“What’s the point?” 

As we drove in a car littered with brown McDonald’s bags and quarter-filled Coke bottles, my 17-year-old nephew had suddenly turned all Scottie Scheffler on me. At the Open Championship this summer, the world’s top-ranked golfer had posed that question as he mulled why shots and tournaments and majors were so important to him, when they weren’t really what he valued most. 

Only my nephew was coming from maybe an even more existential place, with maybe only a hint of teenage fear of life after 19. 

“Like, if I’m playing golf for fun and just playing golf for fun,” he pondered, “what’s the point of playing?”

Adding to his angst was the reason for our trip: a college golf visit. He’d worked hard. Claimed he read this website. But what if they didn’t want him? What if, yeah … golf was just golf? 

“Because you’ll get another shot,” I said.

He disagreed. I kept going. 

“Maybe you’ll be really great when you’re 20. Or 30. Or never. But I always think you get another shot. Bad drive? Try to recover. Bad hole? There’s more. Bad round? Come back tomorrow. Maybe it all comes together. Maybe not. You’re in control.”

That’s some goooood adulting right there. 

Or maybe I was full of divots. 

Because you don’t always get another shot. You’re not always at the wheel. 

Someone else might be driving. 

Ironically, about 10 or so hours earlier, that same thought had played out for me, as I saw a pair of headlights inches from my head. 

AT 10:30 THE NIGHT BEFORE, THE RIDESHARE I WAS RIDING IN WAS T-BONED AFTER A CAR RAN A STOP SIGN. We were hit on the driver side, where both the driver and I were seated. The car flipped onto its roof. We skidded about 25 yards. The car dropped into a ditch before somehow flipping back onto its tires.  

Obviously, you know the result. After all, I’m writing this. I took the picture above. What else do you want to know?

Are you OK? 

Yeah, I am. I felt pain in my left side; turns out I fractured a rib. My right ankle was bruised. My right hip has been feeling funky. There were cuts on the top of my head. It got me weirdly wondering what bone I would choose to break if I were somehow forced to pick, and I went with rib, so I guess that’s good. 

Have you been making any jokes about what happened?

I keep saying to my wife that I wonder if the other car is OK after hitting me. 

How’s your wife doing after all this then?

She’s unsure of my head. 

How’s the driver? What about the other driver?

Good, at the time, everything considered. The person who hit us needed an ambulance, but it sounds like he or she is OK. 

Ambulance?

Yeah, when I finally got out of our car, headlights were everywhere. A passerby had likely called 911. After a short search, I even found the audio of the police call. At the end, there were two ambulances, two fire trucks and five or six police cars, one of which ended up driving me to where I was staying. The officer and I actually talked a little golf. 

Any coincidental thoughts?

You have no idea. 

Do tell. 

My flight in that night had been delayed. The rideshare also took a different route than what I’m used to. 

Any serendipitous thoughts?

Want to hear about my seat belt? 

Go on. 

I couldn’t find the latch for it.

Oh no. 

So I was going to let it go. I’ve done it before, stupidly. But as we pulled away, I turned on my phone light, spotted it, dug it out and latched it in. 

Wow. 

What to hear about my golf clubs?

For sure. They still in one piece?

They are. Maybe you can connect a few dots, too. We lowered the right back seat and laid the clubs there vertically to the trunk. Had they been on the left side, I likely would have hit the road when the car flipped. 

Holy … 

There’s more. The clubs were in a travel case with a hard-shell top, and the top prevented the back passenger door from caving in — and that was the only door that didn’t. I was able to get out; you never know how critical that is. 

Unreal. What were those moments like, then, when the car stopped?

Frantic. Our phones kept trying to call 911; the technology was impressive. I wondered if I was OK. I checked for blood. I checked if I could move. I asked the driver if he was good. Surreal.

What was it like at impact?

I keep thinking about this, honestly. 

What about?

The lights of the car barreling at us. The jolt at impact. The unknown. One second you’re looking down at your phone. Over the next 15, you feel suspended, and things become eerily fundamental. When will the car stop? What’s going to happen on the way? As the car skidded on its roof and my head was inches from the pavement, I said something to myself, too. 

What was that?

Not now. Not now. Please not now. 

Over and over. 

And it wasn’t. 

AFTER THE POLICE CAR DROPPED ME OFF, I ATE A SUBWAY SANDWICH. My nephew got that for me. He knew I’d be coming in later and would be hungry. 

About six hours later — I slept maybe two that night — we were on the road again. I was sore. Sneezing is the worst. Should you be curious as to what that feels like, grab a 7-iron, hand it to someone, tell them to swing away at your ribcage. But I was good enough to go. We stopped at McDonald’s. We visited the school. Spent the night. Headed back the next day. The day after that, the college’s golf coach called. He wanted my nephew to join the team. Hell yeah. 

He’ll continue to be a capital-G Golfer. What’s the point? He’d answered his own question.

But … 

He’s also getting shots, just like I’d kinda told him. 

Like I had gotten after the accident. 

So when they’re there, take ’em because you never know where they’ll lead. 

Or when they’ll be gone. 

Alert! Golf is a metaphor for life! Alert! Was that a little too much melodrama? Probably. Let’s blame the pain meds. 

But take the shots. Take ’em again, again and again. 

And give thanks that you can take those shots and that those may take you somewhere, even if that’s just to another shot. 

That’s the point. 

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