Near Misses & The Stories We Tell
What golf, reunions, and comebacks teach us about showing up
Last week, I enjoyed one of those special early summer days. I took an entire day off from work and writing to attend a charitable golf outing at my best friend's invitation, as well as my 35th high school reunion from Xaverian Brothers High School. It was exhausting but fun, awkward, and yet completely normal. Let me explain.
Having a beer or Bloody Mary at ten o'clock in the morning is the sort of thing you do at these golf events. Why not? There's no real work to be done on the course over the next four hours, and in this case, the weather was perfect—a high of 80 degrees, blue skies, nothing but sunshine. We had a really good foursome, too: three Hawks from Xaverian and my host and best friend, Dave Belcher, who was a Falcon in high school. We all know a Hawk beats a Falcon nine out of ten times, right?
This wasn't one of those overly crowded tournaments with lots of waiting between holes. The pace was just right—slow enough to mess around a little without backing up the group behind you, fast enough that we finished in under four hours. Perfect.
It was my first round of the year, so I expected my game to be awful. For the most part, I was. I had a few great shots and many terrible ones, but mainly the shots were so-so. Enough to contribute to the team score every now and then, but certainly not advancing the cause in any meaningful way. In this area, it was definitely the Falcon who won out.
The putting was atrocious. I'll leave it at that.
The highlight of the day was my shot on hole 7, a par three, with closest-to-the-pin bragging rights and a brand-new Jeep on the line. There was no hole-in-one, but I took home the other prize. My tee shot was less than two inches from going in the cup. Two inches from driving home in a brand new Jeep. Two inches from screaming and celebrating like a fool. Two inches from an unforgettable day on the golf course.
Despite coming up just a wee bit short, that shot got me through the rest of the round with near-giddy enthusiasm. I'll probably never come that close again (there's a fair amount of luck in actually scoring a hole-in-one).
After the event, I came home and took a nap, then got ready for the next big event: my reunion. Earlier in the week, I posted on LinkedIn to encourage my classmates to attend. Part of that post read:
"I'd like to make one final appeal to attend. At 5 pm, we'll take a tour, followed by a BBQ. Come as you are. It's free—always a bonus. Come see how nothing has changed but everything has changed. These things are always awkward—so what. We're in our fifties now, I think we can handle a little awkwardness."
One of my classmates, Mike, was swayed by my message and showed up. He said it was the awkwardness part that clinched it. And I was right—it was awkward at first. It always is. No matter how many reunions or events you attend, especially with old friends, it's just awkward. Initially. Within minutes, however, we got past it and enjoyed a great night.
What I find most interesting about reunions is that I enjoy catching up with classmates who weren't in my direct friend group. To be clear, none of the guys in my immediate circle showed up, which was unfortunate but par for the course. I can't say Xaverian's Class of '90 has the strongest attendance at these things, but for those of us who showed up, it was worth it.
In last week's MARK. Set. Go... I shared my dad's time machine conversation and wrote:
“I find the time machine concept fascinating and probably spend way too much time thinking about it, and whether I may someday own one myself. For now, I don't need one. I bounce between my former worlds constantly: Beers Ave, Xaverian, Fairfield, my time as a young father and husband, playing and coaching hockey. I remember the trauma so clearly—falling into the pond on my second-grade field trip, breaking my arm and wrist twice, getting cut from a team, and being dumped by a girlfriend.”
There's no need for time machines so long as high school reunions continue to take place. All of us bounced around our high school world. Even though we belonged to different friend groups, we had more than enough overlapping friends, incidents, teacher memories, and complaints to go around, easily filling the time.
Reunions are events you sign up for and instantly regret the evening of. "I don't want to go. It's going to be weird and awkward. What if none of my friends show up? What am I going to talk about?"
Then, after, when you're back home, you say, "I'm glad I went."
And I am. Discussing old times is enjoyable, but I prefer the post-high school exchanges even more. I want to hear about the paths they chose after Xaverian and how they got to where they are now. Good and bad decisions. Success and failures—though you seldom hear about failures on such nights. Those are the conversations that stayed with me.
I also thought a lot about my dad while I attended the reunion and over Father's Day weekend. It was my dad who sacrificed the most to allow me to attend Xaverian. I was the first in my family to attend a private school, and it wasn't easy for my family to pay the tuition. My friend Bill Lincoln's dad drove us to school in the morning, and my dad drove us home after soccer practice. It was an hour each way for both dads.
My dad didn't display a lot of outward emotion, but I knew he was proud of me and my accomplishments at Xaverian. Not just on the field or in the rink, either. Even though it was my stepmom who shared his pride more often throughout the years, I understood and appreciated his sacrifices, and I was always grateful for the opportunity he gave me to attend that school.
In August, it will be four years since he lost his battle with Alzheimer's, and I miss him.
To finish off the weekend, we watched the final holes of the US Open. Coleen and I didn't just witness an incredible finish—with the winner, JJ Spaun, hitting a 64-foot putt to clinch the win—we learned about his near-misses over the years. Most importantly, we learned about his path, his struggles, both recent and distant.
JJ is from Los Angeles. I read that he started hitting golf balls at age three inside his garage, and that it was his mother who loved the game of golf. But even though he played college golf at a good Division One program, San Diego State, he did so as a walk-on before earning a full-time spot and eventually becoming the Conference Player of the Year in 2012.
More recently, he had to overcome plenty of adversity. A few weeks ago, after leading The Players Championship for the first three days, he ultimately lost in a playoff to Rory McIlroy. The US Open announcers repeatedly mentioned his challenges with the mental part of the game. His confidence was super low early this year, but he battled through it with the help of his family and coaches.
Even on Sunday, he struggled. He began the day with five consecutive bogeys on the front nine holes. After that horrendous start, nobody gave him a chance. He was simply written off. Then came the remarkable comeback on the back nine with birdies on holes 12, 14, 17, and 18. His final putt—the one that sealed the victory—was 64 feet, 5 inches, the longest putt of the tournament.
See video HERE courtesy of Golf Monthly via Facebook
Watching the final round of the US Open was eerily like attending my reunion: exhausting but fun, awkward, and yet completely normal. The win was marvelous, but it was his path to success that I enjoyed most.
Sometimes our near misses—two inches from a hole-in-one, friends who don't show up to reunions, a father's quiet pride we wish we'd acknowledged more—teach us as much as our victories. JJ Spaun's story reminded me that the path matters more than the destination. The walk-on becomes Conference Player of the Year. The struggling golfer sinks a 64-footer to win his first major. The awkward reunion becomes a night of meaningful connections.
My shot on hole 7 didn't win me a Jeep, but it gave me something better: a reminder that coming close counts, too, not because consolation prizes matter, but because near misses keep us swinging. They remind us that extraordinary moments are always just two inches away, waiting for us to step up to the tee one more time.
The beauty isn't in the perfection—it's in showing up, even when it's awkward, even when your friends don't come, even when your putting is atrocious. It's in the trying, the missing, the getting back up, and the unexpected 64-foot putts that change everything.
Dad would have loved watching JJ's comeback. He understood the importance of showing up, making quiet sacrifices, and enduring the long drives home after practice. About how sometimes the greatest victories look like near misses to everyone else—until suddenly, they don't.
See you next week.