Finding Rhythm

Finding Rhythm

I'm in a hurry — and don't know why.

By Paul Landon 

Average read time: 9 minutes 

"Performance" Golf

You look at your phone so you miss a deer and what your friend just said. 

It’s the 3rd hole but your mind is elsewhere. 

The compulsion to wrap up this hole so you can reply to texts. And you miss a putt. 

Your anxiety about Monday’s pitch with the guy you can’t stand. And you miss a falcon; diving with power and grace under a bluebird sky.  

You hit consecutive bad drives. Now you’re self-conscious about the next swing.

So you grip your club too tight. Your heart rate picks up a tad and you start to sweat. 

It’s a tense round. You cling to your phone for comfort. But you’re not having a good time.

On 15, you hit the ball deep into the woods. An embarrassing scene unfolds. Three consecutive escape attempts thwarted by the same tree. Frustrated, you chuck the ball out of the trees. 

Instead of seeing the humor in this imperfect game, and laughing it off, you let it get to you. Your blood-hot eyes burn. 

After 18, no sticking around. No syrupy stories told on the porch as you bask in the glow of the Georgia dusk. Just racing home to open up the laptop, thinking about how much you hate that guy as you work on your powerpoint. 

You’re always in a hurry. You always have to perform. And you don’t know why. 

Loosen Your Grip 

There’s a reason why the first rule at Augusta National Golf Club is: “No Running” 

Somewhere along the way, we forgot this important rule. 

But the game always keeps the score. 

And it’s never too late to remember. 

Closer to People 

Several weeks later, same group, same tee time. But no one’s in much of a hurry. 

You don’t rush to the first tee. Someone makes a light-hearted crack about your rain gear. Instead of letting it throw you off your game, you take it in stride. You throw a zinger right back, and your whole group laughs. 

Your first drive is straight. Not a bomb. But a pleasing pipe down the fairway. On the long walk to the next ball, an organic mix of conversation and comfortable silence fills the space. 

Your phone remains in your bag through the early holes. The texts, the DMs, the pitch on Monday…that can all wait. 

So your attention holds when people talk. You catch things you didn’t hear before. Attentive listening gives way to honesty. Between jokes and swing talk, you learn about important things in your friends’ lives—their work, their sobriety, adjusting to being a parent. 

You realize how rare this is. How golf is one of the few places left for hours of uninterrupted, honest conversation. And you’ve missed this. 

You remember the bonds that formed this group, the shared memories throughout the years. A friend you’ve known since high school; the summers playing together at the local muni where you learned the game. 

Another, once the “fringe guy,” is now among your closest friends in Atlanta. Your kids are the same age and his comic impressions make you appreciate his loud personality and unfiltered humor; how he makes birthday parties and school fundraisers substantially more enjoyable. 

You feel gratitude that you’re still playing together.

Closer to Nature 

At the turn, you catch the sweet scent of longleaf pine wafting in the wind. It’s familiar, like a good friend you haven’t seen in awhile. 

Sure enough, you see pine needles aglow in the sun’s brilliance. No rain has come to take the rustle from the falling needles. Trees everywhere—reaching so high it’s obvious they’re virgin timber.  

They remind you of growing up in the country. You remember your dad teaching you about the tall longleafs–how they allow sunlight to reach the forest floor; why they make a desirable habitat for bobwhite quail. 

As you walk onto the 9th hole green, you remember his teachings on bermudagrass–the heat loving grass common throughout the South. He’d tell you, “With Bermuda, you have to play the grain.” You recall the putt tends to break in the direction the grain is growing. 

It’s spring and the dogwood has just broken out in all their glory. Their white blossoms bursting into existence reminds you of the generative power of nature. 

On a day like this, when it's as if some divine artist adorned the sublime air itself, you see it’s never too late to tap into this power. 

You read the Bermuda grain on the green. And sink the putt.

Closer to Ourselves 

Towards the end of the round, fatigue becomes a factor. Not just from walking miles on a hot day, but the mental fatigue that causes us to lose focus. The pros have the superhuman ability to maintain it, but we do not. 

However, today you haven’t dwelled on bad shots or felt the need to perform—which feels a little silly now. Your friends will view you the same way, regardless of how well you played. And it’s not like you’re trying to win a major. You didn’t even play golf in college. 

So when the inevitable happens, you handle it with grace. You accept the challenge in front of you; wasting no anxiety over whether or not you achieve the desired result.  

Golf always finds you. On 15, you find yourself back in the woods. But you don’t feel the need to rush this one. You take a second. Nothing’s chasing you. 

In the late afternoon, the sun is hammered to a band of gold. You see the longleaf pines standing austere and separate, allowing sunlight to illuminate a path out of the trees. It’s a tough shot. But not a circus act. You’re purged of fear and enjoying the challenge. 

You take your stance. Imagine the ball’s flight path locked with that of the sun. For all the great conversation and thoughts you’ve had today, there’s nothing on your mind at this moment. 

You hit it out. Clean. Not perfect. Not on the green. But you find the fairway again. 

Closer to the Pin (Sometimes) 

You finish 15 with a double bogey. But it doesn’t affect the remaining holes. There’s no need to redeem yourself. You just play your game. 

As you walk to the 18th tee, you look back and see your buddy tallying up scores. The guys are chattering so you pause and let them catch up. 

They meet you with back slaps and hearty praise for how well you played. You look at your scorecard and they’re right. 

But the funny thing is you didn’t even notice. You kept track of your shots, sure, but you stopped adding it up. 

You weren’t trying to win this round. You just played. 

They toss you a beer. 

Rhythm > Performance 

The sun’s still hanging around and no one leaves right away. The golden hour dusk lights your way to the glorious porch after the round. 

You sit outside. The laughs come easy. The round of Ultras hits different. The sweat circles, physical exertion, and dusty attire offer a certain satisfaction. A subtle euphoria even. 

A group of bogey bros walk outside in loud prints and posturing airs. They sit down and dive into their phones—pausing only to boast of their game—embellished drives, parlays that hit, yarns that make their desk job seem like an epic poem.

Then you smile. The last time you played, you were more like those dudes. What a difference. But you played the same course. With the same fellas. So what changed? 

Nothing about the round felt rushed. No compulsion to perform. 

You found your pace and played your game—yours alone.  

You found your rhythm. 

And that made all the difference.