After a modestly successful junior career on the links as a 0.8 handicap, Post reporter Brett Cyrgalis has attempted a comeback by competing with the best amateur golfers in the Metropolitan area. He chronicled his real-life underdog journey in this space on Sundays throughout the spring and summer.

IT’S UNDERSTAND ABLE why the phrase “risk/reward” has be come so closely associated with golf. It’s all directly in front of you: the risk of going for the green and dunking your ball in the water, or the reward of having a 15-footer for eagle. Golf invites you to try and hit that spectacular shot, and if you don’t succeed, there is no one to hold your hand.

That is, except yourself.

In a game played more on the six-inch terrain between your ears rather than any rolling countryside, it’s only natural that failure breeds contemplation. All it takes is one swing of the club – just one bad swing in a lifetime of good ones – to shake the very foundation of your game (see: Mickelson, Winged Foot).

So, as I’ve spent the last two-and-a-half months failing to make a cut at any local qualifying tournament – including Tuesday’s debacle, an 86 in the U.S. Amateur qualifier at Brookville C.C. – I find myself in a strange situation. I’ve taken a big risk by going out there every week and trying to put up decent scores. Yet, every time I have found myself crawling home, trying not to hang my head and telling myself it’s going to be all right.

It may seem as if the reward of this venture is still in the distance, taunting me about how far away I am. It may seem as if trophies and recognition and public support are the rewards for this game when played at its highest levels. It may seem as if the number written next to your name on the board behind the scorer’s table is your prize, your reason for risk.

It’s not.

The reason for risk on the golf course should have nothing to do with the reward. It all has to do with the experience of getting there.

Roy McAvoy (“Tin Cup”) understands this concept, making the most memorable 12 in the history of the (fictional) U.S. Open. And any person who has hit an approach shot dead pure, watching in bore through the wind and elements, over the water and over all hazards, only to find it buried in some bush behind the green, is capable of knowing that strange feeling of disappointing fulfillment. You took the risk, hit it as good as you can, and . . . well, that’s it. That’s your reward.

It’s hard to explain to someone (especially, say, someone who deals with monetary investments) but risk, in itself, is its own reward. In a world that’s so focused on immediate returns and substantial, tangible evidence of improvement, sometimes it’s the journey that really matters.

“I paid my way into enough things that I liked, so that I had a good time,” Ernest Hemingway once wrote. “Either you paid by learning about them, or by experience, or by taking chances. Enjoying living was learning to get your money’s worth and knowing that you had it.”

For all my money, I can say this risk was worth it.

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There are still some things in the mix for the dog days of August. Whether it’s going to be a self-contrived match play event or a small local tournament that pops up from off my radar, there are still good stories lying all over golf courses everywhere.

bcyrgalis@nypost.com