You play golf on Sunday morning.

Within the hour, your phone buzzes. It’s your coach, with your round already analyzed. The data from your sensors tells a story, and he sees a slight disconnect between your practice sessions and your play.

He texts a few thoughts and an updated plan. You see two drills you don’t love. You text back: “Can we swap the 7-iron drill for wedges? And add the lagging putt challenge?” A moment later: “Done. See you tomorrow.” Your entire coaching relationship lives in a text thread, because you have enough apps.

Knowing your calendar, your coach has already worked with your EA to protect three blocks of time for you at the Club this week. They just appear. There’s nothing to confirm.

Monday, you’re in and out before your first coffee meeting. Fifty balls, ten putts. You don’t pull out your phone, you don’t press a button. You just swing. You trust the data is being captured. By the afternoon, a text arrives with an analysis of your swing patterns from the session.

Tuesday, a conversation about a dream golf trip to Canada with your crew becomes a simple text to your concierge. “What would it take to get four of us to Cabot Links next quarter?” By Wednesday, a beautiful itinerary is waiting for you. On Thursday morning, you reply: “Looks perfect. Book it.” It’s no longer a dream. It’s a plan.

Your Wednesday evening lesson flows seamlessly into family night. You’d sent a text earlier: “Need dinner for 4 tonight.” It’s packed and waiting for you the moment you walk out the door.

Friday, you arrive for your recovery workout. You mention the trip. “I want to add some speed before we go.” You walk into a conversation already in progress between your swing coach and your physical therapist. Together, they run a mobility assessment based on the swing you’re building. They map out a plan not just for your swing, but for your body, making sure you don’t aggravate that shoulder injury from 2 years ago.

That night, waiting for the ride home from dinner with friends, you glance at your swing notes again. An impulse strikes. You lean forward to the driver. The destination changes.

The doors to the club open, the lights warming just for you. It’s just you and a hundred putts, under the quiet glow of the simulators. Because you can.

You play golf on Sunday morning.