Thirty-Three Holes of Pressure

Thirty-three holes. That’s how long it took to settle my second Cherry Valley Club Championship and for me to finally breathe easy again.

This wasn’t just another round of golf. All season, friends, members, even casual acquaintances reminded me: “You’ve got this,” and “Let’s go back-to-back.” It was meant as encouragement, but it landed like expectation. Suddenly, it wasn’t just about playing well; it was about living up to everyone else’s belief that I should win again. I smiled and thanked them, but inside, each comment piled onto the pressure.

I’d been anxious for days. The kind of nerves that seep into everything: restless sleep, low appetite, endless swing thoughts. By the time I stepped onto the first tee, my heart was already sprinting.

Down three after three holes.

Not exactly the start you dream about.

My nerves had hijacked my game, rushed swings, tentative putts, and a mind that refused to quiet. Every glance at the small gallery trailing us only magnified the noise in my head. They weren’t heckling; they were supportive. But to me, every footstep whispered the same thing: You should win.

Match play is a marathon, not a sprint. Little by little, I clawed back. A solid up-and-down here, a confident putt there. By the back nine, I kind of remembered how to play golf, and by the second 18, I found something close to a rhythm.

And all the while, the crowd grew. Friends, members, families—moving with us from hole to hole. I could hear the carts trailing behind us, the low hum of whispered updates, the occasional cheer when a long putt dropped. Their presence was impossible to ignore and, to my surprise, strangely calming. As the day wore on, I started talking with them between shots, and the pressure began to ease

Fast forward to the 32nd hole. Dormie. I had the chance to close it out. And then—four putts. Four. My hands shook as I tried to lag one close and watched it slip by. The comeback putt felt impossible to hold, and when it missed, the quiet gasp from the gallery made it sting even more. Suddenly, we were headed to the 33rd hole. My heart pounded louder than their footsteps.

One more hole.

Somehow, with everything on the line and my mind replaying that disastrous four-putt, I steadied myself. A fairway found. A green hit. A putt that finally listened.

And just like that, it was over.

Relief hit harder than joy. I’d won—but more than anything, I’d survived the expectations.

Looking back, the hardest opponent wasn’t my playing partner or the course. It was the quiet chorus of you shoulds and the way I let them live rent-free in my head. Golf will always be a mental game; it is maddening and beautiful that way. It tests every corner of your patience and resilience. But walking off that 33rd green, with that moving gallery clapping around me, I was reminded why I keep coming back: because the fight makes the finish unforgettable.