Yes­ter­day car­ries with it a strange author­i­ty, a gen­tle insis­tence that things were some­how bet­ter just a day ago. In golf, this mem­o­ry shows up often. It hides in the sigh of a missed putt, in the shoul­der slump after a slice, and in the words, “I was hit­ting them straight yes­ter­day.” For a new play­er like the nar­ra­tor, it’s dif­fi­cult to share in that nos­tal­gia because there are no gold­en days of skill to remember—just lessons still being learned. Yet, while he lacks a glo­ri­ous golf­ing past, he is sur­round­ed by sea­soned play­ers who con­tin­u­al­ly lean on the com­fort of pre­vi­ous suc­cess­es. Whether real or exag­ger­at­ed, those yes­ter­days become a shield, pro­tect­ing pride when the cur­rent game doesn’t meet expec­ta­tions.

There’s some­thing very human about hold­ing tight­ly to yes­ter­day. We use it to mea­sure our worth today, and often, it makes the present feel small­er. Even out­side the game, this happens—at work, in par­ent­ing, in aging. We look back and say we were sharp­er, quick­er, more con­fi­dent before. But mem­o­ry is selec­tive. It wraps yes­ter­day in soft light and trims out the mis­steps, leav­ing behind a ver­sion of events that’s kinder than truth. In doing so, it builds not just per­son­al pride, but community—a group of peo­ple nod­ding togeth­er about how great things were, no mat­ter what the score­board says now.

In con­trast, when the nar­ra­tive turns to qui­et places and per­son­al joys, “yes­ter­day” takes on a dif­fer­ent texture—less about per­for­mance and more about pres­ence. The places described aren’t grand. There’s a swing under an apple tree, pressed grass where lit­tle feet danced, and paths that remem­ber laugh­ter in spring­time. They are not remem­bered for what was accom­plished but for what was felt. That’s the mag­ic of per­son­al mem­o­ry. An old gar­den path can mean more than a tro­phy when it’s tied to someone’s voice, their joy, and their touch. These spaces become sacred, not because time was con­quered there, but because love lived there.

The beau­ty of such places isn’t in the soil or the grass or the trees—it’s in the shared expe­ri­ence. A patch of earth remem­bers bet­ter than a pho­to­graph, and a breeze across the swing recalls gig­gles loud­er than any record­ing. These mem­o­ry-laden spots offer some­thing golf scores and work­place wins can’t: a sense of com­plete­ness. They hold the soft truth that we were not alone. That some­one else was part of our “yes­ter­day,” not as a wit­ness to our suc­cess, but as a par­tic­i­pant in our joy. And that mat­ters more than the clean arc of a per­fect dri­ve.

Even as we chase the idea of “yes­ter­day” through ambi­tion or regret, it’s the rela­tion­ships tied to those days that stay with us. In golf, mem­o­ry is used to soothe the sting of a rough round. In fam­i­ly, mem­o­ry heals the ache of absence. Both involve look­ing back, but with dif­fer­ent motives. One wants to prove some­thing still exists; the oth­er wants to relive some­thing once held. In both cas­es, the past isn’t gone—it’s car­ried for­ward. But only one of those paths makes the present feel full instead of lack­ing.

As the chap­ter clos­es, there’s a gen­tle encour­age­ment not to fear the absence of a bril­liant yes­ter­day. Not every day will pro­duce a tale worth repeat­ing. And not every per­son needs a string of accom­plish­ments to jus­ti­fy their exis­tence. Some­times, sim­ply being part of some­one else’s joy­ful mem­o­ry is enough. Yes­ter­day is not always about glo­ry; some­times, it’s about gen­tle­ness. And in a world dri­ven by achieve­ment, that reminder is not only refreshing—it’s nec­es­sary.