Golf courses are beautiful, it's good for the soul and it gets

Host: The morning mist drifted low over the golf course, turning the world into a watercolor of dew, light, and distance. The grass, still wet with dawn, glimmered like a sea of emerald silk. The air was crisp, almost tender — filled with the faint scent of wet soil and cut blades, and the occasional hum of a far-off mower.

A few birds chirped lazily from the trees that lined the horizon, as if even they understood the sacred quiet of early hours.

Jack stood at the edge of the fairway, golf club in hand, his expression caught between focus and disdain. His grey eyes squinted against the rising sun, and he looked — as always — like a man at war with calm. Jeeny leaned against the cart behind him, dressed in light tones, sipping coffee with an amused smile. Her eyes, brown and bright, carried that familiar mix of empathy and mischief.

Jeeny: (smiling) “Matthew Goode once said, ‘Golf courses are beautiful, it’s good for the soul and it gets out the anger… well, if you don’t care about the score then you won’t have a heart attack.’”

Jack: (swinging and missing) “Then I’m one stroke away from cardiac arrest.”

Jeeny: (laughing softly) “That’s because you’re playing to win, not to breathe.”

Jack: “Breathing’s overrated when your pride’s on the line.”

Jeeny: “There it is. The very disease golf was meant to cure.”

Host: The ball finally soared — a clean, elegant arc cutting through the mist before vanishing into the endless green. Jack watched it go, exhaling slowly, a small, reluctant smile flickering across his face.

Jack: “You know, I used to think golf was just a rich man’s excuse for a nap. But it’s… quiet out here. Too quiet. You can hear yourself think.”

Jeeny: “Dangerous territory, for a man like you.”

Jack: “You’re not wrong.”

Host: Jeeny stepped onto the fairway, the grass brushing softly against her shoes. The world felt suspended in its own stillness — no noise, no rush, just rhythm. She looked out toward the distance, where the landscape rolled like a soft dream.

Jeeny: “Goode was right. Golf’s not about competition. It’s confession disguised as sport. You come out here to measure your patience, not your score.”

Jack: “And if you lose both?”

Jeeny: (grinning) “Then you swing harder.”

Host: The sunlight broke through the last veil of fog, spilling gold across the hills. The dew turned into tiny stars under their feet. A gentle wind moved through the trees — the kind that didn’t speak, only listened.

Jack: “You know, there’s something almost spiritual about it. The stillness. The repetition. The fact that the only real opponent is yourself.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. Every missed shot is a mirror. Every swing a small act of surrender.”

Jack: “You’re romanticizing frustration.”

Jeeny: “No — I’m sanctifying it. Frustration’s what keeps the soul honest.”

Jack: “Or exhausted.”

Jeeny: “Only if you think of peace as perfection.”

Host: She set down her coffee cup, took his spare club, and teed a ball. Her stance was loose, graceful, unhurried. The swing — fluid, easy — sent the ball soaring. Jack watched, almost incredulous, as it landed perfectly near the flag.

Jack: (impressed) “Beginner’s luck?”

Jeeny: (smiling) “Faith, not luck.”

Jack: “Faith in what?”

Jeeny: “That calm can win where effort fails.”

Host: Jack laughed softly, the sound carried away by the wind. The two began walking down the fairway together — the grass whispering beneath their steps.

Jack: “You ever notice how golf’s a paradox? The more you try to control it, the worse you play. The moment you stop caring, it all comes together.”

Jeeny: “That’s life, Jack. Swing too hard and you miss the center.”

Jack: “So you’re saying life’s just one long, badly scored round of golf?”

Jeeny: “With occasional miracles, yes.”

Host: A few clouds passed overhead, their shadows rolling gently across the hills like drifting thoughts. A light breeze swept across the open field, carrying the smell of wild grass and sunlight.

Jack: “Maybe that’s why Goode said it’s good for the soul. You can’t hide from yourself out here. You swing, you miss, you curse, and then you try again. No politics, no lies — just cause and effect.”

Jeeny: “Yes. Nature’s simplest therapy. Every mistake forgiven by grass.”

Jack: “And judged by par.”

Jeeny: “Only if you insist on keeping score.”

Host: They reached the green. The flag flapped lazily in the morning air, marking the final challenge. Jack crouched beside the ball, eyes narrowed, the putter trembling slightly in his grip.

Jeeny watched him — her smile gentle but knowing.

Jeeny: “You’re gripping too tight.”

Jack: “You noticed.”

Jeeny: “You always do that when you’re trying not to fail.”

Jack: (quietly) “What if I can’t stop caring?”

Jeeny: “Then maybe care differently.”

Jack: “How’s that?”

Jeeny: “Play for joy, not validation. For breath, not applause. For peace, not proof.”

Host: Jack looked at her — the morning light catching her hair, the wind brushing against her cheeks. Something in her tone disarmed him — the soft authority of someone who had found her own stillness after years of noise.

Jack: “You ever think life should come with mulligans?”

Jeeny: “It does. They’re called second chances. You just have to give them to yourself.”

Host: He smiled, not because he believed it yet, but because she said it like truth. He took his shot. The ball rolled, curved gently, kissed the lip of the hole — and dropped.

A small sound of satisfaction escaped him — part relief, part wonder.

Jeeny clapped softly. “See? No anger. No heart attack.”

Jack: (grinning) “No scorecard either.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. The soul doesn’t count strokes.”

Host: The sun had fully risen now, painting everything in gold. The course stretched before them, endless and alive. The tension that had clung to Jack like armor began to melt away, replaced by something quieter — humility, maybe, or grace.

Jeeny: “Goode’s right, you know. Golf’s a metaphor. You stand on green ground, surrounded by beauty, and the only real enemy is your own impatience.”

Jack: “So it’s not a game. It’s confession.”

Jeeny: “And forgiveness.”

Host: They started walking back toward the cart, the sound of their steps muffled by the grass. A flock of geese flew overhead, their cries echoing faintly in the morning air — reminders of movement, of migration, of impermanence.

Jack glanced over at Jeeny. “You really think hitting a ball into a hole can heal anger?”

Jeeny: (softly) “Not the hitting. The letting go after you miss.”

Host: The wind picked up, carrying the faint laughter between them across the open field. The sunlight grew warmer, the day fully awake.

And somewhere in the quiet rhythm of their walk, Matthew Goode’s words lingered —

That beauty is not found in victory,
but in release.
That the soul, like the game,
finds peace not in perfection,
but in the unmeasured joy
of simply playing.

Host: The flag waved in the distance, bright against the sky.
The scorecards lay forgotten on the cart seat.

And as Jack exhaled — really exhaled —
the world around them seemed to sigh with him,
the grass gleaming brighter,
the anger finally gone with the wind.