Every morning, hes on the golf course. The smell of freshly cut grass, the pop as the driver hits the ball, the feel of that perfect swingevery morning. 7am sharp. And then its back home for a recap. His friends join him on the green and then in the sunlit kitchen, beers in hand. They joke at how his home is like his golf game. How it sits quietly in a cul-de-sac, unassuming and inviting. But once you walk through the front doors, it hits you. The grand entryway, the spiral staircase, the five bedrooms (one for each of his grandkids, he jokes). The six-and-a-half baths. He laughs it off. Golf isnt life, he tells them. And yet every morning when he rises to the master bedrooms view of the course, in that moment it feels as though it is.