Some mornings I walk into the garage and stop. I know I came out for something. I cannot recall what. A name slips during a conversation. A story I have told for years stalls halfway.

It feels harmless in the moment.

Until I remember my bloodline. Until I remember their Memory.

The Last Visit That Stayed With Me

On my last visit with my grandmother, my father told me quietly, “This will be the last time she remembers you.”

He was not dramatic. He was certain. He was right.

The next time I saw her, she was present in body, but the recognition was gone. The link of Memory between us had already broken.

I did not watch her decline day by day. I watched a door close.

Later, I began to see familiar signs in my father. The slow confusion. The searching. The hollow look of a man who can feel his own story slipping beyond his reach.

That is when a different fear took hold. Not the fear of dying. The fear of disappearing while I am still here. The fear that my own Memory might walk away first.

The Fear Men Do Not Name

Men joke about getting older. We shrug off Memory lapses. We hide concern behind more work, more workouts, more control.

Underneath, many of us carry the same question.

Will I still remember the people I love. Will they remember the man I truly was. If my Memory fades, did I live in a way that leaves something steady behind.

Golf has always cut through my excuses. The course does not care about image. It reflects the truth. Nerves. Ego. Focus. Fear.

One swing at a time, golf has taught me the code we live by here:

Clarity over noise. Stillness before speed. Presence over pace. Honor the weight. Brotherhood over isolation. Carry less. Protect what matters.

Memory fear presses on all of those. It dares you to numb out or to wake up. The fairway is where I choose to wake up.

Why I Wrote Jack’s Course

When my father’s Alzheimer’s moved from idea to reality, I could feel my own questions sharpening. I could not change genetics. I could not negotiate with time. I could decide how honest I was willing to be while I still had my full Memory in my hands.

Jack’s Course began as a promise to my kids. I wanted them to know the real man, not a polished story. The doubt. The drinking. The rebuild. The love. The work. The cost of trying to carry everything alone.

It also became a contract with myself. If I am ever robbed of Memory, I do not want to be robbed of truth. I wanted my story on paper before anything slipped, so my family had more than a shadow.

Each chapter was a hole to play honestly. Each scene a shot taken with full awareness of the lie and the wind.

The Fairway Still Gives You One More Look

You and I do not control how many holes remain. We do not control every bounce, every diagnosis, every hard phone call.

We do control how we stand over the ball that is in front of us. We decide if we rush, distract, or breathe and commit.

When your Memory slips for a moment and your chest tightens, you can pretend it means nothing. Or you can let it remind you that nothing is guaranteed and today still counts.

That is what the fairway offers when life feels heavy. Not escape. Clarity. One clean look at who you are becoming.

A Quiet Invitation for Men Who Feel This

If your family carries Alzheimer’s or dementia. If you feel a spike of fear when your Memory slips. If you carry the weight alone because you think that is what strong men do, hear this clearly.

You are not weak for noticing. You are not soft for caring. You are responsible for how you respond.

You can start small. Write one honest page about what you fear. Take a slow nine with no music and pay attention to where your mind runs. Have a real conversation with someone who will not flinch.

The point is not to fix everything. The point is to stop pretending.