Like most fathers I know – I spent part of the weekend watching the US Open on the boob tube this weekend, and in between potato chip runs and getting a fresh Miller lite, I realized something.
Golf commercials are complete and utter bullshit!!!!
Not the golf itself. Those guys are freaks of nature. They hit drives 430 yards, debate spin rates on wedges I’ve never even seen in a pro shop and can land a golf ball on a six-inch patch of grass from distances where I’m just hoping to locate mine before sunset.
No, the lie is everything surrounding the game.
Every commercial shows golf the same way.
One guy walking alone down a pristine fairway. Maybe two buddies sharing a meaningful conversation. Nobody in front of them. Nobody behind them. Birds chirping. Sunshine breaking through the clouds. A touching voiceover about fathers, friendship, legacy, or finding yourself.
Meanwhile, the actual golf experience looks more like a Black Friday sale with free 65 inch TVs
The parking lot is full.
(Was your tee time 8:03 or 8:06?)
The first tee resembles a classic car show – People parked, talking about engines (This little baby can do 0 to 6 in 300 yards – as long as it’s not uphill and my playing partner is under 125lbs)
There are fourteen groups waiting before anyone has even hit a ball.
And somehow Thaddeus the Marshal is already warning everyone about pace of play.
“Let’s keep it moving, gentlemen.”
Brother, I haven’t teed off yet.
I’m seventh in line.
The group ahead of me is still introducing themselves.
Speaking of which, heaven forbid you show up with less than a foursome.
You and your son wanted a quiet round together?
Cute.
Meet Gary.
Gary is now part of your family.
Gary has opinions about politics, putting grips, and the proper way to cook brisket. You will learn all of them by Hole 3 because the golf course simply could not survive financially if there was an empty seat in a cart somewhere.
The industry keeps celebrating “the growth of the game.”
And that’s great.
More people playing golf is good.
But can we stop pretending the experience is getting better?
Tee times used to have breathing room.
Now they’re scheduled so tightly I think courses are launching groups every three minutes.
The fairways are packed.
The greens are so bumpy you’re basically putting across a parking lot that somebody spray-painted green.
The turn takes thirty-seven minutes because somehow nobody anticipated that dozens of golfers might want a hot dog and a hooligan special around noon on a Saturday.
This isn’t a surprise, folks.
It’s a golf course.
People eat hot dogs.
Prepare accordingly.
Yet every commercial continues selling this vision of golf as peaceful solitude.
Nobody waits.
Nobody searches for a ball.
Nobody gets paired with strangers.
Nobody stands on a tee box for ten minutes watching the traffic jam ahead clear.
It’s golf as imagined by someone who has only experienced it through drone footage.
The funny thing is, I’ve lived the commercial.
Once.
Northern Michigan.
October.
Forty degrees.
Stocking cap.
Gloves.
Questionable circulation.
Maybe twelve golfers on the entire property.
My buddy and I played in near silence, walking fairways covered in fall colors, drinking Irish coffee and taking our time.
It was glorious.
It was also cold enough to qualify as a mild survival exercise.
That’s the only time I’ve ever experienced the golf shown in golf commercials.
Every other round has involved waiting.
Waiting to tee off.
Waiting in the fairway.
Waiting on the green.
Waiting at the turn.
Waiting for the group ahead to finish waiting.
And that’s really my point.
The golf industry keeps talking about growth, handicaps, participation, and attracting new players.
But maybe the conversation should be about experience.
How do we make the game more fun?
More affordable?
Less crowded?
Less obsessed with a rulebook that occasionally reads like it was written by Victorian lawyers trapped in a sand trap?
Because if we’re being honest, the biggest gap in golf isn’t between the pros and the amateurs.
It’s between the golf shown on television and the golf the rest of us actually play.
Now if you’ll excuse me, I need to book a tee time three weeks in advance so I can spend four and a half hours waiting for people to hit into the woods.
Even so—
Life’s still great with an 8 (Now GET OFF MY LAWN!!)