Greenskeepers Hate Me: A Confession

Remember last week when I went overboard with a golfing metaphor about spiritual formation? Well, I’ve got a follow-up story that makes that metaphor even more ridiculous.

This story is about bad discipleship.

It was my junior year in high school, and somehow I was dating this stunning former cheerleader and current student body president. To this day I have no idea why she wanted to hang out with me. But she did—and 44 years of marriage later, I’m still thankful.

Anyway, it’s the 1970’s. A few of my buddies had heard about “ice blocking.” Basically, you sit on a 40-pound block of ice and slide down a hill. (Yes, teenagers have always been stupid.) And where better than a golf course with smooth slopes and manicured lawns?

For reasons beyond comprehension, I thought this would make a fun date night. So I picked her up in my Mustang, and we met my friends in the empty golf course parking lot. The guys decided I should be the lookout for security. Translation: I got to sit in the car alone with my dream girl. No argument from me.

About twenty minutes in, I saw the faint glow of a cigarette in the corner of the lot. Security guard. Radio in hand. Oh, crap.

In a panic, I simultaneously flashed my headlights, honked the horn, and started the car. (Don’t ask how I did three things with two hands. Just stay with me.) Tires squealing, I bolted toward the main road, hoping my buddies would get the message.

And they did. I could see them sprinting to their cars as I whipped around the corner. Except… I lost it. The tires twitched, thumped the curb, and suddenly we were in a full-blown 360-degree spin. Merry-go-round chaos.

When the car finally came to a stop, my date was staring at me with the kind of expression that says, “I’m rethinking every decision I’ve ever made about you.”

And we were sitting squarely on the 15th green. Yep. Tire tracks carved right through the putting surface. The grounds crew must have cursed “that idiot teenager” for months.

Before anyone could find us, I restarted the car, threw it in gear, and got out of there.

It’s honestly a miracle she’s still with me decades later. 

So what’s the point of this story?

Last week I compared our spiritual journeys to playing golf: different courses, different skills, different hazards.

But here’s the thing. Some of us play the game sloppy and impatient. We swerve off the path, tear up the course, and leave the mess for others to clean up. That’s not just bad golf—it’s bad discipleship.

Don’t be that person.