I've never felt farther from the golf course than I do right now.

Last night, both mine and my wife's car were sitting in our driveway. We live at the end of a cul-de-sac on the innermost street of our neighborhood. Typically it's pretty safe, but as it turns out the COVID-19 quarantine slaps different for some people. While I'm sitting here contemplating how many cookies a man can reasonably eat in a single sitting while staring at a digital clock, others are on a crime spree. I've been seeing updates on Nextdoor discussing how people's tires are being slashed, dogs are being attacked, and now I'm going to throw a major felony into the mix: my golf clubs were stolen.

We're pretty confident the doors were locked, so they must have had some sort of device that remotely unlocked the Jeep. Regardless of method, I feel violated. This is not petty theft. Golf clubs are exceptionally personal. I've spent more hours and have had more memories with those clubs than my closest friends.

There was this time.

View this post on Instagram

"laferty, daniel"

A post shared by Chris Lavery (@getlavery) on


And this one..


The Realization

Clearly I'm not cut out for detective work because it took far too long for me to realize the car had been compromised. I was driving to Starbucks, and the passenger side door ajar alert was going off for 5 minutes before I took notice. Passenger door? Surely I had entered on the driver's side, hadn't I? That's when I noticed all the contents of the center console and the glove box strewn about the front seat. I pulled over to check the trunk for my precious cargo. There, sadly, remained only one golf shoe.

I found the other shoe on the driveway when I returned home. It was behind where the car had been parked...I had backed over it. Jot that down in the observant column.

Moving Past the Grief

I couldn't figure out how to properly mourn this loss until I started writing this article. There's really only one way. Because each club had a special place in the bag (literally and emotionally), each deserves a special mention. Special doesn't necessarily mean good, but would be a shame to let their memory fade without at least some acknowledgement that each played a role in my golf career.

I organize my bag (like most people who aren't sociopaths). 4 irons on bottom (lob wedge, sand wedge, pitching wedge, 9-iron), 6 in the middle (grouped from left to right 3-4-5, 6-7-8), and woods and putter up top. So let's start the club memoriam from the bottom and work our way up.


May you all rest in peace, my rifle shafted friends. May the wind always be at your back and the grooves clean upon your face. And may the ball flights of destiny carry you aloft to dance with the stars.