I gave Erik a hug. “Love ya, buddy.”

“Love you too, man,” he said.

We had just finished our final round of the season, the “Tip N’ Tuck” at Alpena Golf Club, the same course where Erik and I learned the game from our dads nearly 40 years ago.

We had played with Todd, an accountant, and Matt, a lawyer here in town. On paper, we were by far the best team in the field. But as they say, that's why they play the game.

None of us played particularly well. Good shots were few and far between, we couldn't make a putt, and we finished third.

It didn't matter.

We had a great time. We hugged, knowing that for the next six months or so, we wouldn't see much, if any, of each other. Another northern Michigan golf season had come to an end, and a long winter was ahead.

By the time you read this, most of the elections will have been decided. Social media will be a hellscape of fighting, finger-pointing, and people telling each other why they're wrong.

And I can't help but think about the people I spent my summer playing golf with.

Five years ago, I returned to my hometown of Alpena to take care of my dad, who had dementia. Not long after I moved back, Todd, a family friend, invited me to join their regular Wednesday night game at River's Edge, the former country club.

I knew most of the guys in the game, but hadn't seen many of them in years.

There was Doc, the local eye doctor; D-Bone, who worked maintenance at the airport; “Butts,” a used car salesman; and Gilmet, a retired concrete salesman who also happens to be the last man on earth you'd want to get into a bar fight with.

There was Matt, the lawyer, and Easton, a very good player with a fiery temper who was just a few years removed from high school.

On a typical Wednesday, we'd have as many as 20 guys.

We each threw $20 into the pot. Ten bucks went toward the team game and the other ten toward individual skins. It wasn't a lot of money, but you'd never know it by how hard we competed for it.

After the round, we'd sit at the long tables that line the expansive upstairs of what used to be a bustling country club. We'd throw our $20 bills onto the table, guys would make their own change, and every week at least one person would forget to throw theirs in.

Somehow, the pot always ended up right.

Most guys would have a beer or two, while others would polish off an old fashioned. The money would get divided up, and we'd laugh about the round.

Rarely did anyone have their phone out, unless it was to show off a buck they'd spotted on their trail camera ahead of deer season, or a fish they'd caught during the Brown Trout Festival.

The reception wasn't that great anyway.

The first year I joined the game, I asked if there was Wi-Fi. Nobody knew the answer. Nobody had ever bothered to check or ask. It was refreshing.

That first year, the game became a much-needed escape from watching my dad slowly disappear into the darkness of dementia. We shared memories of him, including the one club championship he won and his legendary penny-pinching.

For a few hours every Wednesday, I could forget about what was happening at home and just enjoy being around people who knew my dad long before he got sick.

And every year, around the first of May, the group message labeled “Wednesday Group” appears on my phone. We'll start guessing when River's Edge will open, bitch about how they always wait too long, and organize our first Wednesday once the course finally opens.

And every Tuesday for the next six months or so, Todd will send a group text asking who's playing the next day.

The “in” and “out” replies come quickly. Todd organizes the groups, and around 2:30 on Wednesday afternoon, we all start showing up at the course.

Todd tells us who we're playing with. He often puts himself with Butts in the last group, mostly because Butts is ALWAYS late.

And for that, he gets endless shit.

We laugh. A lot.

But we also talk about local politics. We complain about the lack of a citywide goose hunt (“Their shit is everywhere!”), and discussions about the school board can lead to some spirited, but welcome, debate.

And we even talk about suicide.

After we lost Grayson Murray, I wrote about the time I attempted to take my own life.

That following Wednesday, I was a little apprehensive about going to the club. It was something I hadn't really shared with the group, and I wondered if anyone would say anything. And if they did, what would they say?

Remember Gilmet? The guy I said was the last person on earth you'd want to get into a bar fight with?

He approached me that day. He told me about a dark time in his own life and how much he appreciated the article.

Of all the messages I received after publishing that story, his was one of the most meaningful.

I've been part of the Wednesday game for five years now. And every year, when the season ends, I'm a little sadder to see it go. And every spring, when that group text finally appears, I'm a little more excited to have it back.

As I was raking the yard today (a minor miracle in northern Michigan on November 3), I found myself thinking not only about how important this group has become to me, but why.

I don't know how everyone in the group votes. But I also know it doesn't matter. We might disagree about what's happening locally or nationally, but despite our differences, we're friends.

And that gives me hope.

We have wildly different jobs, educational backgrounds, and political beliefs. Yet every Wednesday, we come together to laugh, drink, debate, and play golf.

I don't know when we started believing that disagreeing with someone meant we couldn't like them anymore. But I know that for a few hours every week, on a little golf course in northern Michigan, we prove that isn't true.