For some players collecting golf clubs, memorabilia or even memberships is not what makes them tick. Their raison d’etre is getting to play the world’s greatest courses. Ticking off the Top 100 is what gives them a buzz.
Each year, various publications produce their lists of the top 100 courses with multiple sub-lists by country, state and course type. M any a golfer makes playing all these courses their life’s mission, and what a mission it is.
Since the list is ever changing, many pick a certain year and go with that list as their goal. Others strive only to play all the courses that,for example, have hosted the British Open, a goal that is eminently do-able since there are only nine on the present roster and public access to all is possible. Thus, making that goal is a good short-term mission. In fact, playing the Top 100 in the UK is a far easier task than in the US because all but a tiny few welcome visitors whereas in the States most clubs are private.
In the USA, playing the top 100 is indeed a worthy life-long mission. While a few fall easily in your home state or at places like Pebble where the only barrier is a steep green fee, the mission gets increasingly difficult as you start to target the hallowed grounds of Pine Valley, Cypress Point and Augusta. Still, if it were easy, it would take the fun out of it!
Many aficionados and collectors look for charity tournaments, outings and special one-time raffles for charitable purposes to gain entry to some clubs. LinkedIn must be worked, corporate suppliers must be chosen carefully and events must be entered to expand your network of potential sponsors.
One must also be prepared to host others first and being a member of a high-quality course will, of course, be a big help. Because I was a member of such a club, I was able to cross off the number-one course early in my quest.
It doesn’t get any better than this!
I don’t know if you remember the old beer commercials where a group of young guys after a long day hiking in the mountains are sitting down enjoying the amazing vistas and a cold beer. One of them remarks, “It just doesn’t get any better than this.” Suddenly the Swedish bikini team parachute in. Well, that happened to me.
It all started when a guy I once played golf with called me late one night to ask if I could get him and six of his friends a game at Black Diamond Ranch, where I lived at the time. I set it up with a couple of my friends and a few weeks later we had a great playing both courses. One of the group just happened to be a member at the legendary Pine Valley Golf Club, which is consistently ranked the number one course in the world. He left with an invitation to play there the following June not realizing that I had fantasized about playing there since lying in bed with the flu aged 13 when my father brought home the World Atlas of Golf.
In June when I pulled through the well-hidden gates of Pine Valley, I started to get that tingly feeling. You know what I mean, the one that the players talk about when driving down Magnolia Drive at Augusta. Or the one that anyone can experience walking over the Swilken Bridge on the 18th hole at St. Andrews. I was dropped off at the dormitory and whisked off deep in the woods to what must surely be one of the world’s largest practice areas, complete with Titleist practice balls. After 45 minutes of beating balls, I returned just in time to meet my host and his friends, whereupon we changed for dinner.
Dinner was no less spectacular than the course. I had some of the finest lamb I have ever tasted accompanied by a Greg Norman Merlot.
The day began early as players started to hit the showers at around 6.30. By seven it was off to the range followed by a quick breakfast and introduction to our caddies, all of whom were characters in their own right. Mine was an ex-professional soccer player, ex-golf pro, had a PhD and was traveling the country writing a book on ‘The American Caddie’.
At 7.50 precisely, I stood ready to hit my opening tee shot – a daunting task. While the fairways are generous, missing them is deadly. In f act, in five rounds I never made even a single par from a drive that did not find the short grass. You think you might make one by accident but, such is penalty for poor play on this George Crump/H.S. Colt layout, I didn’t. A little less than four hours later, I had accomplished my personal goal: I had broken 80 with an almost solid 78.
Sunday was another scorcher but we decided to play all the way from the tips. I bogeyed 18 for a 79, meeting another goal of breaking 80 in all five rounds. After a shower, everyone headed home. Since my flight was at 7pm and it was only 1pm, I had too much time to kill and so I got on my cell phone and started to try and get an earlier flight. None was available (are they ever?), so I decided to head to the airport and suffer a long wait. The caddie master summoned the club’s minibus and I was on my way. In the air-conditioned comfort of the bus, I got one last look at the course as we drove to the guest cottages to pick up three other passengers.
After a short wait, two guests and a member entered the bus. We exchanged the usual pleasantries and talked about how great the course was. One last look at the 18th as we drove out of the gates was captured for posterity on my new digital camera. What a great weekend!
Then, just when I thought it couldn’t get any better, it did! No, the Swedish bikini team did not miraculously appear on the bus. That stuff only happens on TV. This was better!
One of the three men on the bus had overheard me making my last-ditch effort on my cell phone to get a flight that didn’t get me in at midnight.
“Where are you heading?” he asked.
“Either Orlando or Tampa,” I replied since they are equidistant from my home.
“Just come with us then,” he said.
“I am sorry,” I said, unsure by what he meant.
“We have a Lear Jet and there is plenty of room. We are going to drop my son off in Tampa and then fly on to Fort Myers.”
“Okay, thanks,” I said nonchalantly with a warm smile as if people I have never met in my life frequently offer me thousand-mile rides in their private jets.
Checking bags took five minutes and getting airborne took at least another five. All the seats were window seats, there were bottles of Samuel Adams on ice in a cooler and I got to Tampa two full hours before my plane was even scheduled to depart Philadelphia. They had called ahead to book a town car for me.
One poignant note. All this happened just a few weeks before Payne Stewart died. My benefactor was the last person to rent that plane before its ill-fated flight. Yes, some days the gods do smile on us.
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