What They Don’t Tell You at the Turn by Bradley A. Evans

I am forty-five years old – it’s safe to say I’ve officially made the turn. If I were at Peachtree Golf Club, I’d be staring down the fairway on number ten — an expansive checkerboard gulley that rises to a plateau, where a pin flag waits, roughly 500 yards away — with tears in my eyes, knowing half of my life has vanished. It’s overwhelming because I can’t replay one through nine ever again.

I only have nine holes left – and that’s the best-case scenario. But even that’s subjective. Allow me to explain: a mentor of mine recently turned seventy. He’s healthy, plays three or four rounds a week at one of his clubs, and travels the world when he pleases – from the F1 race in Monaco to Carmel to play Cypress.

From the outside, he has “the life.” A house on a lake, amazing cars, and he hasn’t flown commercial in a long time. But he confided in me – he only has a few more years of golf left in him.

See, golf is everything to him. He has set tee times that take an entire career of making the right decisions to earn. He plays with former chairmen of the club. I don’t think he’s teed off past ten o’clock in over a decade. The world is his oyster – and to get there, he had to make a ton of sacrifices, he had to work a lot of hours, and he took huge risks. Like I said, he earned every bit of it.

But it’s disappearing.

He’s had several surgeries on his knees and shoulders. Decades of playing tennis have taken a toll. There’s a counter in his kitchen lined with bottles – some prescription and some over-the-counter. He aches.

And remember – he’s seventy, not eighty or ninety. So I look at him, and I wonder: at forty-five, am I just approaching the back nine… or am I already on the eleventh hole and don’t know it?

Did I bogey the tenth, and I’m lining up a putt on eleven? Is twelve just a few paces away, but I’m lost in a delusional state, believing I still have time? Have I already finished my Coke and hot dog at the turn?

I’m afraid I have.

Life after seventy isn’t what those ridiculous commercials try to sell us. It’s not a handsome silver-haired couple doing Pilates in the park, smiling like they just sipped from the fountain of youth – perfect white teeth and all.

It’s the realization that the wheels are falling off the bus. And no matter how many Botox injections she sits through, and no matter how many teeth cleanings he gets, skin sags and teeth fall out. The good years — at least physically — are gone.

My parents are about to be 79 and 78, and trust me, it’s no walk in the park; it’s more like a drive to the doctor. So even though I may live to be ninety, which means I’m at the halfway point, the truth is – and I hate to be the one telling you this if you’re young – the halfway point is closer to 35.

But when I was 35, I was rockin’ and rollin’. I was having the time of my life. I never once considered my health or the consequences of the decisions I was making. And, to be fair, a decade later, I’m still healthy. My back aches more than it used to, and my skin has its issues, and I have a few gray hairs, but I’m not using a cane and eating hard candy.

That is to say, this shit sneaks up on you. It’s a slow burn, barely perceptible, until one day you realize you’re fighting to fit in 34” khakis.

Your closet is lined with trousers that used to fit. Your drawers have old Patagonia Stand-Up¹ shorts that you will never squeeze into again.

The right thing to do is pass them on, let some young buck enjoy a pair of vintage shorts – but give them up? No way in hell, because you’re crazy enough to believe that someday you’ll fit in them again.

Trust me – you won’t. You’d be better off buying a pair that fits and sewing in the label from the old pair, because that’s the only way your ass will ever see a 34” tag again.

The odd part is when you come to a point of acceptance. I know my receding hairline is receding. I know my squash game isn’t what it once was (and never will be). I know I have a collection of expensive needlepoint belts that will never see the light of day again.

I get it. I don’t like it, but I get it. I’m aging.

The sad part is this, though: Someday I’ll have the club memberships, the coveted tee times, and the hard-to-get tickets, but by the time it happens, I’ll be playing off the member tees. You work your whole life in the pursuit of things that don’t matter, only to get them – and like everything else, the acquisition is NEVER as much fun as the chase.

Life is only fun when you’re in the chase. Maybe the trick is to stay in the hunt. Never settle. But there’s a problem with that logic: staying in the hunt requires energy, and as you get older, energy is like an oil well – and every well eventually runs dry. These days, I’m grateful if I can get through a day without drama and be in service of someone else.

This afternoon I was getting tags done on my parents’ car. Here in Georgia, we don’t have to go to the DMV for these things anymore. There are kiosks around town that do it for you. There was an elderly lady in front of me struggling with the kiosk. She couldn’t see the screen and wasn’t sure where to put her credit card, so I gently offered to help, and she accepted.

Once we got her taken care of, I started working on mine. As I pushed one button after another, I felt the joy of knowing I had helped someone. It was better than sinking a birdie at Peachtree. But I couldn’t help but wonder: how long will it be before I’m the old man struggling? And when that day comes, will there be a young buck willing to help?

¹Patagonia used to make the perfect shorts: indestructible, five-inch inseam, and ruggedly handsome. Then — in true Patagonia fashion — they discontinued them for no good reason. The old-school, thick canvas versions have since become highly collectible among a certain subgroup of clothing lunatics who live in the Southeast, have long legs, and passionately root for SEC schools. I have several pairs, all over thirty years old, collecting dust until I hand them down to my son — if he’s found worthy.