Only bad golfers are lucky. They're the ones bouncing balls off

Host: The afternoon sun slanted low over the golf course, bleeding orange through the haze of a long day. The air was heavy with the mingled scents of cut grass, dirt, and sweat — the quiet perfume of sport and persistence. A distant sprinkler hissed, scattering droplets that caught the dying light like fragments of shattered glass.

Host: Jack stood on the edge of the fairway, golf club in hand, his shirt clinging to his back. Jeeny sat cross-legged beside the green, sipping water from a metal bottle, her eyes amused and patient in equal measure. A ball lay in the rough between them — not lost, but far from perfect.

Host: On Jack’s phone screen, the day’s quote of the morning still glowed faintly. He’d read it once at breakfast, laughed, and now it lingered in the back of his mind like an echo that refused to fade:

“Only bad golfers are lucky. They're the ones bouncing balls off trees, curbs, turtles and cars. Good golfers have bad luck. When you hit the ball straight, a funny bounce is bound to be unlucky.”
— Lee Trevino

Jeeny: “You’ve been thinking about that quote all day, haven’t you?”

Jack: “Maybe,” he said, squinting toward the hole. “Because I think it’s bigger than golf.”

Jeeny: “Everything is with you.”

Jack: “No, really. He’s not talking about sport — he’s talking about life. Bad golfers are lucky because chaos helps them. Good ones? They’re betrayed by precision.”

Jeeny: “So you’re saying effort invites misfortune?”

Jack: “I’m saying perfection does. The universe hates straight lines.”

Host: He stepped forward, planted his feet, and swung. The club cracked against the ball — a clean, smooth sound. It sailed beautifully, straight and true… until it clipped a low branch, ricocheted left, and vanished into a sand trap.

Jeeny burst out laughing.

Jeeny: “See? The gods heard you.”

Jack: “Yeah, well, they have a sick sense of humor.”

Host: He trudged toward the bunker, muttering under his breath, while Jeeny followed — her laughter trailing behind like sunlight chasing a storm.

Jeeny: “Maybe that’s Trevino’s point. Luck favors the reckless because they give the universe something to play with. You—” she paused, smirking “—you’re too careful.”

Jack: “Careful keeps you alive.”

Jeeny: “Alive isn’t the same as lucky.”

Host: The sand gave softly beneath his shoes as he reached the ball. He stood there for a moment, staring down, the reflection of the sky trembling faintly on the tiny white surface.

Jack: “You know, there’s something cruel about that idea. The better you get, the less fortune helps you.”

Jeeny: “Because the game stops forgiving you.”

Jack: “And starts demanding honesty.”

Jeeny: “Exactly.”

Host: The wind picked up, carrying the faint metallic rattle of flagpoles across the course. The light dimmed slightly — not gloomy, but introspective.

Jeeny: “But I think he was laughing when he said it. Trevino wasn’t bitter. He was… amused by the irony. That even skill doesn’t save you from the absurd.”

Jack: “Or that maybe absurdity is the real skill.”

Jeeny: “Explain.”

Jack: “The ability to laugh when the ball hits a tree and still call it part of the game.”

Jeeny: “That’s not skill. That’s wisdom.”

Jack: “Same thing in the long run.”

Host: Jack swung again, this time gently, and the ball lifted out of the bunker with a satisfying arc — landing neatly near the edge of the green. He exhaled, watching it roll to a soft stop.

Jeeny: “There it is. Straight, simple, beautiful.”

Jack: “And yet somehow, not lucky.”

Jeeny: “Because luck’s allergic to control.”

Jack: “Yeah,” he said quietly. “And control’s addicted to disappointment.”

Host: She knelt beside the ball, tracing a small circle around it with her finger in the grass.

Jeeny: “You ever notice how people admire the good golfer but love the bad one?”

Jack: “Because the bad one makes them feel human. He messes up in the same ways they do.”

Jeeny: “And when he gets lucky, it gives everyone hope that the universe occasionally forgets to follow the rules.”

Jack: “But when the good one fails, it reminds them the rules still exist.”

Jeeny: “And that’s why perfection’s lonely.”

Host: The last rays of sun flared briefly before slipping behind the line of trees. The air turned cooler, quieter. They stood there — two small figures in a field of manicured imperfection — their shadows stretching long and thin across the fading green.

Jack: “Maybe that’s why Trevino was great. He didn’t curse bad luck. He laughed with it. He made failure funny.”

Jeeny: “Because he knew luck isn’t something you get. It’s something you notice.”

Jack: “You mean perspective?”

Jeeny: “No. Gratitude. The bad bounce, the tree ricochet, the turtle in the fairway — those are reminders that you’re playing at all.”

Jack: “And that the universe still cares enough to mess with you.”

Jeeny: “Exactly.”

Host: The sky shifted to violet, the course melting slowly into shadow. The flag flapped once in the faint wind — a quiet exclamation mark at the end of a long sentence.

Jack: “You know,” he said finally, “maybe we all live like golfers. Some of us try to aim straight. Others just swing and hope for a miracle bounce. And maybe the trick is to stop caring which one happens — just enjoy the sound of contact.”

Jeeny: “And laugh when the turtle wins.”

Host: He smiled — tired, peaceful, a little wiser. The moment felt both humble and enormous. The game had ended, but the meaning still rippled outward like a pebble tossed into eternity.

Host: As they walked back toward the clubhouse, the last light of the day caught the grass in streaks of gold, and Trevino’s words seemed to linger in the fading air:

“Only bad golfers are lucky. They're the ones bouncing balls off trees, curbs, turtles and cars. Good golfers have bad luck. When you hit the ball straight, a funny bounce is bound to be unlucky.”

Host: Because life, like golf,
isn’t measured by precision —
but by laughter after impact.

Host: The crooked shots,
the ricochets,
the absurd detours —
they remind us that perfection is overrated,
and luck is just chaos with a sense of humor.

Host: And somewhere between control and chance,
between skill and surrender,
the game becomes what it was always meant to be —
a beautiful, ridiculous act of faith.