I’m only two years into playing golf, but it has already become one of my greatest passions — through the ups and downs, the frustration and the joy. Just four rounds ago I nearly quit the game. I had shot over 100, all over the place, and left the course feeling wrecked. But something in me refused to walk away. I went back to the range, again and again, determined to get back on my feet.

Nothing, however, could have prepared me for what happened on September 2nd, 2025.

It was another ordinary round: a few pure shots, a few terrible ones, and more three-putts than I care to admit. By the time we reached the 12th hole, I was half-jokingly begging the golf gods to throw me a bone.

Then we came to hole #15. A scenic par three, 157 yards, with the Ozark Mountains rising in the distance. The tee box sat a good 150 feet above the green, steeply downhill — the kind of hole that makes you pause and take it in.

The friend I was playing with looked out and said, “Wow, wouldn’t this make for a perfect hole-in-one?” For a brief moment I let myself imagine it. What if?

I was the last to step up to the tee. It felt intimidating. I pulled my seven iron and held onto one thought: smooth. The swing was effortless, like punching through air. The ball took flight, pure and straight.

“Oh my,” my friend said, eyes locked on the shot, “that’s headed right at the pin…” It landed on the green just short of the flag, took a small roll forward — and disappeared.

We froze. “No way… did I just do that?” The celebration erupted, and as I walked up to the cup, sure enough, there it was: my Titleist ball resting quietly at the bottom.

An ace. My first. What a feeling. What a moment. One I’ll never forget. Needless to say, I think I got my sign — the bone I was asking for — to keep playing this game for a lifetime.