Patrick Koenig
On Tuesday in Charlotte, Max Homma recalled what golf used to be like.
“As a kid, I loved golf because it was a way to hang out with my friends and try to make an eagle or a bird and then wig for a few weeks,” he said. “Now we’ve done so much in the game that, unfortunately, the cool 7-iron doesn’t make me as happy as it used to – and that’s sad.”
This was just an excerpt from a lengthy reflection from Homa — the defending champion at this week’s Wells Fargo tournament — about his complicated relationship with golf. It was a largely positive evaluation. He said he wouldn’t trade his job for anything in the world. But that one piece hit like a knee leg:
Sadly, my fancy 7-iron doesn’t make me as happy as it used to
woof. Simple and devastating.
Consider the miracle of golf. It is truly a miracle of flying. For Homma, hitting an Iron 7 amazing meant looking at a small ball on the ground and then, after taking into account the effects of wind, incline, spin, temperature, turf, and adrenaline, sending it in the direction of the target more than 500 feet away. , where he settles down a step or two away. It is the mastery of skill and the application of advanced physics. Accomplishing this feat just once seems magical.
But being a professional golfer means doing it over and over again, gradually turning the miracle into the mundane, and stacking high 7-irons like a professional bowler stacks putts. Marking a great 7 iron, like knocking down all 10 nails, still brings some cheerful. But it also sets an impossible standard. In the end you feel numb to the achievement. You will be more disappointed if you fail to achieve this than you will feel joy if you do. This is golf at its finest.
Homma wasn’t suggesting that being a professional golfer was a fun experience. I certainly am not. As it turns out, playing a match against talented pros in front of millions of adoring fans is…fun. In addition, golf is not just a 7-iron competition. This would make golf more like bowling and, at its worst, golf He is Like bowling. But golf is often not at its worst, as the course, weather, changing distances, and adventure through the outside world provide a series of engaging and ever-evolving challenges.
At the Homa level, the central challenge becomes optimization. Get progressively better each training day and bear the fruits of that labor come tournament time. A flush-seven iron on its own might not bring much joy, but a flush-seven iron with a chance of winning a Presidents’ Cup match, a PGA Tour event or maybe, next month, a major tournament in his hometown? There is still a lot of joy. In golf, joy and motivation change over time.
I know I have.
Just 24 hours ago Huma took to the mic, and I hit the first tee at Wine Valley Golf Club chasing what’s left of a discarded dream.
Here I was, in a town deep in eastern Washington called Walla Walla, because I was one of 10,187 golfers who signed up to try and qualify for this year’s US Open. It’s a pretty simple process: You play 18 holes at one of 109 local qualifying sites. If you finish roughly in the top five percent in your site (in Wine Valley, five out of 95 players lead), you advance to the final heat, which consists of another 36 holes in a different location. If you succeed in that? You are engaged to the National Championship, the strongest and most democratic golfer.
I still remember my first US Open qualifier. It was May of 2015, and I, a new mini-touring pro, taught at the Country Club of Troy in upstate New York. I chased down the No. 18 to finish T3 and managed to overtake it with a putt. I wilted on the next leg, but I was struck by the intoxicating realization that the Grand Championship was just one good day of golf. I vowed to put myself in that position again.
I’ve written before about my experiences in professional golf and the (minor) successes and (big, overwhelming) failures that came with it. I’ve even written about two US Open bids in the following years, including a particularly exciting trip to Palmer, Alaska, the world’s smallest qualifier. But I haven’t been able to pass the local qualifiers since that first attempt.
The days of full time golf are fading away by the day. It’s all good. I still play and enjoy a lot more than most people, but my golf schedule is not a training regimen. My most regular game comes every two weeks at a par-28 9-hole just down the street from my Seattle apartment, where bets are 50 cents per point or, on the big days, a hot dog and a pint of Reuben.
But like a runner who runs a half marathon, the US Open offers an excuse to tune in. I’ve snuck in a few extra sessions the previous weeks. I made time for a full practice round at Wine Valley (a gorgeous golf course, by the way, that turns rolling farmland into an epic golf course). And I tried to go in with realistic expectations, hoping that would set me free. I felt a little wobbly when I stared at my Titleist 4 on the first shot of the day, but I took some time to enjoy feeling that pressure, too. The fact that I made contact was the first win; The fact that my nervous driver found the left edge of the lane was the second.
The most tangible reason I never did it as a pro was because I wasn’t good enough with my irons. I simply can’t hit iron from mid to long with fair enough. erecting a wedge? certainly. eight iron? yeah ok. But anything beyond 175 yards was uncertain at best. So when I measured 189 yards in a heavy wind to a backpin in No. 1, I felt a familiar anxiety.
I turned to my caddy, a certified novice: my wife, Emily, who was debuting a caddy. She’s not a golfer but has become something of a golf fan in the past few years – either via osmosis or Stockholm Syndrome – so she’s watched enough conversations between players on TV to settle on caddy strategy. Her approach was largely positive reinforcement. I’d pick a club and he suggested a line, and she’d wholeheartedly agree. So when I picked a 4-iron and pointed to the left edge of my back vault, I nodded in agreement. I think this is perfect.
I focused on the swing I thought I’d settled into the range (loose, long, then Role) and I felt a pleasant nothing on impact which means I have erased it. The ball slowly jumped into the wind, high enough to calm its flight. I had paid it but barely. It fell from the sky long ago and to the right of the hole, leaving 10 feet for the bird. Deeply satisfied, Emily gave an excited fist and took to the green with excitement in my step.
The moment felt important. Like most golfers who give up playing competitively—be it after high school, college, or beyond—I remember needing some time away from golf. After I stopped playing it took a few months before I could enjoy casual touring again. The harsh truth was that I was nowhere near as good as I wanted to be, and yet it was as good as I would have been. never He is. It was hard to come to terms with him. Maybe still. But now, six years later, my expectations have returned to the point where I felt four glowing irons truly good.
It may very well be, because a dangerous delusional thought soon followed:
I will play in the US Open.
The euphoria did not last. I missed the birdie’s low blow and left. At No. 2, I scored my first three shots of the day. ghost. Then I hit two holes again, this time thanks to the missing two-and-a-half footer, a reminder of the whole struggle that comes with hitting really important short putts. Another ghost. Now you’re two shots on the wrong side of the par. My pent-up fear—that I was suddenly developing libido and shooting, like, 92—bubbles closer to the surface.
But I hit long, gentle iron routes on par-4 5th and par-3 6th, and scored back-to-back pars. And the 625-yard 7 was playing straight downwind, so I hit the driver and then ripped the 3 wood towards the green. As I rounded the corner to discover I only had eight feet left for the eagle, the same sense of satisfaction returned. The dream was alive!
It’s a four hour trip From Walla Walla to Seattle, and about 23 minutes longer with a stop at Chipotle.
It meant plenty of time to reflect on my failure as Emily and I sailed home through the farmland of central Washington. My first instinct was a mixture of shame and frustration. It was one thing to miss qualifying, but shooting a 77? To finish 10 shots behind the medalist in just 18 holes? That was a real insult. I suddenly felt so silly and self-important that I had devoted so much effort to pursuing something that I was clearly unable to achieve. You must never do that againI believed.
But I eventually pulled myself out of the way and admitted how many things I enjoyed that day. Yes, I missed putting the eagle at No. 7, settling on birdie tap, and I would have given him that shot again with a bogey at No. 8. No, I hadn’t gotten any closer after that. But gradually, my embarrassment eased.
I’ve already gone through the negatives: two horrific shots in the basement. Two costly shots to the tee. And a total of abominable 38 strikes. But now I acknowledge the good thing, too: I hit 14 of 18 greens in regulation on a long, hard golf course, returning appearance after appearance—even though I missed them all. All to the last one, ie: I felt some pride in a great game of up and down jumpers on the 15th, my only hit of the day.
It wasn’t until the next day that I got Huma’s help contextualising my mixed feelings.
“In sports, it’s not up to the fans, it’s not up to the media, it’s not up to anyone else but me if I fail,” he said.
Was the day a failure? I wasn’t even close to qualifying. Hell, I finished six shots out of my connie alternative. By that measure, you would have definitely failed. But with no fans or media to care about, I had to decide how I would stand out today. So here’s where I settled: I didn’t make it to qualifying to win the US Open. I signed up to see a new part of the world and put a golf course on my bucket list. I signed up because I write a lot about competitive golf, and it helps to remember what competitive golf feels like on the inside. I signed up to play some golf with Emily (who ended up loving the experience, immune to the drudgery of a five-and-a-half-hour round). I signed up because I miss the competition. I signed up to see how you stack up.
It’s all in the ultimate game of golf. Even for those who have seen the top of the mountain recently, like Tony Finno.
“We know that sports are about winning, but you either win or you learn,” he said on Tuesday.
Let’s go with that. I definitely didn’t win. But there is a lot to learn. You may never get as good as the first 7-iron in your life, but there is some honor in chasing the next anyway.
The author (cautiously) welcomes your feedback at dylan_dethier@golf.com.