While in high school, I played for a brief stint on the golf team. The reason was simple: we students were exempted from gym class while actively competing in a school sport, and, having tasted the freedom of a prep period throughout the long wrestling season, I was damn sure I didn’t want to head back to running the mile, cranking out pull-ups and straining through the “sit and reach”.

So, after reviewing the spring season possibilities, I decided to join the golf team. A reasonably sensible idea, except that I didn’t actually know how to play golf. Undaunted by that reality, I picked up a cheap set of used clubs, took two lessons, and spent about a week practicing on the driving range. The first time I set foot on an actual golf course was the qualifying round for the team.

In retrospect, I must either have had excellent potential, or the pity of the coach, as I ended up making the team, despite making a travesty of the game for 18 holes. And while I did improve steadily (a result of playing three or four days a week with the team), I was always far and away the worst player – not surprising, considering that all of my teammates had been playing for eight to twelve years, rather than my eight to twelve weeks.

Following that brief stint, without the specter of gym class for motivation, my game languished for years. In fact, during the six or seven years following, I played no more than five times, and headed to the driving range only a handful of times more. But since arriving here in LA, with the strong sun beating down summer-like through the smog, I’ve been regularly taking advantage of the weather and my small patches of free time by heading over to the Rancho Park Par 3 course.

And, amazingly, I’m playing significantly better than where I left off. Perhaps as the muscle memory atrophied over years of disuse, my swing whittled down to a simpler, more effective version of itself. Or, perhaps, now that I really don’t care how well I play, I’ve reached a Zen state of great efficacy. Whatever the reason, for the first time, I’m hitting greens from the tee, chipping to the pin, and sinking long putts over odd lies.

Granted, I won’t be heading off on the PGA any time soon. Nor will I be stocking up on argyle socks, pleated khakis and wind-resistant polo pullovers. But I am, for perhaps the first time, good enough to legitimately claim I can play golf. Game on.