By Rahil Gangjee
They say golf is like life. I’d argue it’s exactly like life — only more expensive, more humiliating, and with more people pretending they didn’t see you cheat.
If you’ve ever picked up a club, you know the quiet magic of the mulligan. For normal people, that’s an unofficial second chance. You tee it up, take a mighty swing, and watch in horror as the ball dribbles six feet — or worse, rockets into your playing partner’s parked golf buggy. Your buddies exchange awkward glances, sigh, and say, “Go on then, take another one.” Congratulations, you’ve just been gifted a mulligan — golf’s greatest mercy and mankind’s laziest excuse for terrible shots.
No rulebook allows it. The PGA Tour definitely doesn’t. Trust me, I’ve asked — politely, repeatedly, and once in a panic after my opening tee shot almost killed a duck. The answer is always no. But out here, where grown adults weep quietly over three-putts and lost balls, the mulligan is sacred. It’s our collective nod to imperfection. It’s also how weekend golfers survive without hurling themselves into the nearest water hazard.
If you ask me, we should be handing out mulligans in real life too. The world would be far less grumpy if we all walked around with a pocketful of “do-overs.”
The Mulligan Mindset
I’ve cashed in plenty myself. I’m not exactly built like your typical long-drive champion — I’m not the tallest guy on the block. Back when I was starting out, folks would take one look at me and assume I’d need a running start just to reach the fairway. Then I’d pull out my driver, swing like my life depended on it, and watch jaws drop as the ball sailed 300 yards. I lived for that look. That was my mulligan for every time someone mistook me for the caddie.
But don’t get me wrong — I’ve hit more bad shots than I care to admit. I once topped my opening tee shot so pathetically it bounced, scuttled off the tee box, and almost took out a squirrel minding its own business. Some kind soul in my group offered me a mulligan. I refused, out of misplaced pro pride. Instead, I hacked the ball out sideways, spent 20 minutes in the jungle, and made a triple bogey anyway. Moral of the story? Sometimes your pride needs a mulligan more than your golf swing does.
Honestly, the best mulligans aren’t even on the golf course. They’re the tiny second chances people give you when you least deserve them. I’ve spent more days in airports and hotel rooms than I care to count. I forget birthdays. I miss anniversaries. I’ve shown up at family dinners on the wrong day — twice. And yet my parents still feed me, my friends still answer my calls at 1 AM, and no one’s disowned me yet. Mulligans.
My friends deserve medals. I’m that guy who promises to call you back “in five minutes” — and resurfaces six months later, asking if you want to grab a midnight biryani. And they do. No guilt trip. No emotional lecture. Just raita, good gossip, and a gentle reminder that I owe them a million calls back.
And relationships? If you think your golf swing is unpredictable, try dating a golfer who’s away half the year. Every couple has their version of the shanked wedge: you forget an anniversary, you mess up a heartfelt apology, you think “It’s just a date, I’ll be back from practice in time” — and you’re not. If you’re lucky, your partner sighs, shakes their head, and hands you a mulligan. If you’re smart, you learn to swing better the second time. If you’re me, you promise dinner and biryani as insurance.
Let’s not forget careers. Golf is glamorous for about 30 seconds — the moment you’re lifting a trophy. The rest of the time, it’s a series of quiet crises: missed cuts, sponsor anxiety, the occasional existential meltdown when your driver suddenly thinks it’s a garden spade. One bad season can make you question every life choice since your first plastic golf club at age four. But sometimes you get lucky. A sponsor sticks by you. A coach tweaks something tiny in your swing. A three-week slump ends with a good round at just the right time. Mulligan.
Life’s Other Hazards
And then there’s biryani — because no column of mine is complete without it. Picture this: you’re starving after 18 holes, your body is sore, your brain is fried. You order biryani from a new place. Big mistake. What arrives is stale rice, a single piece of suspicious chicken, and a boiled egg thrown in like an insult. That first bite tastes like heartbreak. But life gives you a mulligan: next weekend, you go to your tried-and-tested joint, ask the guy for extra masala and raita, and redemption is served piping hot on a steel plate.
The older I get, the more I realise that the secret isn’t waiting for a mulligan — it’s giving them. To yourself, first. Golf is merciless. It wants you to remember every fluffed chip, every lip-out putt, every lost bet to your smug buddy who thinks he’s Ernie Els. If you drag that misery to the next hole, you’re done. You have to stand up, shrug, and say, “Next shot’s going straight, definitely probably maybe.” That’s golf. That’s life.
People screw up. So do we. That WhatsApp left on ‘Read’? Mulligan. That birthday you forgot? Mulligan — plus cake. That friend who borrowed your putter three years ago and never returned it? Mulligan — but keep your driver locked up next time.
One of my favourite moments was at a driving contest once. I stood there surrounded by blokes who looked like they’d just stepped off a rugby field. No one gave the short guy a second glance. Then I smashed one straight down the middle, 300-plus. The big guys just stared. Sometimes, the best mulligan is the one you give to yourself when everyone underestimates you — then you prove them wrong just for fun.
So here’s my free swing advice: take your mulligans. Give them too. Life’s rough enough without us hoarding forgiveness like we’re afraid it’ll run out. When you mess up — on the course, in the kitchen, at work, in love — tee it up again, smile at your buddies, and let it rip. The best shots are always the next ones.
And if you see me topping my tee shot into the trees, do what any good golfer would do: look the other way, pretend you didn’t see a thing, and quietly whisper, “Mulligan, bro.”
See you on the fairway — I’ll be the guy with the short height, big drive, and a spare biryani recommendation if you need it.
Rahil Gangjee is a professional golfer, sharing through this column what life on a golf course is like.
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