Living With a Golf Tragic: Confessions from the Garage Widow

It started out innocently enough — a Sunday round here and there, a few YouTube videos, some new golf shoes. I thought, “How lovely, he's found a hobby.”

Fast forward two years and here I am, living with a man who has what I can only describe as a full-blown, no-turning-back golf addiction. Or as he calls it, “his craft.”

Let me set the scene:
I pull into the driveway after a long day at work, already picturing dinner and a bit of quiet. Instead, I walk into what used to be our garage and is now, undeniably, The Sim Room — complete with turf, projector, nets, and that eerie glow of a backlit screen showing Pebble Beach at twilight.

And it’s not just him. The boys are in on it too. At any given moment, one is swinging a foam practice club down the hallway, the other’s whacking plastic balls into a pop-up net like his life depends on it. The dog hides behind the couch. I pretend this is normal.

We don’t say “hello” anymore. It’s:
“Did you see my swing speed?”
“Check out this draw I hit.”
“Want me to show you how to grip it properly?”

No. No, I do not.

There are golf tees in my laundry basket. Divot tools in the cutlery drawer. I found a ball marker in my shoe last week. They send each other swing videos like teenage boys swapping TikToks. And we’ve had to delay dinner “because Tiger used to practice putting for six hours a day.”

Six. Hours.

To be fair, they love it. And truth be told, it’s kind of great watching them bond over something that gets them off screens and into (simulated) fresh air. But let’s not pretend it hasn’t gotten out of hand. We’ve passed hobby status. This is a way of life.

So here I am:
A golf tragic’s wife.
Garage widow.
Reluctant caddy.
Unpaid ball retriever.

And you know what? I wouldn’t trade it. Well, maybe just the putting mat in the hallway. That could go.