From Birdies to Black Diamonds: How I Went from Golfing Early 18 to Skiing the Alps and Apres-Skiing with Jay-Z

Let me paint you a picture.

It’s 7:12 a.m. on a Saturday. I’m standing on the tee box of Hole 1, gripping a driver like I’m about to defuse a bomb. There’s dew on the fairway, the sun is rising, and my buddy Gary is already two beers deep. The plan? Standard early 18. Crush some drives. Make questionable swing decisions. Finish by noon and argue over who really won.

But that’s not what happened.

Somehow, someway, this particular round of golf spiraled into a full-blown, powder-chasing European saga that involved altitude sickness, fondue, and — I kid you not — an après-ski encounter with Jay-Z.

Chapter 1: The Slice Heard Round the World

Things went sideways (literally) on Hole 5 when my drive sliced so hard it left a vapor trail into another dimension. “You need a break,” Gary said, sipping his Michelob like a therapist. “You ever skied the Alps?”

Now, I’ve made impulsive decisions before — like that time I bought a Segway on Facebook Marketplace. But 48 hours later, I’m in Chamonix, France, staring up at Mont Blanc and questioning all my life choices.

Chapter 2: From Tees to Trees

Golf and skiing are very different sports. In golf, when you mess up, the worst-case scenario is a lost ball and wounded pride. In skiing, when you mess up, ski patrol might have to helicopter you out while you mumble your blood type.

I rented gear from a shop called something vaguely intimidating like “Le Shreddeur.” The French guy handed me skis and muttered something that probably meant “good luck, amateur.” I didn’t care. I was high on mountain air and cheese-based optimism.

I hit the slopes like a man who had never seen snow — because I hadn’t. My style? Somewhere between a drunk toddler on rollerblades and a caffeinated deer. But I survived. And better yet, I learned one very important truth:

Après-ski is the real sport.

Chapter 3: Sippin’ Champagne with Hov

Après-ski in the Alps is not like anything back home. It’s like Coachella met a winter wonderland and decided to open a bar that only plays house remixes of ‘Bohemian Rhapsody.’ I walked into one chalet that looked like it was built entirely out of vibes and overpriced vodka.

I’m sipping something bubbly, trying to look like I belong, when I hear a familiar voice behind me say,
“You ski or just après?”

I turn around. It’s Jay-Z.

Yes, THE Jay-Z.

He’s in a Moncler jacket, sipping something that probably costs more than my car. I freeze. My brain is trying to compute golf swings, black diamonds, and Beyoncé’s husband all in the same timeline.

I say the first thing that comes to mind:
“Hey, uh… you ever play Pebble Beach?”

He laughs. Jay-Z laughed at my joke. That’s it. I peaked.

Chapter 4: Back Nine to Backstage

Turns out, Jay loves golf. We talk Tiger, Augusta, and somehow end up doing shots of pear schnapps with a Swiss DJ named Lars. There’s dancing. There’s snow angels. There’s me screaming “HOV!” from the top of a chalet like a scene out of Frozen.

The next day, I wake up with one ski boot on, 47 photos in my phone I don’t remember taking, and an invitation to golf in the Hamptons.

Moral of the story?

Never underestimate where an early 18 can take you. Sometimes you birdie the front nine. Sometimes you accidentally après with Jay-Z.

And sometimes… you do both.

Yours truly,

Socially Out of Bounds (SOB)