Golf gave the world a gracious word: Mulligan. Like a lot of good stories, there are several versions of how the word came to be. Golf historians still debate the true origin. My favorite traces back to a golfer named David Mulligan in Montreal during the 1920’s. The story goes that after hitting a poor drive, he simply teed up another ball and hit again. When questioned by his playing partners, he called it a “correction shot.” Before long, his friends started calling it a Mulligan. There are other stories and other claimants, but that’s my favorite version. Maybe because the idea is so simple. We all understand the need for a correction shot.
Real golf doesn’t officially allow Mulligans. The rule book is clear about that. But in the friendly Saturday morning golf most of us play, Mulligans seem to appear quite often, especially off the first tee. “Go ahead, hit another one.” Two off the first tee have probably saved more friendships and pride than any rule in sports. Maybe that’s why the word connects with people so deeply. Most of us know life keeps an official scoreboard, but we still appreciate the grace of people who occasionally hand us another ball and say, “Try that one again.”
“Most of us know life keeps an official scoreboard, but we still appreciate the grace of people who occasionally hand us another ball and say, ‘Try that one again.’”
Athletes understand that feeling immediately. As an athlete and later as a coach, there are plays and games you never completely get over. The public forgets them. Newspapers yellow and disappear. Trophies gather dust. Seasons stack on top of seasons. But somewhere deep inside, there is still a play, a decision, or a moment quietly waiting for another chance.
The first time I realized the lifetime Mulligan wasn’t just my issue, it came through a conversation with Jason Brown. Jason was serving as our youth director at the time, and we were talking about a player who made a mistake in a football game the previous Friday night. One play. One moment. The kind of play teenagers replay in their minds all weekend long. Jason was disappointed for the young man. Then Jason shared one of his own athletic memories. What struck me was who was telling the story. Jason is a member of the Wylie ISD Athletic Hall of Honor and former D1 baseball player for Dallas Baptist University. His athletic story turned out well. Very well. Yet without hesitation, he talked about the play. The one he still wished he could have back. That conversation stayed with me because it revealed something true about competitors. No matter how successful our story becomes, we still want the Mulligan.
I have several. One of them still lives on a cold Saturday morning in Levelland, Texas, during a ninth-grade B team football game. Coach James Gee Morris called an end reverse near the goal line. I can still hear his instructions clearly all these years later. “Keep it wide.” Very simple. Very clear. I took the handoff heading toward the corner cone and saw the defender coming fast. In that split second, I decided I probably couldn’t beat him to the edge, so I planted my foot and cut inside. That wasn’t the assignment. The play got blown up exactly the way Coach Morris probably knew it would. Funny thing is, nobody else likely remembers that play. The crowd went home. The film, if any, disappeared decades ago. The scoreboard is even long gone. But somewhere inside me, that reverse is still running on a loop across a cold field in Levelland.
That’s how Mulligan’s work. The moments don’t have to happen on grand stages to stay with us. Sometimes the plays we replay the longest happen in almost empty stadiums with small crowds and no headlines at all. Maybe because deep down we know the moment wasn’t really about football. It was about trust. A coach gave instructions. A player thought he saw a better way. Experience turned out to be wiser than instinct. There’s a little bit of Levelland in every leadership decision I’ve made since then.
Then there is Austin. One of my larger Mulligans goes back to the Regional Quarterfinals in 1994 against Waco University at Austin Bowie High School Gym. If you coach long enough, you remember the places as much as the plays. Certain gyms never leave you. That night, Erik Halgunseth made one of his patented drives to the basket at what we thought was the buzzer. The place erupted. We thought we had survived and advanced. Then came the discussion at the scorer’s table. One second remained. Back then there wasn’t instant replay. Nobody knew if it was 1.9 seconds or 0.1. You just knew there was still time.
What people forget is how hard our kids fought to even get there. Ben Schooley came off the bench and played the best second half of his life. Two huge three-pointers and a steal. The kind of performance coaches never forget because it comes from heart and readiness. Then came the final decision. Waco University had a future Baylor quarterback throwing the ball inbounds, so we switched to man defense. Even now, I can still hear voices from the stands. “Now he switches to man.” Funny how crowds become coaching experts in moments like that. The pass traveled the length of the court. Their big man caught it, and in Christian Lattner as fashion turned, and shot it. And it went in. Just like that, the season was over.
For years I have replayed the moment. What if we had stayed in zone? What if we defended the inbound differently? What if? Players replay execution. Coaches replay decisions. The older I get, the more grace I try to extend to players, coaches, officials, parents, and even myself. Everybody is carrying a play they wish they could replay. Everybody has a Friday night, a missed assignment, a poor decision, or words they wish they could take back. We all have a Bowie Gym somewhere. We all have a Levelland somewhere.
Life rarely gives official Mulligans. But people sometimes do. And maybe grace does too. Maybe grace is God’s reminder that our worst moments don’t have to become our permanent identity. Maybe wisdom is learning from the swing without allowing it to define the entire round. If life handed me unlimited Mulligans, I honestly wouldn’t want them. Unlimited do-overs would cheapen responsibility. The missed shots and hard lessons shape us too much.
But every now and then, I’d still like one. Just one quiet walk back to that sideline in Austin in 1994. Or one more crack at an end reverse in Levelland. Same gym. Same field. Same pressure.
Mulligan.
Coach Stan Leech has shared his voice with readers before in We Do What We Want and Walk Up Music. For more from this issue, read Jonathan R. Mallard’s Grounded in What Matters.
