The school run is my favourite part of the week.
No agenda. No plan. The girls choose the music — I don't get a vote — and we just drive. We talk about nothing important and everything that matters. I'm just dad. I love it.
The golf run used to feel different.
Same car. Same girls. But somewhere between the driveway and the golf club, a different version of me showed up. I told myself I was helping. I probably was, some of the time. But looking back, the car had an agenda before we'd even left the street.
On the way there it was swing thoughts. Course management. How she was going to play the par fives. I thought I was preparing her. What I probably didn't realise was that she was already nervous — she still is before every event, even now — and I was adding to the noise before she'd hit a single shot.
The way back was always worse.
On the way there you're working with potential. On the way back you've got a scorecard, and a scorecard is basically an invitation to analyse. I always tried to lead with the good stuff. I meant it. But even then, she knew the structure. Good stuff first, then... And so before I'd even got there, she was probably already waiting for me to mention the three putts!
Here's the thing I eventually realised, and it sounds obvious when you say it out loud.
She's not trying to hit bad shots.
She was there. She watched the putt slide past. Deep down, she knew the 3 wood was the wrong club to use out of the thick rough! She doesn't need me to tell her from the passenger seat. She already knows. She's been knowing since the moment it happened.
In the early days it felt different. She was winning fairly regularly and the debrief felt almost collaborative — part of the process, part of the fun. But as she got older the competition got fiercer, the wins got rarer, and that's already a hard thing for a young athlete to absorb. The last thing she needed on the drive home was me questioning her club selection or why she didn’t check the wind direction.
So I stopped.
Music on. Her choice. We'd talk about what we were having for dinner, what we were doing for the rest of the day, nothing and everything again. Just like the school run.
And then something happened.
She started talking.
Not because I asked. On her terms, in her own time. Dad, my driving was all over the place today. And I could say — honestly, because I'd actually just been watching instead of composing my debrief — yeah but I can't believe how well you putted. Or she'd say her chipping was shocking and I'd remind her of the one brilliant chip she played, even if some of the others were a bit wayward.
And on the days where nothing went right — genuinely nothing, one of those rounds where the golf gods just aren't interested — sometimes you just have to laugh. And we do.
We always stopped for a Starbucks on the way home. Still do. It used to be a Caramel Frappuccino, less ice. These days it's a Matcha!
She's about to start driving herself this year.
I just hope our car journeys to golf don't end.