Once a week I write a newsletter, under the pen name “Pards,” responding to anonymous reader-submitted questions. They vary in length, ranging from satire to sentiment. Typically, the content is geared toward current events in the game. It’s more like a column, minus the actual newspaper. You can subscribe for free here.

In addition to the column, every month, members of the Postage Club receive an artifact in the mail. Inside is a 5×7 print of original art, designed by my buddy, Dave Baysden. On the back, you’ll find a letter. Similar to those in the weekly newsletter, but exclusive to members. It is addressed to people, archetypes, and apostrophes across the game of golf. Sometimes they’re funny. Sometimes they’re serious. Sometimes they’re both.

Along with the letter is a blank postcard. That’s for you to tell someone that white stakes mean a reload. Or just to say you love ‘em.

If you’re a premium subscriber, you’ll get an annual gift every Fall ($100 value). If you’re one of the first 100 premium members, you’ll also receive a handmade leather “yardage book” to keep all your letters/prints in each month.

In 7th grade, my (then) serious girlfriend and I wrote daily, full-page letters to each other on single-spaced, college-ruled paper. Passing these folded sheets of love confessions between homeroom and 1st period was our only form of communication. Of course we didn’t talk.

Fast forward several decades, and written language is still my favorite form of communication. Whether a seven-word scribble to my sleeping spouse, a private journal reflection to a former self, an annual Christmas card, or a stupid-ass swing thought on the back of a scorecard, words have always been my medium for how to talk and try to make sense of this crazy world.

I recently asked myself what are the types of content I enjoy consuming the most. In an AI-invested, (almost) all-electronic world, there still is nothing like an analog artifact I can touch. That took time to write. That’s slightly smeared, showing a real person penned it. That doubles as a bookmark and remains a constant reminder of whoever wrote it.

I’ve always clung to personalities in the media space. My favorite voices are more than just audio in my AirPods or words on a page. They’re real people who keep us company while we empty the dishwasher, companions we relate to who help us navigate the chaos of life. People who, I daresay, we’d like to call friends.

Dear Pards is a scratched itch to write more, regardless of who reads. It’s an attempt by a golf fan to relate to another. A chance to make someone smirk, chuckle, think, or cry. And an invitation for you to sit down and do the same.

Garrett Andersson (“Pards”)

Though raised in the Carolinas, there’s a smell from summers in the Northeast that will forever be attached to my first memories of golf. It was walks around a Flynn-designed gem in the Poconos with my grandfather where I first felt drawn to this insane game. Back when you’d get bullied for using a push cart.

My first job (after a short stint at Waffle House) was scrubbing carts at a muni in high school. In college, I spent my summers caddying at a club in the North Carolina mountains, which naturally led to living on a boat and looping full-time for four(ish) years after graduation, all while dodging a “real job.”

That time was spread across multiple tours, with off-seasons spent in the South Carolina Lowcountry. I grew close to the traveling circus I traversed the globe with. Quite literally. I began to learn that the highest cost wasn’t sleeping four grown men in one Red Roof Inn room, but the inability to build my own family amidst such a transient life. So I hung it up and went to go see about a girl. A short stint with TrackMan followed my retirement just over five years ago.

I’m now married to a Swede who loves Ludvig (of course) and anyone else who gives off good vibes on TV. We have a one-year-old daughter and live in the North Carolina Triad.

When I’m not spending hours writing three hundred words for free, I buy houses and help others buy or sell theirs—along with whatever other entrepreneurial endeavor I’m crazy enough to take on.