the craftsmanship. Its untimely disappearance led me to a Schwinn Voyageur, and later, when I started racing around Illinois, to a Raleigh Competition . But during that summer of ’83, while staying with my Uncle Jean Paul in Lagord, just north of L...
Post a Comment
Read more

The Big Rip and the First Tee

The telescope (Celestron) sits quietly under its cover, temporarily blinded by Southern California's annual meteorological hostage situation – June Gloom. Somewhere above that thick gray ceiling, photons that began their journey before humans appeared are streaming across the cosmos, only to be intercepted by a marine layer that seems to have veto power over astronomy. Instead of observing the universe, I find myself imagining – The End of Everything (Astrophysically Speaking) by physicist Katie Mack. According to modern cosmology, the universe may eventually end in a Big Rip, a Big Crunch, Heat Death, Vacuum Decay, or some other catastrophe that sounds suspiciously like a rejected heavy-metal album title. Astrophysicists spend their careers calmly discussing the possibility that reality itself could suddenly cease to exist because a quantum field had a bad day. It's a remarkable way to start a Saturday morning. One moment you're contemplating the ultimate fate of spacetime...
Post a Comment
Read more

The Places You'll Go . . .

Well, the time has arrived. Yes, July's drawing near, And somehow I've managed to last seven years! I've analyzed forecasts and studied the trends, While spreadsheets multiplied without seeming to end. We've planned for the sunshine, the storms, and the load, while Mother Nature kept changing the code. But through all the numbers, the forecasts, and charts, the best part of Cenergy's always been hearts. The people beside me, year after year, Made even the toughest challenges clear. To the bright, talented folks reading this today, The future is yours now—you're well on your way. And unlike my era, here's the key: You’ll work with AI just as smooth as can be. The reports that took hours may take only minutes. The models you build with intelligence in it. The data will flow faster than ever before, While AI handles tasks that are mostly a bore! But here's my advice as I head out the door: Technology changes, but people matter more. AI can predict, calcula...
Post a Comment
Read more

Rediscovering the Magic of Summer . . .

Summer mornings, especially on a holiday weekend, have a special magic. The air is cool, the world quiet, and the day full of possibilities. This July 4th weekend, Lori and I decided to capture a bit of that magic by beating the holiday traffic with an early morning bicycle ride. We went through our usual pre-flight checklist: Stretched out the morning stiffness. Filled the water bottles. Strapped on the helmets. Checked the tires. Three tires passed inspection. The fourth had apparently declared independence. The rear tire on my e-bike was flatter than a Kansas highway. “Well, it looks like we’re not riding today,” Lori said, with the calm acceptance of someone who had already mentally promoted coffee to the day’s main event. “Why not?” I replied. “I’ll ride my old bike.” She gave me that look —the one that safely translates as, "Are you sure about this? " “Absolutely,” I said. “Why not?” I dragged the bike stand out and surveyed my options. One glance at the aggressive gear...
Post a Comment
Read more