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The Sacred Institution of Golf Membership

There are many exclusive clubs in the world.

Private islands.

Luxury yacht clubs.

Secret societies.

And then there’s a golf club where Keith from Accounting has been wearing the same stained polo since the Howard Government.

Welcome to membership.

Membership is a beautiful arrangement where you pay thousands of dollars annually for the privilege of complaining about everything.

The greens are too slow.

The greens are too fast.

The greens are perfect, which is suspicious.

Every member is a qualified agronomist, meteorologist, financial analyst and golf professional, usually all before 8:30am.

Take old Barry for example.

Barry hasn’t hit a fairway since 2017 but somehow knows exactly how the course should be maintained.

“If they just listened to me…”

Barry says this while retrieving his ball from the ladies’ tee garden.

Again.

⸻

The clubhouse itself is a fascinating ecosystem.

You’ll find three distinct species.

The Early Bird

Arrives at 5:45am.

Acts as though they personally unlocked the gates.

Has already had two coffees and criticised six committee decisions before sunrise.

The Handicap Archaeologist

Still proudly discussing the round they played in 2009.

The score becomes lower every year.

By 2030 they’ll claim they shot 58 while carrying a broken leg and dragging a wheelie bin.

The Bar Professional

Hasn’t played in months.

Can analyse every player’s swing in forensic detail after seven beers.

Usually found explaining how they “used to really hit it.”

Nobody has evidence.

⸻

Then there are the competitions.

Nothing brings out the best in humanity quite like a $12 voucher.

Members will spend four hours behaving like civilised adults.

Then lose their minds over countback.

A grown man who remained calm during childbirth will become completely unhinged because Trevor beat him on the back nine.

Friendships have ended.

Marriages have been tested.

Committee meetings have required counselling.

All for a voucher that barely covers a sandwich and a Coke.

⸻

And let’s discuss pace of play.

Every member agrees slow play is ruining golf.

The problem is, nobody thinks they’re the slow player.

The bloke taking eight practice swings before chunking it thirty metres genuinely believes he’s maintaining excellent pace.

Meanwhile three groups have formed a small village behind him.

Children have grown into adults waiting on the tee.

Civilisations have risen and fallen.

Still he’s reading a putt from four different postal codes.

⸻

The greatest mystery in golf remains the dress code.

A member can arrive looking like they’ve survived a minor explosion.

Shirt untucked.

Belt missing.

Sunscreen applied with a garden rake.

But heaven help the visitor whose socks are two centimetres too short.

Apparently that’s where standards collapse.

Not the swearing.

Not the drunken cart driving.

Not Keith relieving himself behind the 13th tee because “nature called.”

No.

The ankle socks.

That’s the line.

⸻

And yet we keep coming back.

Because despite the nonsense, the politics, the committee dramas, the unsolicited swing advice and the occasional near-death experience involving a golf cart and too many beers…

There’s nowhere else quite like it.

Where else can a group of middle-aged adults spend five hours chasing a tiny white ball, ruining their weekends, abusing their equipment, questioning their life choices and still call it relaxation?

Membership isn’t rational.

It’s not economical.

It’s barely healthy.

But it is glorious.

See you next Saturday.

Bring your wallet.

nBarry wants to explain the greens again.

Until next time….

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