At 63, with mortality no longer an abstract idea but a daily companion, I find that 18 holes is the only place where the noise in my head quiets down, and life’s heaviest questions shrink to the size of a three‑foot putt.

How do you explain spending your day off driving nearly 70 kilometers to Sta. Elena Golf and Country Club to chase a small, dimpled ball and guide it into a cup no bigger than a teacup? That, perhaps, is the quiet madness every golfer understands.

I have been at it for four decades now and realize I have been playing my best golf as I have gotten older. Yes, I no longer hit the ball as long as I used to, but hitting it off the whites keeps the game enjoyable.

One reason I get to play more often these days is that the demands of work and family have eased. The kids are grown, careers have either peaked or settled into a gentler pace, and you finally have the freedom to block off half a day for a round without constantly worrying about rushing back to other obligations.

It wasn’t always that way. When I took up the game in my mid-20s, time and money were constant hurdles. Golf came few and far between, sitting firmly at the bottom rung of the ladder of priorities. Life then revolved around working extra hours to put food on the table, paying the utility bills, saving for the children’s education, and, now and then, dealing with the repair costs of a battered second-hand car.

Back then, the chances to play were rare — usually limited to tournaments where I was invited or through the generosity of friends who made room for one more in their flight.

Come to think of it, I can’t recall ever paying for a round of golf back then. The reason is purely economic. The most that I could afford was to hit balls on the range that merely reinforced my out-of-this-world swing.

I’m not saying I’m better off financially now. I still drive a 30-year-old car — one that rattles a bit, complains now and then, and occasionally makes me wonder if this will be the day it refuses to start. But like its driver, it keeps going. And if it can make the 70-kilometer trip to the golf course, that’s good enough for me.

At my age, nightlife is practically non-existent. That’s not a bad thing — the money saved can easily go toward a round of golf. Besides, I don’t drink, and I don’t smoke.

These days, I can finally afford a round at Veterans Golf Club, Navy, Aguinaldo and Villamor. The senior discount helps more than you’d think.

And so golf has quietly slipped into the spaces that work and late nights used to occupy. I may not sprint or play full-court basketball anymore, but I can still walk 9 or 18, ride a cart when my knees complain, and adjust the tees to match my swing, not the one I remember. The game has become my scheduled break from worrying about blood tests, retirement funds, or how many good years are left; a tee time gives shape to the day and a reason to step out of the house instead of sitting alone with my thoughts.

With the same faces in the flight, the same clubhouse, the same old jokes, golf now provides the routine that the 9-to-5 once did — a small, stubborn defense against loneliness and the nagging feeling of becoming irrelevant. Out there, you are not an age or a diagnosis. You’re just the guy trying to get up and down from the bunker.

Perhaps that is why every round now feels a little more meaningful. The fairways seem wider, the walk a little slower, and the laughter among friends a little louder. Golf, after all, is no longer something you squeeze into a crowded schedule. It has become something you finally have the time — and the awareness of time running out — to savor.