Saying goodbye to a long-distance friend

CALGARY — It is with profound sadness that I announce the loss of a dear friend, suddenly at the age of 15.

Shortly after noon Saturday in the hills of the Hamptons my friend was subject to a violent ending to an otherwise brilliant life.

My emotions are still quite raw after witnessing the incident first hand, and I can’t help but feel a tad responsible for how it all unfolded.

That might seem like the hardest part right now, but moving forward I know it’s only going to get harder.

We met in a pro shop and travelled the world together, working in tandem to hustle friends and strangers alike.

His colour drew inappropriate comments from many, although few were ever intimidated by his looks — until he did what he did best.

He was my beloved 5-wood.

He was called many things in my frustrated foursomes, but I’ll always remember him as Magic.

At 15 his technology shouldn’t have allowed him to continually do what he did, routinely splitting fairways upwards of 280 yards at a time.

It was his accuracy that frustrated most opponents, essentially forcing me to abandon my driver roughly 10 years ago. There was simply no point in messing with perfection.

Oh, how I leaned on him as we headed towards the clubhouse with wagers being doubled down and the stakes creeping ever higher.

He gave me confidence I can never repay him for. He was straighter than Ned Flanders, longer than an NBA broadcast.

Who would have thought a redshafted, Great Big Bertha II fairway wood circa 2003 would allow me to swim with some of golf’s drunkest sharks round after round.

My friends have long known that when I die, I am to have a bottle of Captain Morgan’s and my beloved 5-wood placed in my casket.

I figured that’s all a fella like me would need at the Old Course in the sky. What I often feared — what we all fear — is that I would outlive Ol’ Reliable. Having lost a beloved driver much the same way earlier in my life, I knew the moment it happened it was over. A caved-in face.

When I looked to see what I had done, the crack formed a frown, mirroring the sadness I felt as my wife and son tried consoling me.

Fact was, I’d hit the sweet spot on his face so many times it was probably inevitable it would end this way. Doesn’t make it any easier, especially when I used my trusty 5-wood to get to scratch the week my daughter was born 11 years ago.

Since then I’ve watched my handicap fade to 4 and 5 as I steadfastly refused to practice — there was no need to, as we had an understanding: he’d get me safely off the tee box and I’d scramble around doing the rest. Now I’m on my own.

Where I go from here is terrifying, as logic dictates you can’t hit off every tee box with an iron, and even four-foot gimmees can’t overcome the damage done by uncooperative drivers. It may sound cold and callous, but I’ll admit upon returning home I immediately went to golf’s version of Tinder — eBay — and swiped until I found another.

I ordered one for $1.33 U.S. (no word of a lie) and won’t sleep until it arrives. A mail-order bride, of sorts.

But I know it will never be the same. Things will never be the same, as those who saw us work together know such magic can’t be recreated. Surely, many golfers out there can relate to the tight bond built between a man and his favourite club.

My golf pals will inevitably rejoice, as their long road back to recouping the money they lost to us just got paved. There will be no service, as this note will have to stand as the celebration of a life well-lived.

Thank-you friend — Captain Morgan, my bank account and I will miss you.