Wrap Up: Rating the Courses I Played & Some Final Recommendations

Wrap Up: Rating the Courses I Played & Some Final Recommendations

Overall, my trip to Southwest Ireland was a magical experience. Not only were the people every bit as friendly as I had heard, but the weather was unexpectedly pleasant. My playing partners at Dooks even took a picture of me without a jacket and raingear on because it actually got that warm during our round. “You can prove to your friends you played golf in Ireland in mid-October with no rain gear!” they joked. The following are my summary rankings of the courses I played, as well as some tips if you decide to plan your own Ireland golf adventure.

Best Greens:

Really, this could be a three way tie between Balllybunion, Dooks and Spanish Point, but if I have to split hairs, here is how I would rank the five courses I played.

1.       Ballybunion Old

2.       Tie: Spanish Point & Dooks

3.       Lahinch Old

4.       Doonbeg

Fastest Greens:

1.       Lahinch Old

2.       Three-way tie: Dooks, Ballybunion and Spanish Point

3.       Doonbeg

Friendliest Club:

I should preface this with the disclaimer that ALL the courses I played were very friendly, so it’s tough to make any real distinctions here. Points were deducted from Lahinch because their caddies were the only ones who made sucking sounds when we missed any putts they deemed makeable.

1.       Dooks

2.       Ballybunion Old

3.       Spanish Point

4.    Doonbeg

5.       Lahinch Old

Best Post-Round Meal: Fish Chowder and Soda Bread at Dooks

Friendliest Starter: PJ at Ballybunion

Coolest Pin Flags: Lahinch’s “back of the green” blue flags (sadly, they were out of stock of flags in their gift shop!)

Best Caddy:

Tie: Mike at Doonbeg and William at Ballybunion (though William was technically not my caddy!) Thanks to Mike for searching for balls for me around the course as we played to ensure I’d have enough extras for the duration of my trip. William was friendly, patient, did not give unwanted course instruction, and created an atmosphere for us to play our best.

My “must-have” list of things to pack:

·         eBags TLS Weekender Backpack (www.ebags.com). The undisputed MVP of my trip. I fit four days of clothes and a laptop in this suitcase disguised as a backpack. Awesome, good-looking, and carry-on friendly!

·         Under Armour “Cold Gear” long-sleeved mock turtle neck. The perfect under garment for cool to chilly weather. Just throw on any of your favorite golf shirts over it, and you’ve got a week of warm weather outfit made simple and easy. No need to excessively layer up.

·         TWO pairs of golf shoes. Thanks to Tom Coyne for the tip. No blame to my Addidas, they did their job just fine, but water is sure to get to your socks, which spreads down into your foot-bed, making your perfectly water-proof shoes damp. Enter my FootJoy Icons! Bring two pairs of shoes. You’ll be glad of it.

·         Knit hat. Forget those floppy ran hats, and don’t sacrifice a nice umbrella to the Wind Gods (it was funny how many broken umbrellas I saw abandoned in trash cans around the coursesI played). Just wear a good wool knit hat and you’ll be fine. Or, do what the caddies do and wear a knit hat over your favorite golf hat—combine the benefits of a visor paired with the warmth of a knit cap!

·         Sunice windproof/waterproof jacket. I bought one of the new windproof/waterproof jackets that is made of a soft, porous material on the outside (polyester) but waterproofed and tape sealed on the inside. It was like wearing a bullet proof vest against the elements, and the soft outer fabric made it a much better choice for a jacket I could wear off the course, versus older-style crinkly nylon rain gear.

·         Balls! Pack a lot of balls. Golf balls are very expensive in Europe. There are some courses (Doonbeg, for example) where a shot 5 yards off the fairway is irretrievable due to tall grass, electrical fences (save the snails!), etc. Bring two sleeves per round and you should have no worries.

 

Have fun!

 

Day 4: Lahinch Old

I arrived at Lahinch Old a bit sore from the past three days of my golf marathon. The day was sunny and clear, although I knew full well that was subject to change on a moment’s notice. As I checked in at the front office, the starter came in and offered for me to join a threesome that was already on the first tee. “It’s a group of Americans,” he said, thinking that would be appealing to me. “That could be a good or a bad thing,” I only half joked. I was nervous about breaking my streak of consistently wonderful caddies and playing partners that I’d had thus far on my trip. Joining a threesome of Americans seemed like a risk. Coming from the New York area, my experience has been that joining a threesome of strangers on a heavily played muni is a 50/50 gamble of either playing with enjoyable, friendly partners or getting stuck with loud-mouthed boors with a penchant for public urination and ashing cigars on the greens.

“We’ve got a fourth who’s going to join you,” the starter called to the already assembled group. “Well we’re going to have to reshoot the group photo then,” one of the group cordially called back, handing his iPhone back to the caddy to re-shoot the group photo they had just taken. From that simple and unhesitating gesture, I knew I was going to like these guys. My playing partners for the day were two investment bankers from New Jersey in their late 50s, Thornton and Craig, and a young designer from a Los Angeles-area architectural firm, who looked to be in his early 30s, named Brian. The bankers were members of New Jersey’s exclusive and renowned Baltusrol, and they wore their logoed rain gear proudly. Brian looked like a very athletic guy who walked on the course in his street clothes.

Knowing this course was ripe with blind shots and trick holes (such as a par three that required a tee shot aimed at a white rock on top of a dune, to a blind green), I took a caddy. My tee shot was acceptable—a low line drive that got me out there just off the left side of the fairway in low, light rough. I quickly realized my streak of great caddies was going to come to an end. My caddy was still 100 yards behind me as I stood at my ball, wanting to hit up, as I was the away man in the foursome. As he fussed with the pull-cart he had strapped my bag to (yes, a caddy using a pull cart), I thought about the money I could have saved carrying my own bag. Surely I could have overheard any essential tips from the two other caddies in our group. I got on the green in three, and was pleased to find myself playing every bit at the level of my playing partners. But the mood started to turn for me when I pushed a yippy putt about three feet past the hole and six inches right, from only about four feet away to begin with.

One or more of the caddies made a concerned sucking sound when this happened, which annoyed me. Additionally, it was the single worst putt I’d made all week. If I couldn’t rely on my putting, I knew it was going to be a very long day. The round continued, and I really enjoyed the company of my playing partners. Thornton was a hardened, serious guy, who’d survived a career at the highest levels of investment banking and had the reserved cool of a killer. He also happened to be a laser-accurate driver of the ball, taking a slow, even-tempoed swing that found himself dead straight and 240 yards out on almost every hole. Craig was a more jovial character who personally knew the president of Hartford’s Trinity College, my alma mater. Craig chatted with me about his family, raising kids, golfing in other parts of the world (apparently, the Scots were not nearly as friendly as the Irish), and the joys of dogs versus cats. Brian was the most athletic of our group and played extremely good golf. His power, however, often put him on top of the dunes, and to the extreme left and right of the fairway, so we didn’t see as much of each other through the round as did Craig and I, for instance.

As the round progressed, I realized I was done. Physically and mentally, I was shot. I couldn’t put the ball in the air, I didn’t trust my swing, and worst of all, I could not, for the life of me, get the speed of the greens, knocking putt after putt either well short or miles past the hole. To make matters worse, my caddy felt he could help by giving me swing advice on the course in the form of perhaps the biggest swing myth in the game. “Keep your head down,” he’d say, just before I took a swing. I knew full well the position of my head had nothing to do with my swing problems on this day. The icing on the cake was when I sank my one Stricker-style bomb of the day, a right-to-left curling 20 footer that came late in the round. "I knew that was in the second you hit it," my caddy said, proud of his read. I'm glad one of us knew it. I was as mystified by that putt as the others that I missed so badly after a week of otherwise solid putting.

On the 12^th hole, we encountered what I felt was a travesty for a course of the stature of Lahinch—a temporary green. Really? I didn’t travel 3000 miles to one of the top courses in the world to be playing bocce on a temporary green.

In the end, my assessment of Lahinch was entirely in line with what the members of Ballybunion had told me two days earlier—it just doesn’t hold a candle to Ballybunion. In fairness, I played awfully. But Lahinch was just not fun, nor was it a particularly inspiring course design. Ballybunion was extreme and wild, but within it was a proper golf course. Lahinch felt almost gimmicky at times—more like an obstacle course than playing a golf course. The greens were very fast, but in a hard, dormant way that made it tough to ever dial in the speed. And it seemed like every hole required some precise, acrobatic, and often up-hill tee shot of at least 220 yards, or else disaster. Add to this that I flew 3-4 greens with my best iron shots of the day thanks to poor club recommendations on the part of my caddie, and I was ready to get the round over with and hit the bar.

After the round, our foursome headed to the bar where we enjoyed pints of Guinness, courtesy of Thornton, and exchanged email addresses so we could share our photos of the day. Brian and I stayed behind and grabbed dinner at the bar, and chatted until close with some locals, who were eager to talk about the recent Ryder Cup, the New England Patriots, and the upcoming US Presidential election. I very cautiously ribbed them about the fact that a Brit (Ian Poulter) had won the Ryder Cup for them, a fact they begrudgingly accepted. Peter, a skinny Irish chap with a goatee, was visiting from Boston, where he had moved 10 years earlier. He was in town visiting family, and claimed to be an ex-member and caddy at Lahinch. Brian drunkenly swooned about his love for Tom Brady. “I told my wife, if I ever leave her, it will be for Tom Brady,” he said proudly. “Because he’s handsome, he’s got great hair, and he’s got dimples.” His burley friend in a Patriots jersey immediately chimed in. “…and he’s got a great right hand!” We all laughed. Like sticking with the same slot machine long enough for it to pay out, Brian and I witnessed some of the most hilarious Irish bar banter of the entire trip, thanks to Peter and his pals. It made the day at Lahinch a memorable one.

 

 

Day 3: Dooks

After a good night’s rest and a change of pace of scrambled eggs and smoked salmon for breakfast at Tralee’s very nice, very affordable (40 Euros/night in mid-October) Denton B&B, I set forth for my fourth round of golf in three days. Today’s course was Dooks, a lesser known links course that I had read about in Dan Coyne’s A Course Called Ireland and had recently seen on Golf Digest’s debut list of “Most Fun” courses to play.

Dooks is a different kind of links course from the epic dunes of Ballybunion. While Ballybunion was a full-throttle, turbo-injected look at just what nature can serve up in the way of natural topography and blow-your-head-off wow-factor, I knew Dooks was going to be different the minute I turned onto the secluded, narrow, and winding road that leads to its entry gate. I had a 9:30 a.m. tee time, which I’ve realized in mid-October is more akin to 6 a.m. in the states. The sun had come up not long before and mine was one of only a few cars in the “car-park,” as they say. A doughy young lad in the pro shop signed me in and kindly informed me that I had paid too much on Golfnow.com, and that they were now on their winter rate. He adjusted the rate accordingly. This was yet another display of the Irish hospitality to which I was quickly becoming accustomed.

He sent me on my way to the first tee, and as I started up the gravel path up a hill to the tee box, I was struck with how quiet and peaceful this course was. It felt empty. As I looked down the first fairway, I just thought… cool. Gone were the dunes of the previous two days, replaced with more modest rough and a shrubbery called Gorse, a thorny bush that devours balls. There is no retrieving a ball from Gorse. Not without blood loss, I’d suspect. All of the drama of Ballybunion was replaced with the Zen-like calm of a course set on a backdrop of mountains. In the distance I saw an undulating green (with more movement in in that typical of any of my previous stops) with run-offs on all sides. A constant white noise was audible in the background, not unlike a distant highway. In fact, as I would realize as got to a higher elevation on the course, it was the waves of the Atlantic Ocean, breaking perhaps only a half a mile away. Dooks is set on Dingle Bay, which appears to be sort of an inlet of the Atlantic. So it’s truly a waterside course, but set on a different type of water, so to speak.

I was following a twosome that was playing at the breakneck pace for which Irish golfers are known. Granted, I was taking a lot of photos along the way, but I could barely keep up with them. They were my guides around the course. Dooks is generally easy to navigate on one’s own, but I was not sure where to aim my tee shot on hole #3, and I wasn’t going to fall for the trap of simply following the alignment of the tee box markers, so this twosome proved invaluable to me, preventing me from any early-morning mis-cues.

I caught up with the twosome on hole #4, a beautiful par 3 on the water that was only about 150 yards long, but mostly carry over rolling shrubbery and low dunes, to an undulating green. The twosome asked me if I wanted to “play through with them,” which in US vernacular is a pretty confusing proposition. So I just joined them. Eoin and Thomas (pronounced like“No mas”) were in their 30s on holiday from Limerick with their wives. Their wives were sisters, who were enjoying a day at the spa in return for granting approval of this golf trip the gents were on. Eoin had been married just three weeks earlier. Thomas was married six years, and now had a nine month old baby that his wife was watching back at their hotel. Eoin and Thomas were playing match play and having a lot of fun trash talking with each other.

Dooks tested my short game more than any course I’d played on the trip thus far. While the focus of Doonbeg and Ballybunion was to overcome the will of nature just to get the ball in the proximity of the green, at Dooks the course was less severe from tee to green, but in some ways, more interesting (or at least, more fun) once you got there. Many of the greens at Dooks run off on one or more sides, and putting with my 3 hybrid from well off the green quickly became a “go-to” shot. A bit sore, and with my full swing failing me a bit, I had to get up and down from all over the place to save pars and, more often, bogeys at Dooks. The highlight of my day was holing a putt from 15 feet off the elevated green of #10 with my hybrid to save par. Another great aspect of Dooks, which I found common at the links courses I played in Ireland was that tee boxes were very rarely immediately viewable from the preceding green. At Dooks, there was always a small walk required to get to the next tee, which gave us a real sense of privacy and isolation on each hole, while at higher elevations, one could see over much of the course, which by our back nine had grown quite busy.

I finished my round at Dooks with a string of hard-earned bogeys, which I felt good about, considering how tired my arms now had become. I met up with Eoin and Thomas in the bar and we ordered lunch. My “starter” of seafood chowder with a bit of dill on top was so rich and meaty, I could barely finish it, let alone confront the grilled cheese I had coming next. The bartender was a spritely and quick-witted fellow, and regaled us with stories of past visitors, and his own travels to the US. He told us about a rather snooty British fellow how complained to him how awful the roads in Ireland were. “Well, the British built them,” the bartender quipped. About his travels to the US, where his sister loaned him her Buick to drive into Manhattan, he told us of his terror of driving on the “wrong side of the road” in such a big car, with New York City taxi drivers speeding around him like sharks. “Oh, the adjectives!” he exclaimed. “Things you wouldn’t say to a dog,” he laughed, referring to the abuse he endured at the hands (or mouths) of New York’s cab drivers.

Despite my protesting, Eoin insisted on paying for my lunch and they were on their way. The bartender asked me if I’d like to shower in the member’s locker room (in Ireland, they’re much more welcoming to outsiders than at private clubs in the US) and handed me a towel from a door behind the bar. After showering and collecting my things, I returned to the pro shop where I bought a couple souvenir poker chips bearing Dooks’ unmistakable toad logo (Tom Coyne’s appraisal of this being the best club logo in Ireland was right on) and I was on my way. Dooks was easily the friendliest club I visited during my stay. And make no mistake, I encountered no unfriendly, or even remotely unfriendly clubs on my trip.

On my way back up to county Clare, I took a detour to Killarney to buy Irish sweaters to bring home. I drove past Killarney Golf and Fishing Club, which looked lovely, but being a parkland course, did not interest me enough to lure me through the gates. After some sweater shopping and a quick stroll through Killarney, I retreated quickly from what was clearly a high-tourist area, complete with groups of seniors being led around on horse-drawn carriages.

Having not realized quite how far out of my way the detour was to Killarney, I didn’t get back to by B&B in Spanish Point until it was nearly dark. I arrived back at the Berry Lodge to find I was literally the only guest of the lodge that night. To an American, it felt like something plucked from an Eli Roth horror movie. A lone American tourist, staying in an upstairs room of a desolate farm house, set a quarter-mile off the main road. As it turned out, I would be joined by a young couple returning from a wedding at about 4:30 in the morning, which was a comfort by breakfast time the next day when we met up. Sunday would be my last day of golf in Ireland. And it was sure to be memorable, if I could just have a bit of consistency with my full swing. I would have to get the ball in the air. For Lahinch Old was known for its blind shots, mountainous dunes, and even a hole that required a “crossing guard” of sorts at the top of a hill signaling parties when it was clear to swing. Wish me luck!

 

Day 2: Ballybunion

Day 2: Ballybunion

On Day 2, I woke up after a solid 12 hours of sleep, fully clothed, and feeling much more like myself. Rita (the proprieter of the Berry Lodge B&B) and I had agreed that I’d have my breakfast at 8:15 a.m., so I showered, got changed, and hung out in the sun room, which was now freezing cold, so I could connect to wifi. Almost 30 minutes passed, and breakfast was now late, so I knocked on what appeared to be the kitchen door and found Rita inside. Apparently, she’d been knocking on my bedroom door, thinking I was still asleep. Now I was running late for the most elusive tee time on my whole trip. I returned to the “sun room,” collected my electronics, and took a seat in the dining room, which was now the “warm room” in the house. The couple from the night before was now seated and eating breakfast. They had “relationship our parents don’t approve of” written all over them. She was from Switzerland and he was from Germany. They looked like they met in a hostel somewhere and decided to flee to Ireland together before all that organ harvesting stuff that goes on at hostels got to them.

After a lengthy discussion with a not-concerned-enough-about-how-late-I-was Rita, and a wonderful full Irish breakfast, wolfed down at record speed, I headed out in the direction of the Shannon Ferry. With images of the Long Island to mid-town Ferry (or any other Ferry just about in the US), I was nervous about getting there early enough. I was also skeptical that Rita thought I could get to Ballybunion “close” to my 10:30 a.m. tee time if I took the later, 10 a.m. ferry. Once I arrived there, I was reminded that I was in Ireland, and that New York is an exceptionally populous place. There was one lonely car waiting in the “queue” and I pulled in behind him. The only other sign of life at the dock was a rather brash crow who went “door to door” sort of begging for scraps, loudly cawing at each car hopefully. All he needed to complete the look was a “will work for food” sign around him. From the look of him, he was successful at his trade.

Upon getting to the other side of the inlet in just 20 minutes, I was disheartened to see that I had a 27 minute drive ahead of me to get to Ballybunion Golf Course. In New York, and most other big golf markets in the US, this kind of lateness would get you berated, belittled and shunned from the course. I stomped on the gas of my Nissan Micra, feeling far more alert and in command behind the wheel than the day before, and did my best to shave some minutes off the Sat Nav’s grave prediction. I arrived at Ballybunion Golf Course to the site of a large (10 or more people) group of members in matching maroon sweaters preparing to tee off at the first tee. I dropped my bag at the bag drop, stuffed the Micra into a parking space and raced inside to the pro shop. I could barely talk when I got to the desk, and I was immediately redirected to see Nora out in the lobby. Nora was a life saver, and while she had surely heard every excuse in the book working at that desk, she knew an honest to goodness lunatic when she saw one, and she knew I wasn’t leaving there without playing the course. She asked me to go upstairs and get a coffee and she would see what she could do to squeeze me in after the maroon sweater club had gone off the first tee.

Up in the bar/restaurant, I was immediately knocked back by the views in front of me through the panoramic floor to ceiling windows. The dimension and pitching of this course was unlike anything I’d ever seen before. Not to mention that not 500 yards away was the Atlantic Ocean, crashing to shore along the course. After a coffee and hastily consumed scone (a rather dry scone that looked as though I had pounded it with a gavel rather than having eaten it), I could be patient no longer. I returned downstairs to the lobby and inquired with Nora, who had already hatched a plan to get me a tee time. Sure enough, by noon, I was at the starter’s booth waiting to tee off at what was the most visually striking golf course I had ever seen. I was paired with an older gentleman named Mr. Werner. I vas sure he vas German by his accent, but actually he was from Switzerland. Werner was a 22 handicap who played many of the best courses around the world, all while his loyal and no-doubt patient wife waited for him back at the hotel. Werner had hired a caddy—something I had decided against to preserve my Euros. Rather than try to sell me on a caddy, PJ, the starter, had very honestly told me he thought I’d be fine without one. As it turned out, I would have been fine with no help on the course, but William, (Werner's caddy) made the experience many times better than it would have been. And in truth, there were a few tee box inquiries of “ok, where am I supposed to hit the ball?”

My tee shot sliced right, as my first ball at Doonbeg had. I think the wind coming off the ocean helped it, but a slice is a rarity for me (my miss being left) so it was a bummer to slice my tee shot two days in a row. Fortunately I managed to clear the famed graveyard, avoiding a lost ball, and salvaging what was a respectable first shot of the day. And so the round had begun. The sun was out (for the time being), my bag felt light on my back, and it was already a great day. There were too many awe-inspiring sights (a particular type of bird that hovered motionlessly in the air just above us, riding upward air streams along the cliffs), sounds (the surf crashing on the beach below us on what seemed like countless cliff-hanging coastal holes) and memories (my first experience playing in full raingear in a downpour, only to be followed by rainbows afterward) of the round to name them all. Of note, William had some great one-liners and kept both Werner and I in great spirits whenever we faltered. I putted well all day, and at one point, after rolling a 15-footer on the perfect line only for it to stop short about a foot from the hole, William declared “that one was all line and no Tiger, eh?” It was a priceless and clever rib, and one that I’d never heard before—a souvenir from Ballybunion.

Following the round, I tipped William 10 Euros and offered to buy him lunch. I had the best fish and chips of my life and shared golf and music industry stories back and forth with William. He informed me that he was possibly going to be coming to the states to caddy at Pine Valley and that he would connect with me if he could get me on. Here’s to hoping the Irish hospitality indeed stretches to the exclusive private courses of the United States!

After our late lunch, I hit the road, headed for Tralee, where I would stay the night at the Denton Lodge B&B on the eve of my round at Dooks the next day. I was relieved to find roads of American width on my drive south to Tralee, which made for a leisurely and less mentally challenging journey. Denton was not listed in my GPS, nor did their website provide an actual street address. So after getting lost, and calling home to Ginny for some “GinnyStar” roadside assistance, I found my way and pulled of a surprisingly busy road and into the parking lot of the Denton Lodge. Tralee was the largest town (dare I say, it might technically be a city) I would encounter on this trip. Again, though, I was spent. I got settled into my quarters, organized my belongings, wrote this post, and went to bed.

Tomorrow…Dooks.

 

(Pictured below: Panoramic shot of Ballybunion , "a real man's Par 3" -- the 15th at 206 yards into a stiff wind, and a view from the first tee, and me on one of the many water view holes)

 

From the Rough's Ryder Cup Picks

Today is the day when Davis Love III picks his four Captain's Picks for the 2012 US Ryder Cup team. At 10:15 a.m., fortunes will be made, hearts will be broken, and the world will never be the same. Well, not really. But wouldn't that last line have sounded great read by that movie trailer voiceover guy? I digress. Before the cat's out of the bag (and in the hope that I can acquire some "premonitive punditry street cred" in these early outings on my blog, here are my picks for the Ryder Cup Captain's Picks.

1. Steve Stricker -- The veteran. THE partner for Tiger. Typically an unGodly putter, even though he's been a bit flat this year. Hey, between him and Tiger, I'm sure they'll drop a few. Oh snap! (Huge fan of both of them, actually).

2. Dustin Johnson -- Has anyone noticed that the formerly flakey DJ is playing his ass off lately? Dustin's length off the tee is going to be a huge asset (is that redundant use of the word "ass"?) at Medinah, and his short game has been downright impressive lately. Look for DJ to take someone apart in match play this year, perhaps to the world's surprise.

3. Brandt Snedeker -- Not the longest guy off the tee, but at #1 on the tour for strokes gained this season, Sneds is a putting machine. Match play is won with putting. If he and Stricker get hot, fuggettaboutit.

4. Jim Furyk -- Furyk's experience will not be lost on Davis Love III, despite that he's had a disappointing season, overall. Furyk also brings to the US side what Graeme McDowell offers to the Europeans--acccuracy off the tee. At #5 on the tour for driving accuracy this season, Furyk brings a lot more than just experience, morale and Five Hour Energy to the team.

Let's hear what you think after the picks are announced!

Rory holds on to win the Deutsche Bank Birdie-Fest, er, Championship

Ireland's Rory McIlroy overcame a three stroke deficit going into the final round of the Deutsche Bank Championship, and managed to hold on through a photo finish against Louis Oosthuizen this afternoon at TPC Boston. I'm glad to see these boys could cope with this brutal setup and eek out modest performances of -20 and -19, respectively. Seriously, though...-20?

Last week at the Barclays, I overheard Ian Poulter complaining about how ridiculously unreceptive the greens were at Bethpage Black on Saturday. I can't post exactly what he said here without using a lot of this stuff... %$#@ ... but his general point was that the pros play four majors a year, in which the expectation is that they're going to get the crap beat out of them for the jollies of golf fans everywhere--the rest of the season, they should be allowed to play the game the way it's meant to be played. He might have had a point. So what do you think? Should these courses be set up to let the guys put on a show, or should the courses be toughened so that the pros get beat up like the rest of us do on a typical Sunday?

Welcome to From the Rough

Welcome to From the Rough! Like a lot of you, I'm a mid/high-handicapper (a 19 as of today) who got the golf bug BAD a few years back. I did not grow up playing golf. Actually, I was and am a musician (now in the business side of music) and I played guitar semi-professionally for many years before work obligations and, well, life took me "off the road" for good. Having grown up in a musical home, by the time I was in college at Trinity College in Hartford, CT, I was the guitar equivalent of a single-digit handicap, I suppose. Thus far, I've had a harder time getting my handicap down than I did playing music, but I'm still a maniac for the game and play all the time, wherever I can.

I wanted to start this blog for beginning through advanced-intermediate golfers who love the game to hang out and talk about golf gear, great golf courses, travel and, of course, the PGA tour. So welcome, come on in, and let's get started. Fore!