It's the way the first tee feels, alive with possibility.

It's that feeling, out of nowhere, that comes as you're lining up a putt,letting you know that all you have to do is get the ball rolling and thehole will get in the way.

It's the thump of a well-played bunker shot.

It's nine holes late in the day, when the sun is sinking and the shadowsare stretching, showing every bump and roll in a golden light that makesyou stop and look around.

It's calling your shot and pulling it off.

It's the eighth hole at Grandfather, the third at Linville and the 14that Balsam Mountain , paintings with a flagstick in the middle.

It's your Saturday morning game, with a little money on the line and nohaggling about the teams.

It's the guys who look like they can't play a lick then spend their daysaround par, not needing swing coaches, just having a knack for gettingthe ball in the hole.

It's calling your own penalties.

It's a kid with his bag slung over his shoulder, cap pulled low, hoofingit down a fairway.

It's nipping a wedge just right, having it bounce once and cozy up tothe hole the way Sergio does it.

It's a bowl of peanuts and a cold beer at the end of the day, whenstories can be embellished, if only a little.

It's the warm feel of a turtleneck in December, the first greening ofthe grass in March, the thrill of hitting it a club longer in July andgreens as fast as the kitchen floor in October.

It's the suntan marks left by your golf socks and shoes.

It's Harbour Town in April, Quail Hollow in May and Pinehurst any time.

It's having the sun behind you and catching a tee shot square, having amoment to admire it as it's framed against the sky.

It's the small but sudden thrill of finding a new Titleist, even if youalready have a bagful.

It's the clutch in your throat the first time you see St. Andrews andthe never-ending thrill of Amen Corner.

It's the belief that the magic you've found in a new driver willlast forever.

It's the scent of salt air, the faint taste of pine pollen on your lipsand the glimpse of a gator in a low country lagoon.

It's standing over a 5-footer that doesn't matter to anyone but you andbeing thankful for the feeling.

It's Tiger on the tee, Mickelson with a wedge in his hand, Nicklaus onthe property.

It's the little places with pickups in the parking lot, raggedgrass, bumpy greens, worn-out golf carts, yellow range balls and aspirit all their own.

It's the way you practice your swing in the elevator riding down, theway you put an overlapping grip on the rake and the way you see golf holeswhere others just see fields along the highway.

It's the way tournament golf feels, even if it's just a little club event.

It's the feel of new grips and the shine of new irons.

It's playing with your father, your mother, your brother, or your daughter.

It's listening to David Feherty, Johnny Miller and Nick Faldo explainthe game as only they can.

It's the gentle creak of aging muscles in the evening, a good tired.

It's a birdie at the 18th to win the press.

It's having people who understand what's important, whetherit's renovating a course or reinventing a local tournament.

It's going for a par-5 in two, trying to cut a corner and thatinstant when you wonder if the shot is as good as it looks.

It's golf.

And it's why we play.  More info please check on www.firstrankgolf.com