When my last child left home there was a sense of urgency to fill that void, from a spectator reverting to social competitive sportsman.
The reality is one day I'll be predominantly a spectator again at the high-octane level.
As a parent, on the other side of 50, I realise I'm on borrowed time with contact sport even though golf and running promise longevity.
I'm now back at the public golf course in Hastings at least three times a week, chasing that errant dimpled titanium from the tee-off mound to the insincere greens while dutifully replacing my, as well as others, divots along the way.
Quite often it takes that one screaming drive, flukey chip, approach shot or miscalculated but fruitful putt to yank me out of bed at 6.30 every morning.
For what it's worth, you meet a totally different species of people whose accountability is reflected on their golf card.
They do not engage in conversations about boozy nights as insurance for impending mediocrity.
No moans and groans about creaking joints or back spasms.
The early birds simply greet you with a chirpy "good day" or "nice day for it" before going about their business.
It is therapeutic to see and appreciate a rich part of the day I spent sleeping for the most part of my life.
No doubt the frosty mornings pack a bite, errant footprints like teeth marks cruelly exposing signs of poor course navigation and a habitual failure to read the lie on the green.
Blissfully with the dead calm sunrise comes the promise of little, if any, fairway traffic.
Just a flock of flustered birds, unceremoniously scattering while seeking the fattest worms, unwillingly becomes witnesses to some of your and your companions' most embarrassing moments.
Pointing a finger at someone else for your fallibilities is out of the question because you are the architect of your success and demise and there's no escape clause, bar the club-length drops at man-made obstacles and Gurs (ground under repair).
Oddly enough it is a sport most people become better at as they grow older.
Bashing, cussing and self-cross examination give way to mental routine, control and a quiet sense of accomplishment after each shot.
When things deviate from the script, a modicum of leniency prevails.
Yesterday, a workmate and I were jolted out of our comfort zone when early birds beat us to the start.
We joined up with a solo campaigner, Wayne Stevens, a former Hastings gym instructor who nowadays assumes the mantle of mental guru since returning from stints abroad.
"It's just you and the ball, Anendra. Nothing to it," said Stevens who doesn't have an amateur handicap yet but, I hasten to add, isn't a shark.
As we hacked and ploughed our way through another serene morning, the wise one put his money where his mouth is.
He wasn't perfect by any stretch of the imagination - just in control to offer us a glimpse of mind over matter in taming fairways.
That's why golf can be such a great snapshot of mental fortitude.
One can only marvel at women's professional world No1 Lydia Ko's ability to play the game between the ears at such a tender age.
