It has now been one year since I gave up playing golf.

Time to check in on that life-changing decision.

I played golf for over 50 years. I was never a great golfer, but I was pretty good. There were brief periods when I carried a single digit handicap.

But change happened and it was enough to drive me to stop playing. My game fell apart. I used to hit a nine-iron when I was 150 yards away. At the end it became a six-iron and if the wind was against me, a five-iron. The rest of my game had a similar journey. I hated playing like that.

Golf also got very expensive. The guys I played with liked playing real good courses, as did I, but those greens fees began to grow out of control. I couldn't justify spending that kind of money on golf and golf stuff.

Time also became an issue. The way I played, golf was pretty much an all-day event. Either we drove someplace far away, or we'd play 36 holes. It got to the point where, believe it or not, I missed my wife more than I thought I would. And my kids and grandkids.

So I gave it up. Now that I'm done with golf, how do things look? Well, good and bad. And sad, very sad.

I don't have the frustrations of bad play anymore. I am not spending money I shouldn't. And I spend more time with my family. Those are all good things.

But, my God, I never would have imagined that quitting golf would mean the end of two intimate 25-year old friendships. I am amazed at what happened to three men when I stopped playing.

It's important to understand that we were good friends. Very good friends. When our kids got married, we went to the wedding. My band played at the weddings of two daughters. We saw each other two or three days a week during the golf season. We talked via phone or e mail another two or three days during the week.

We needled each other. We gave each other a hug when we got our first grandchildren. Even though we always had a small bet (which we never paid off) we rooted for each other. It's fair to say we really cared about each other.

We all had our individuality. One was an equipment geek, looking for answers in late-night infomercials and the promises they made to cut strokes off your game. The other was the worst chipper the world had ever seen, guaranteed to skull six or seven chips during any given round. I always wore long pants, even in brutal heat, both because of my legs and because I thought that if I looked like a pro I'd play like a pro.

We had dinners and barbecue's with our wives. When somebody had an illness in their family, the sorrow was deep and affected each of us. During the winter we talked about golf and made plans for the season. When a golf show appeared, we went together.

Through my playing with these two guys I also became friendly with a bunch of other guys. Not great friends, but it was a circle of friendship that I loved.

Then I stopped playing golf and those friendships came to an end.

They didn't just diminish. They disappeared. As of this writing I bet I haven't talked with one of them for eight or nine months. For the other it's been about six months.

When I say haven't talked, I mean cold turkey. No phone calls. No get together for lunch or dinner. No email. No cards in regular mail. Nothing. I mean nothing at all.

I know that we could all joke about this and say that we didn't really like each other after all, or that the only reason we played together was that it was convenient, or something. But that's not true.

These were real friendships and now they are over. There's no blame here. They haven't called me and I haven't called them.

The thing that amazes me is how a sport acted as the glue of two wonderful relationships. It turns out that golf was the base of the common ground we had. When the base went away, the structure of the friendship tumbled.

We often talk about what sports means, both as a spectator and as a participant. Well the answer, at least in this case, is clear.

The sport means everything.