Field Notes

Augusta: Through Beauty and Brutality

A strange, unnatural calm. The kind that makes you hesitate, as if something’s about to happen. The air feels thicker there, almost heavy, like the place is holding its breath. But beneath that calm, something stirs. Because Augusta doesn’t just test you — it toys with you. It offers comfort, then punishment. Beauty, then betrayal.

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A Good Walk Wasted, or the Last Great Journey?

It starts with the sound.

The slow rhythmic crunch of spikes on damp turf, the wind shifting through the dunes, the distant hum of the ocean—steady, patient, like it knows something you don’t. The rhythmic clatter of your clubs against each other as you walk, an occasional deep sigh when the last shot wasn’t what it was meant to be.

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53 to 37: The Beautiful Madness of My Golf Year

Twenty-eight rounds. That’s the number. Pathetic, really, compared to my friends, those masochists clocking 100-plus rounds a year, but for me, it was something. Enough rounds to flirt with brilliance and tumble headfirst into chaos. Enough rounds to keep the dream alive, even as it mocked me at every turn.

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