“I’ve stopped having fun on the golf course.”

Marshall starts the conversation proclaiming, “I want my fun back.” At 16, he is already disheartened; on the other hand, I am grateful for being thought of as a fun coach—I’ve been called a lot worse.

Golf, a sport of perfection, is not easy on the spirit. Of course, that could be said of anything that’s challenging. Perhaps Marshall is simply hoping to love the demands and the stimulation of engagement.

“When did the fun stop?” I ask.

“I don’t know. About three months ago, my scores got worse; I started losing to players I shouldn’t lose to,” he says, pausing. “And my mom thinks I’m just distracted.”

Marshall’s myriad layers included talent, passion, competitiveness, hormones, and teenage angst. Through golf, he not only plays against a course, but he plays against his own distractions—homework deadlines; his fear of asking out girls; the uncomfortable black holes created at home by his losses.

“What does your stroke coach say?” I ask.
“He says, ‘Just keep playing; it’ll come.’”
“Like that baseball movie.”
“Yeah. I loved Field of Dreams, but I want it faster—like in this lifetime.”

We laugh, and I continue my questions: “What does the tactic coach say?”
“More focus on mechanics.”
“What do they say about fun?”
“Nothing.”

He continues: “I used to wake up in the morning dying to get on the course. I’d dream about going seven under and taking the US Open. Lately I’m not dreaming or enjoying.”
“Have you investigated the obstacles to your fun rather than your swing?” I ask.
“I never thought about it like that.”

I ask Marshall to redefine what blocks his fun as a burden, a weight he is carrying. Weight is an interesting thing. It is neither good nor bad, but weight can slow a player down, cushion a fall, help rotation for power, inspire extra effort, increase awareness of heart rate and stamina. A lack of weight, meanwhile, can diminish power, magnify weakness, hurt more on a fall, and add swiftness.

“What’s your heaviest weight?” I ask him.
“Probably obligation.”
“To…?”
“The team.”
“Anything else?”
“Playing well, I think…?”
“For your coaches, parents, or your own expectations?”
“People tell me I’m gonna be great one day. Scholarships. Maybe the PGA tour.”

We continue speaking of pressure and anxiety until the first lesson is over. I then tell Marshall about his homework by cheerily suggesting: “Go out tomorrow, play your team match obligated to listen to and feel your body, nothing else.”

“What does that mean?!” he asks. “I’m overloaded already.”
“Well, you’re aware of the burden of your obligations to others.”
“I am now,” he agrees.
“Now use that ability and obligate yourself to things that you don’t usually feel.”
“You mean go out and simply play for the enjoyment?” he restates for clarity.
“Yes. And call me.”

Twenty-two hours later, he tells me this story: On the golf course, he heard the crunch of the needed-to-be-mowed fairway; smelled the grass; felt the sun on his face; and heard the whoosh of his driver before it connected with the golf ball.

He shot 4 over par—two strokes better than a week ago (but a too-high score for an ambitious teenager)—and said he “wasn’t entirely unhappy.” (We’ll work on that later.) As we finish our phone call, Marshall says, “I did enjoy my friends today; and I can’t wait to get back out there tomorrow.”

Sounds like he broke par after all.

Which of your obligations take the fun out of your game?