“I low-key want to thrift it this year,” Jacobi said to me while looking at the golf section.

My friend, Jacobi, is the best golfer in South Carolina. He’s sponsored by many prominent golf brands like Tittlist, Callaway, and Top Flight, so he receives new clubs every year from the companies in an attempt to have him represent their brand. He enjoys the challenge of utilizing and adjusting to a brand new set of golf clubs every year before the Men’s League State Championship, but this year, he wanted a real challenge. This year was different. This year, Jacobi is considering thrifting his clubs to handicap his game at an even higher capacity.

“Yeah, ok,” I smirked, “You think you can actually compete with hand-me-down clubs, bro?”

“Are you serious, Max? I’ve won… I’m not even sure how many championships in a row using different clubs, I got it, don’t worry.” Jacobi stated with confidence.

“Yeah, but this is not the same. Old clubs are going to mess with your game more than you – ”

“How about these right here?” He interrupted while picking up a pair of old rusty Mizuno clubs.

“Absolutely not,” I replied.

The clubs were rugged, rusty, bent, had decaying grips, and looked to be for someone who was six feet eight. Even the bag that they were being held in was barely holding together. It was ripped, frayed, had detached zippers, and didn’t even have a brand name on it.

“Listen, I know you are skilled and all, but those clubs look like they’re on their last leg,” I stated.

“They ain’t that bad…” He responded while examining the rust coat covering their shafts up and down.

“Look at the bag! It looks like mice got in it or something, bro!” I exclaimed to him.

He chuckled, “I’ll get used to them and look at this,” He pointed at the flimsy price tag, “nine-ninety-nine. That’s a snag and a half.”

“I wouldn’t pay a cent for those clubs,” I said while rolling my eyes.

He shrugged and threw the bag over his shoulders, and walked towards the cashier. He handed the clubs over to the man behind the counter and looked down to take his wallet out of his pocket.

“Wholy crap. You’re Jacobi Ranger…” the cashier said in astonishment.

Jacobi smiled and took out his wallet, “Yup, that’s me.”

“What are you doing with these clubs? You’re buying them for your buddy right here?” He asked as he glanced over at me.

“Nah, man. These are my new gamers.” Jacobi stated as he turned around to see my reaction.

“You’re kidding. How are you supposed to play in the championship game with these? I mean, they cost ten bucks.”

“Hey,” Jacobi shrugged, “I’m up for any challenge,” he said with pure confidence.

I’ve always admired the way he carried himself. His coolheadedness and confidence filled any room that he entered. He is extraverted and bubbly and has a million connections with people I didn’t even know existed. I also look up to his determination. I mean, if this guy wants something, he’s going to go out and get it, no matter what’s in his path. I guess that’s why he’s so good at golf.

“Well, I wish you luck, Mr. Ranger.” The cashier said while handing over the deteriorated clubs. Jacobi gave him a slight nod of the head and a smile.

Months later, Jacobi and I met up at the range. I saw him whacking the balls from the small bucket next to him into the woods. I read the number on his club: 6. He was hitting the old, rusty Mizuno six-iron into the back woods of the range. Absolutely crazy. I could hear the whoosh, crack, and then whizz of the ball louder and louder as I walked closer to him.

“Hey, one more day, huh?” I said.

“Yup… I’ve used these unforgiving clubs for so long, but I have gotten used to them.”

Shoosh! Smack!

“Well, I’ll be there cheering you on from the clubhouse,” I said to him as I grabbed a ball from his bucket.

“Sounds good,” he stated, half paying attention to me, and went right back to focusing on the next golf ball to hit.

Whoosh! Crack!

The next day, Championship Day, I arrived at the clubhouse and took a seat at the bar. I grabbed a drink and ordered food, and I waited for my friend to finish his round. After what seemed to be forever, I heard the clubhouse door swing open. It was Jacobi. I looked at his face and saw pure disappointment and defeat. His eyes hung low, and his expression seemed gloomy.

“Hey man…” I said softly, “How’d you do?”

His lip quivered, and he turned around and left the clubhouse. I lowered my head and exhaled deeply. Suddenly, the clubhouse doors swung right back open and crashed against the wall. There stood Jacobi, gripping a massive trophy in one hand and those rickety old Mizuno clubs in the other.

He shrugged and said with a smile, “What can I say?”