I was not a country club kid. My father didn't play golf; in fact, no one in my family played golf. It was a rich people's sport and that we were surely not. But my best friend learned to play (he had a rich uncle) and once we had our driver's licenses we'd work all day and then play par-3 courses till they closed. I became obsessed, and remain so to this day.
But I was not a country club kid.
Tom Coyne was a country club kid. His father played, and so did young Tom. He worked, but as a caddy at his father's club. So he learned proper technique, actual golf etiquette. In short, he learned where to change his shoes.
See, at fancy golf clubs you may not change into your golf shoes in the parking lot. I did not know this, even a few years ago when I joined a golf club, one that was obviously non-exclusive. I mean, they allowed me in. So I did what I always had done and changed into my golf shoes in the parking lot. The club sent out a blast email eventually reminding all golfers that it was Club policy not to change into golf shoes in the parking lot. I think this is a stupid rule. In lieu of getting a locker (they would like me to change clothes inside too, even though I pretty much leave the house already dressed to play golf) they would have me carry my golf shoes inside in order to put them on. I asked a nice member why they would have such a rule and he said, "Because we don't want to be like some public course," meaning, "Because we don't want to be like them." But, see, I am one of them. So I continue to violate this proscription, despite occasional admonishments. I always think they must be kidding. But they're dead serious.
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Tom Coyne eventually went to college, and a really good one. He played on the golf team there. He became a professional writer, and a good one. He wrote articles for GOLF Magazine, Golfweek, and Sports Illustrated. Now he's a podcast host for something called Golfer's Journal. He has written four books, one a novel about Golf. The other three are books about golf courses in different countries: Scotland, Ireland and (this one) America. This takes a lot of research. For this book, he played, in one year, 295 courses (301 rounds of golf), playing in every state of the Union. He credits his wife for her understanding. His daughters, too. He is already planning his golfing sojourns for next year, with golfing buddies, several in the United States and Ireland, surely.
This book was highly entertaining, the writing fine. I was amazed at the number of exclusive clubs he was able to schmooze his way onto. He played some Munis (public courses) too. A lot of the courses he was able to get to via invitations from his followers on Facebook. In all the rounds, at all those courses, he says, he only met one asshole, a man who over lunch told some gay joke and a story insensitive to African-Americans.
Coyne meant this, in part, to be an exploration of America, not just Golf. And it was useful to that point. Still, it was America in a bubble, a Golf bubble.
One thing Coyne is very careful to tell, at whatever course, is where he changed into his golf shoes. Apparently it's a thing.
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Have you noticed that children who did not grow up on country clubs can get prickly about those that did?
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The highest praise I think one can give about an author, having read one of his books is that you want to read more by the same author. Which I will do with Tom Coyne.
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Far be it of me to be a member of the Woke Police. I can't even begin to tell the number the times things have come out of my mouth which I wish I could reel back in. That I think I have been nevertheless well-intentioned is no defense, though it might mitigate the sentence. I'm still learning.
Tom Coyne, too, is well-intentioned; I do not doubt that. But sometimes we do not hear what we speak.
Coyne made sure to make it to a traditionally African-American golf course and to a course on an Indian reservation as well. It is well that he did and it may be unfair of me to feel that a little clumsy. And he says all the right things. Still . . .
Coyne is playing Bethpage Black, a notoriously difficult New York course, one with warning signs at the first hole that only good golfers should try it. Coyne's round took six hours. Let me explain to non-golfers that the worst thing about golf is a slow round. Three hours is ideal, four is acceptable. Anything beyond that is torture. (It's one of the reasons golfers will join a Club, where the pace of play tends to be more brisk). And when you like to play quick and there are slow golfers in front of you, you can tend to be judgmental, and not your better self. You might even tend to stereotype by race, ethnicity or gender. So, at Bethpage, Tom Coyne says this:
We were stuck behind a foursome of Asian gentlemen who were well out of position with the foursome ahead. . . . They were playing the tips and wearing long pants and rain layers in 90-degree heat, and took desperate amounts of time over each chop in the rough. They pushed heavy tote bags, and my suspicion was confirmed when we found one dropped on a cart path: iron covers.
Pushing past the thought that the use of the word "gentlemen" is condescending, think only if Coyne might have regretted adding the foursome's race if, hypothetically, he inserted instead African-American, Jewish, or Women.
In another instance, Coyne appears at a golf course as a single and after carefully changing his shoes inside the locker room approaches the starter who tells him he will be joined by a couple of newlyweds. Unbeknownst to Coyne and the starter, the newlyweds switched with another twosome. So, as Coyne's on the first tee, a cart with two women shows up. It proves a comical moment when Coyne congratulates them on their recent same-sex marriage. Amy and Darlene are just two golfing buddies. But as they pull up, Coyne thinks this:
I thought to myself; we really had moved into the twenty-first century across America. I was eager to show off my progressive East Coast bona fides, chumming it up with my lesbian buddies and telling them about my gay friends back home.
Wince.
I was reminded of the time I got paired to play with two White golfers at my club, guys I was not at all happy to be playing with (they talked too much, especially in my backswing). An African-American member joined us. I didn't know him but he proved to be a fine golfer and good company. But on the first tee, after introductions, the one White golfer began a story about having played with a Black golfer once upon a time. Not to be outdone, the other White golfer told a story, an invented one I'm sure, about playing with a Black golfer, but he told it in dialect. The nearest sand trap was 240 yards away but I wished it had been closer, so I could dig a hole in it and hide.