I’ve been playing golf for more than 40 years. Somewhere along the way, I managed to bring my handicap down to 14.5, which is supposed to make me a respectable mid-handicap golfer.

That is what the numbers say, anyway.

The scorecard tells a different story. Last week, during the Great British golf tournament at Wack Wack’s West Course, I shot 104. It was raining hard, the fairways were wet and the greens were slow. But even I know better than to blame the rain for every bad shot. The weather didn’t top the ball, send it toward the bunkers or leave several putts short.

That was all me.

Golf has a way of making you feel confident just before it reminds you who is in charge. One week, you hit a few good drives and start imagining that your swing has finally come together. The next time, you’re hitting the ground first, sending shots into places no golfer would deliberately aim for, and wondering whether you should take up bowling instead.

After four decades, I have accumulated enough golf advice, equipment and instructional videos to stock a small pro shop. I have changed grips, drivers, balls, putters, stances, swings and pre-shot routines. I have watched videos promising to cure my slice, add 20 yards to my drives and fix my short game.

Somehow, the most dependable item in my golf bag remains the pencil I use to mark the score.

The 104 at Wack Wack was that kind of round.

My young playing partner, Cholo Medina, did not help. He made seven birdies and went around without a bogey. While he was demonstrating how golf is supposed to be played, I was providing a practical lesson in how it should not be played.

The frustrating thing is that I know what to do. After four decades, I know how to grip the club, set up and send the ball toward its intended destination. Doing those things properly, however, is another matter.

I was reminded of that years ago at Bacolod Golf and Country Club. I have always taken scoring seriously. That commitment once led me to disqualify myself after losing track of my score on the 18th hole.

I was two over par heading into the final hole, a par-3 with an elevated tee and green. It should have been a comfortable finish. Instead, I hit my tee shot into the valley, sent the next one into the front bunker and then failed repeatedly to get the ball out.

At some point, I stopped thinking about golf and concentrated only on escaping the sand.

When I finally got out, I asked my caddie how many strokes I had taken.

“Fourteen,” he said.

That turned out to be an underestimate. The group behind us had been watching and insisted that I had taken more than 14 strokes. Since I could not establish my actual score, I disqualified myself.

It was probably the most honest thing I could have done — and one of the least enjoyable.

Still, golfers keep coming back.

We remember the good shots: the drive that flew straight, the approach that stopped beside the pin, the long putt that somehow found the hole. We remember those shots far more clearly than the balls we lost looking for them.

We also make excuses. We tell ourselves that we play only once a week, that we need more practice or that we would improve if we had more time.

I have been using that last excuse for about 20 years.

I would still like to become a single-handicap golfer, although I am beginning to suspect that time is not entirely on my side. But perhaps that is not the point anymore.

After 40 years, I have accepted that I may never master golf. I have also accepted that this will not stop me from believing that I might master it in the next round.

My handicap says 14.5. My scorecard occasionally says 104. Both numbers are accurate in their own way.

Somewhere between them is the reason I keep returning to the first tee — with my clubs, my bruised confidence and the hope that this time, just maybe, I will play like the golfer I think I am.

In golf, hope is the most important club in the bag.