Today I played 18 holes with my good friend Mike. That sentence alone might not raise an eyebrow, but in today’s world—where friendships are often fractured by newsfeeds and ballot boxes—it feels almost like a quiet act of rebellion.

I met Mike sometime around 2007, not long after we moved to Louisiana. Our sons played sports together, and the company I worked for had hired his law firm for representation. That was the beginning of a connection built on shared experiences, respect, and time. Sometimes friendships begin not in perfect alignment, but in mutual seasons of life.

Since then, we’ve walked through a lot together. Mike had a knee replacement. I had two. He had a full-on bypass. I had a prostatectomy. So did he. And today, by the grace of God and the hands of some fine doctors, we’re both cancer-free. A few scars, a few stories, and plenty of reminders that time doesn’t wait for anyone.

To look at us now, you’d see two guys in their mid-60s with decent backswing mechanics—Mike with a full head of silver hair, and me with a close cut, thanks to a growing bald spot but not much gray. We look pretty good for men of a certain age, and more importantly, we feel pretty grateful to still be able to do long bike rides and push some iron in the gym. We laugh more than we should. And we both cherish the fresh air of a fairway.

But under that shared surface is something deeper—a strange combination of harmony and distance. You see, Mike and I are so solidly alike… and so demonstrably different.

Our politics? Opposite ends of the tee box. Our religion? Close, but expressed in very different tones. Mike is hard-core in his beliefs—and I mean rock-ribbed, unmoving, full-throttle conviction. The kind of conviction that doesn’t whisper, it bellows. What’s funny is, he doesn’t even realize how far out on the edge he stands. He thinks he’s smack dab in the middle of the American mainstream.

Me? I live in the land of nuance. I believe what I believe, but I try to keep one foot planted and the other open to motion. I’m not a both-sides guy when it comes to injustice, but I’ve learned that shouting usually produces more heat than light.

And yet—here we are. We say we’re going to play golf every other week, but it usually ends up being about every three. The truth is, it isn’t really about golf. It’s about friendship, fellowship, and respect. We talk about life, his grandkids, neighborhood goings-on, LSU and ECU baseball and football, and occasionally, the state of the world. Mike lets it rip. I let it land. Sometimes I wince. Sometimes I grin. But I always listen. And he always listens back.

That’s the part I wish more people could see.

We live in a toxic environment. You only have to turn on the news or scroll your phone to see people tearing each other apart for sport. But I draw the line when someone says I’m stupid because I don’t believe what they believe. Mike doesn’t do that. He respects me. And I respect him. We disagree fiercely, but we don’t let disagreement define us.

Mike represents the views of a lot of Americans today. And in some ways, so do I. But neither of us sees the other as a threat. We see each other as people—flawed, funny, faithful, and far from finished.

He’s not Jon Beegle, Hal Sands, or Nolan Lawson—my childhood friends from Stokes County, who knew me when my knees were good, my dreams were bigger than my shoes, and—yes—when I actually had hair. But Mike is my friend. And in a world that tells us we can’t be close unless we agree on everything, I’m proud to say we’re still walking the same course.

Even if we don’t always aim for the same flag.

As Best as I Remember It.