Green Valley is my local course. Closest one to my house, only a couple miles away. It’s not great and it’s not bad. It’s just a normal Florida public course. You can get out on the weekends for sixty bucks or less, which also means it’s usually busy as hell.
This is the kind of place where you’ll find every version of golfer. Snowman golfers like me. Hackers. Early-morning members who will absolutely call the clubhouse if you do anything they don’t like. It’s technically not even a muni. It’s a subdivision with a golf course running through it. But it’s public, and it counts.
On this particular day, I finish the front nine feeling pretty good. Nothing special, but solid. I shot a 49, which for me means I’m feeling confident enough to reward myself.
So obviously, it’s time for food and beer.
I grab a hot dog and a six pack of Coors Light as its on special. The kind they put in plastic bag of ice because they know you’re a hooligan and are going to drink them fast anyway. We head back toward the tenth tee, no rush, no stress. Just another Saturday at Green Valley.
There’s a group getting ready on ten. Totally fine. They were a pair or two behind us on the front. No issue there.
Then I notice one guy.
This dude looks incredible.
I mean that sincerely. Head to toe, he looks like he just stepped out of a golf catalog. Shirt and shorts in this deep, perfect shade of blue that probably has a name like “Midnight Indigo” or “Coastal Dusk.” A belt that looks custom. Socks that I am absolutely certain cost more than the Adidas shirt I’ve worn ten times and washed into a weird shade of green.
TaylorMade everything. Bag. Hat. Towel. Clubs. The whole setup. He looks self-sponsored.
I’m standing there in cargo shorts, a faded polo, holding a beer and a hot dog, and even I’m thinking, Well… this guy is about to put on a clinic.
Hole ten is a par four dogleg right with the fairway curving around a pond. If you are brave, you can absolutely get the green by hitting over the water. However, the real feature is the oddly placed maintenance shed sitting just to the right of the tee box. It’s close. Uncomfortably close. There are already a few dents in it from previous victims.
This guy steps up. Perfect posture. Smooth backswing.
Boom. Dead right. Straight into the shed.
Loud enough that everyone freezes for a second.
To be fair, he’s not the first person to hit the shed. But when you’re dressed like a touring professional, it hits a little different.
He tees up another ball.
It makes it about seventy-five yards out and splashes directly into the water.
No drama. No commentary. He just picks up his tee, gets into his cart, and drives away with his immaculate bag and his perfectly matched outfit.
And here’s the thing. I am not better than that guy.
I have absolutely hit shots that went five yards off the tee. I have walked forward to retrieve balls in shame. I have made every embarrassing mistake you can make on a golf course.
But standing there, holding my beer, wearing my cheap clothes, having spent maybe a tenth of what he had on his entire setup, it hit me.
We were going to shoot the same score.
Same bad shots. Same blow-up holes. Same hundred-ish round.
Golf doesn’t care how expensive your outfit is. It doesn’t care how curated your setup looks. It will humble you exactly the same way it humbles everyone else.
Sometimes with a hot dog and a beer in your hand.
Sometimes with a golf ball shaped hole in a shed.