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Golf Is Dumb

Golf. The supposed gentleman’s game. The sport that somehow has managed to balance both prestige and parody at the exact same time. A game where you spend five hours of your precious life chasing a dimpled little ball across hundreds of manicured acres, armed with a bag full of overpriced sticks designed for every conceivable occasion—except the one where you actually hit the ball straight.

From the outside, it borders on the absurd. Imagine explaining golf to someone who has never seen it before. “Yes, so the goal is to put this tiny white ball into that tiny hole about 400 yards away, but you’re not allowed to throw it, or kick it, or even run it over with your cart. You must carefully select one of your many polished clubs, swing at it with mathematical precision, and hope the gods of wind, slope, grass length, humidity, and your own fragile psyche are merciful.” Even as you explain it, the ridiculousness sets in.

Then there’s the setting. Vast, sprawling fields of green, sculpted to an almost religious level of perfection. Grass that is watered, trimmed, and pampered more than most royal gardens. Entire economies of water, labor, and machinery are devoted to creating a stage for people to whack a ball, slowly walk after it, and then do it all over again—hundreds of times. In an age where every drop of water feels precious, there’s something particularly unhinged about acres of grass existing solely for our recreational suffering.

And the rituals—oh, the rituals. Golf is not content with being just a sport; it must be wrapped in ceremony. Polos tucked in just so, hats with logos embroidered in fonts that scream “country club exclusivity,” shoes with spikes designed to grip the earth like a mountaineer clinging to Everest. Then, on the tee box, the elaborate pre-shot routine begins: waggle the club three times, step back, breathe deeply, stare down the target like you’re preparing to deliver a soliloquy in a Shakespearean tragedy, and then finally, maybe, hit the ball. Which inevitably slices into the trees. And so the ritual resets. Again. And again.

The cost only adds to the comedy. A bag of clubs: thousands of dollars. Balls that seem to be magnetically drawn to lakes: dozens of dollars a box. Greens fees, memberships, carts, caddies, lessons, gloves, hats, rangefinders—it all adds up. People willingly pour money into a sport that rewards them mostly with humiliation and sunburn. It’s like paying premium prices for a theme park where the main attraction is you getting repeatedly slapped in the face.

Time, too, is swallowed whole. Five hours for a round, not including the drive there, the obligatory 19th hole beer, and the long post-mortem discussions about what went wrong. That’s an entire Saturday, gone. A day that could have been spent doing literally anything else—building something, traveling somewhere, being with family, or, heaven forbid, relaxing. Instead, it is devoted to trudging down fairways, lining up putts with the seriousness of a nuclear physicist, and inventing new curse words for sand traps.

And yet, despite all of this, despite the absurdity, the waste, the frustration, the pomp, and the spectacle, people love it. They crave it. They return to it like moths to a flame, fully aware of the pain it inflicts. Why? Because buried somewhere between the shanks, the whiffs, and the duffs, there is that one miraculous shot. That single swing where the ball takes flight exactly how you imagined it, soaring in a perfect arc, landing softly on the green as though you actually knew what you were doing. It is intoxicating. It is delusion wrapped in joy. And it’s enough to keep you coming back, begging for more punishment.

Golf is dumb because it is the very definition of masochism disguised as recreation. It asks you to sacrifice your money, your time, and your sanity, and in return it offers you the occasional fleeting moment of bliss, immediately followed by crushing disappointment. And yet, we love it. Or we hate it. Or, most likely, we hate how much we love it.

So whether you’re like me—willingly subjecting yourself to the madness of this idiotic sport—or you are merely the friend, spouse, or hostage of someone infected by this bizarre condition, there is one thing we can ALL AGREE ON:

GOLF IS DUMB.

And in case that wasn’t clear enough…

All work and no golf makes Jack a dull boy.
All work and no golf makes Jack a dull boy.
All work and no golf makes Jack a dull boy.
All work and no golf makes Jack a dull boy.
All work and no golf makes Jack a dull boy.
All work and no golf makes Jack a dull boy.
All work and no golf makes Jack a dull boy.
All work and no golf makes Jack a dull boy.
All work and no golf makes Jack a dull boy.
All work and no golf makes Jack a dull boy.
All work and no golf makes Jack a dull boy.
All work and no golf makes Jack a dull boy.