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Comments about handicaps.
Jokes about past trips.
Old photos resurfacing.
Stories from golf weekends stretching back 25 years.
Twenty-five years.
The group is never exactly the same, but it’s always familiar. The nucleus has held, even as venues change and life pulls people in different directions. Twenty-five years ago, it was mostly about beers, cigars, and golf.
Now it feels more like a reset.
Guys you used to see every weekend, you now see once a year—if you’re lucky. And when it finally happens, there’s an unspoken agreement that for the next few days, nothing else really matters.
Conversations pick up where they left off.
Someone says, “We’ve gotta do this more often,” even though everyone knows it’s once a year that makes it special.
The teams get drafted.
I’ve never been an “A” player, so I don’t pay much attention to the texts until later.
Sixteen guys.
Four teams.
As soon as the teams were named, the tone shifted. Suddenly there was something to play for—even if nobody could quite explain what that was. It wasn’t about the money. It was about the cup.
The Stix Cup.
How we landed on the name is a story for another time, but the cup gave the weekend shape. Something to point to. Something that carried through every round.
Everyone filters into the Airbnb. I was one of the last to show up.
Bags were already stacked in the driveway. We’re older now. Nicer trucks. Better beer. Better food.
Plenty of hugs. Plenty of hand pounds.
Catching up. Staying up way too late for a 7:30 Friday tee time.
I’ve always been the creative one in the group. Bachelor party shirts. Birthday golf towels. Even a logo for the Up North Tour—a good ten-year run playing some of the best courses in northern Michigan.
For this trip, we decided to take it one step further.
Each four-man team got their own hats with PVC patches. A t-shirt. A valuables pouch. Even a custom tin with a logo to match.
Maybe it went unnoticed in the moment.
Maybe it was underappreciated.
You know how the boys are.
The scores didn’t matter much anymore.
The jokes did.
The photos did.
The way the weekend already felt smaller as it ended.
The cup had done its job. It gave the weekend structure—something to rally around, something that kept everyone present.
When it was over, it didn’t feel finished.
It felt documented.
One of the hats showed up again.
This time, it was at my five-year-old’s birthday party. Worn casually. No explanation. No reference back to the trip. Just part of someone’s normal rotation.
That’s when I knew the weekend had stayed with us.
Not because we talked about it.
Because it showed up when nobody was thinking about golf.
The moments that last usually don’t announce themselves.
They’re marked quietly, by small decisions made early—before anyone knows how the weekend will unfold. A name. A team. A shared set of objects that carry memory without asking for attention.
This is what Non Major Golf exists for.
Not the scorecards.
Not the trophies.
Just the moments that deserve to stay.
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