It’s rare that golf surprises me anymore. I’ve had 17 years in the game – junior golf followed by competing in high school, college and now professionally. Although it may take some unexpected turns, the gist of the sport remains the same: hit ball, find ball, repeat.
A few weeks ago, in the rural farmlands of eastern Australia, my narrow viewpoint of what to expect on a golf course was shattered. I accepted an invite to play in the World Sand Greens Championship, a WPGA-sanctioned event in partnership with Golf NSW. With world ranking points up for grabs and a purse of more than $100,000, the offer was too good to pass up. How different could it be? Surely the term “sand greens” is just a nickname, right?
I made my way to a small town called Binalong (a place only about 50 percent of Australians recognised when I mentioned it), several hours south of Sydney. Binalong’s population is made up of mostly farmers, and the harshly arid climate makes water a scarce and valuable resource. As a result, golf has evolved in the New South Wales countryside. Native, low-maintenance grass fields act as fairways, tees are often range mats and the “greens” hardly live up to the name.
Upon arriving in Binalong, I went straight to the course for a practice round. I was guided by tournament signs framing a double-wide clubhouse, then snagged a spot in the gravel carpark leading to the first hole. My eyes immediately caught a glimpse of something to the right of the clubhouse and did a double take. I’d found my first sand green, only this one was… pink? I marched over to investigate. Indeed, the putting surface was a light, white sand scattered atop a smooth, rock-hard flattened base. The sand seemed to be mixed with a thickening agent (which I learned later was oil) and a pink dye. I noticed a heavy metal rake nearby, and a flagstick was fastened in a metal cup exactly in the centre of the “green”.
I couldn’t wait to get started. I grabbed my clubs and made my way to the first tee, only a few paces away from whatever green (sorry, pink?) I’d just found. Armed with an e-mail from the tour that included proper raking practices and a rules sheet, I set out to play my practice round.
Much like the putting surfaces themselves, my first few holes did not go smoothly. On the first hole, I hit a monster drive that seemed to roll 100 yards after landing. Left with only 40 yards in, I reached for my trusty lob wedge and rehearsed the 35-yard pitch I’ve grooved for many years. I clipped the shot perfectly and looked up – only to watch my ball land on the green, bounce 10 feet into the air and careen over the fence behind the green: out-of-bounds. It sounded more like a ball hitting a cartpath than any “green” I’d experienced before.
Through 12 more holes, I started to adjust. I met the superintendent around my halfway mark and learned to land the ball 30-plus yards short in order to hold the greens. I measured the “scrapes” (as the regulars call the greens) at about seven to 10 yards, end to end, and the pins don’t change through the week for obvious reasons. With 13 holes under my belt and the pro-am round the next day, I went home thoroughly confused but relatively satisfied with my game plan.
Game day arrived, and after a solid range session on the nearby field, it was time to tee off. My mind was firmly set on my goal of making the 36-hole cut. Round one was tumultuous to say the least; a missed green from 50 yards on the first hole resulted in a bogey start. On the fourth hole, I hit my drive down the left side of the fairway and walked confidently to where it came to rest. To my dismay, it was gone! After calling the nearby rules official, I learned that the resident crows enjoyed collecting the shiny round balls, and they didn’t care that it was World Championship week. Without any visual certainty that a crow had stolen my ball, my only option was to re-tee. Double-bogey. An uneventful back nine meant signing for a seven-over 77. Not ideal.
The next day, a spectator on the eighth hole saw my ball getting snatched by a crow, saving me a penalty stroke. I finished a two-over 72 in much tougher conditions, a vast improvement from the day before. I hurried over to the leaderboard to check the cutline, and was thrilled to see I’d comfortably advanced through. Now, no matter how I played, I could count on a pay cheque.
The final round was another 72 after a birdie-birdie start. The three crows attempting sabotage in this round were foiled by additional spotters placed around the course, and while I’d like to say I got the hang of sand greens, the winner finished at a whopping 11-under for the 54 holes. Min A. Yoon, you’re a legend in my eyes!
There were many moments I wanted to quit during this tournament. I couldn’t believe that this was the same sport I’ve been playing nearly my whole life. Looking back, weeks like this are more a test of the mental game than my physical game, and I’m proud that I kept fighting. Sand scrapes taught me perseverance and patience in a whole new way, and I plan to take those experiences into my future tournaments… hopefully minus the crows.