Don’t be a knob. A compendium of self-absorbed golfer behaviour.
[Illustrations by Kako]
Forgive the low language, but there’s really no other way to describe them. As golfers, you know one when you see one. Sometimes bigger but mostly small, these are the actions that reveal a crack where you can peek into a person’s true soul. They are committed by all genders, and if the cast of “Seinfeld” were all golfers, the following could inspire a full season of episodes. To protect the guilty as well as themselves, the members of our editorial staff have forgone bylines.
Misleading the wife
For the first decade of a marriage, a husband had his non-golf-playing wife convinced that golf was an eight-hour game, plus an hour or two here and there for drinks and social time with the fellas. Inevitably, the wife heard from a friend that her “Jim comes home after four hours” and confronted the husband. The deceitful d!#k didn’t miss a beat in his reply: “Right, Jim only plays half-rounds – ya know, 18 holes.”
Feeling a fool
It’s a dogleg-right par 4 to a blind green, driveable when the tees are up and the wind is at your back, as both happened to be on the day in question. The loudmouth of the club – the guy with the bright-orange sports car who gets a $200 haircut every three weeks – steps up and blasts a drive over the corner – not that he bothered to check if the green was clear of the two walking teenagers ahead. Loudmouth drives up and, lo and behold, finds his ball in the cup. News of the magnificent ace circulates like wildfire. A congratulatory e-mail is sent from the club manager to the membership. By the time Loudmouth stops holding court in the bar and the till closes for the night, the tab has eclipsed $6,000. Although too young to take part in the celebration, the teenagers sense the event’s escalating enormity. The next day, everyone at the club is still talking about it. Guilt sets in. One teenager tells his father that the ball had, in fact, kicked into the stream by the green – after nearly hitting them – and that he retrieved the ball and placed it in the cup. The father is not happy. After some pained consideration (though one wonders if not with a modicum of glee) the father phones Loudmouth with the truth and offers to split the bar tab, but the man is too broken to respond just yet.
Scent of a liar
An “unsanctioned” round is a round you don’t want anyone outside of your golf friends to know about. These are the rounds where a perfect shot on a par 3 heading towards the flag is met with, “Don’t go in!” Rounds during real work hours require sunscreen, showering with the same products as at home, work clothes put back on and laundry slid into the hamper over the weekend (laundered into the laundry, if you will), and all of this must be done with precision. One Friday afternoon, as I strolled in smelling vaguely of Lynx body wash and wearing the same clothes I wore when I left that morning, my wife asked, “How was work?” I confidently began my spiel; all the while my golf glove was dangling just so from the back pocket of my “casual Friday” khakis. She let me go on for a while before calling me out for being the horrible golf thief that I am.
Slow exit
We’re all for the post-round handshake or bro hug. Once done with that, though, get out of the way. Other people are ready to play to the green, and what they don’t need is you fumbling for your phone, keys and wallet, or putting away your tees, ball markers and balls, or wrestling your headcovers on like you’re battling a crocodile, followed by sitting in your cart recording the final tallies – all while situated just off the green. Rest assured, the people behind you are muttering under their breath what kind of golfer you are.
Pin-in guy
When you play tournament golf, you see everything: the slow player, the non-stop talker, the guy who can’t believe how bad he’s playing (“You should have seen me yesterday!”). A new variety that has been recently created is the pin-in guy. This is the guy who must have the pin in no matter what, resulting in the flagstick going in, out, in, out on every hole, even when the idea of making the cut is a distant memory. We’ll gladly grant exemptions to tour players who are playing for their living and history, but to all others, get over yourself.
Leaving guests dry
We had just finished a fantastic summer Friday afternoon round at a top private course. Our host and my two fellow guests had all played well, enjoying a close match that went all 18 holes. A 19th-hole drink would have been customary, though I have no issue when people must scoot for family, work or other obligations. Having just walked in 32-degree weather, my throat was parched, and I’ll admit I was as or more eager for the actual liquid refreshment than the social cheer of sitting with fine company. That’s when our host said, bags slung on our shoulders at the foot of the carpark, “Have a nice weekend, boys. I’m going to go practise my putting.” I hit terrible traffic going home, as the other guests would have, thirsty the whole way.
Loving a forfeit
A season-long matchplay tournament might be the most rigorous of any competition to win if only
because of the scheduling gymnastics: someone has to work, someone’s picking up his kid at camp, someone has been putting off her colonoscopy for months. In a singles tournament a few years ago, my friend had locked into an early Saturday-morning match against a high-handicap member he had never met. Texts were exchanged, and a tee-time was secured. The hard part was over. The night before, my mate had a date night with his wife and ordered a prawn dish that, well, if ever anyone wanted a mulligan. From his knees that night, a few belt loops tighter than he was at dinner, he at least had the forethought to text his opponent. “Food poisoning hit me hard. Can we reschedule?” The response was immediate: “Actually, I’ll take the forfeit.” Not, Sorry to hear it. Not, Make sure to hydrate. This was warfare, with pro-shop credit at stake. My friend slinked back into bed. He has refused to enter the same event since.
Spoiling an ace
I went on a first date at my local par-3 course years ago. We got to the first hole, and he said something about it being a serious match. I laughed, thinking it was a joke. We teed off and both hit the green. I two-putted, and he three-putted. I could sense some tension but thought nothing of it. Who wouldn’t be mad after a three-putt? His next tee shot was short, and mine looked like it hit the back of the green. I didn’t see my ball when I got to the green, so I assumed it rolled off the back. As I searched the rough, he called my name. With a stunned look on his face, he pointed to the hole. No way. I walked up to find my ball at the bottom of the cup. He didn’t congratulate me or even seem happy for me. I felt so awkward I didn’t even celebrate my first – and only – hole-in-one. He had a quiet intensity the rest of the round. After nine, he announced our scores – which I didn’t know he was keeping. I had won, and he was clearly unhappy. “Did you take it easy on him?” the ranger joked as he drove by. My date didn’t even give him a courtesy laugh. It goes without saying there was no second date.
Golf-hogging on a honeymoon
Yes, the honeymoon was in the relative vicinity of one of the great venues of golf-course architecture, soaring vistas stretching to the blue waters of the sea from every angle, holes naturally melting into the landscape in a cavalcade of colours not likely encountered in any national park, an afternoon ahead filled with glorious painted-on clouds and gentle breezes drifting into a Monet sketchbook sunset that would spark even the coldest heart to quote Jane Austen, let alone two lovers on a trip of a lifetime. “Ah, honey, you’d be bored just sitting in the cart with me,” he said as he shouldered his bag and closed the hotel suite’s door behind him.
Allowing a penalty
In the semi-finals of a prestigious four-ball tournament with a national field, three guys were in for par. As the fourth player lined up his 10-foot birdie putt, one of the opponents stood unusually close. The ball had barely left the putterface when the opponent sneered, “You forgot to move your coin back.” The putt went in.
Stressing your group
I’ve got two dear golf friends who always find themselves having to sprint like Usain Bolt to the first tee. It’s embarrassing. They are 30 years apart in age, so this isn’t a generational thing. Yes, things happen that have caused us all to make mad scrambles to the course, and, yes, these two almost always wind up making it “on time”, but it still puts the group in a tough spot. It’s rude to continually do that. There are enough first-tee jitters to deal with besides worrying if your fourth is going to even hit a ball. You get dirty looks from the next group. You wind up going back into the shop to pay for the person and get another dirty look in there. All the while your stress level rises when you should be having fun with your friends. “On time” for golf means arriving at the course at least 10 to 15 minutes before your tee-time, not 10 to 15 seconds.
The oblivious tourist
A colleague and I played Carnoustie and were paired with a father-son tandem from California that we didn’t know. We each had caddies – my colleague had a veteran, and mine was a guy in his late teens. The round was what you might hope for in Scotland – a mixture of sun, wind and rain, and an exhilarating walk around a legendary course – except the California tandem was what you would expect from “Angry Americans”. They complained the entire round about the changing weather, the reads their caddies made, the wind, the distances given – everything. When we finished, the veteran caddie waited until the California guys walked away grumbling, then asked us if we had time for a drink. We went across the street to the Carnoustie “clubhouse”, and as we entered, we saw the veteran caddie looking at us from over the bar in the form of an oil painting. Turns out he was the club captain and had been a rules official at the previous Masters. We drank many pints, heard many stories and laughed about what our California pair missed out on.
Mid-air confidence
Most of us tend to cheer for each other. “Nice shot,” or “Go!” or “Hang on!” and similar encouraging remarks are usually received welcomingly from the golfer striking the shot. Sometimes, though, you’ll hear a version of “Don’t talk to my ball,” and even the stern reinforcement, “Seriously, don’t talk to my ball.” Once upon a time on a golf course far, far away, a man flushed an iron shot. His playing companion urged this approach to “Be the right distance!” The reply was quick: “Don’t worry, it is.” No one was worried, mate, but karma is a you-know-what. The ball airmailed the green into the deep stuff. When you can’t even accept encouragement properly, that’s golf jackassery of a high order.
Winning the cheap way
During a club championship final at a private club, the match was about to end when the player on the losing side asked if his opponent’s ball was on the R&A/USGA Conforming List. The ball – a two-piece Surlyn-covered Wilson with a SpongeBob SquarePants logo that no one in a million years would use in a club championship but for the greatest of fathers honouring his young child’s love of a cartoon – was not. According to Wilson, the company viewed it as a novelty product that would never be used in competition. The opponent insisted on the DQ and was awarded the win, about as empty a club-championship victory as is possible. Although the DQ’d player was upset at Wilson for not listing the ball (which Wilson did thereafter), everyone who sees the paint on the board is reminded who the real loser was.
