I Played on the PGA Tour (kind of)
A dramatic feeling of accomplishment washes over me. Thousands of swing drills, litres of sweat on the gym floor and decades of anguish have culminated in this: I’m playing on the PGA Tour. Technically.
We’re here for a slightly different reason than I dreamt of as a 12 year old: to shoot Part One of a documentary about golf in Japan. Our efforts might not go down in golfing history, but this is still something, right Mum?
For as long as I can remember, I wanted to compete with the best in the world. I blame Tiger Woods for that. A burning gaze that would penetrate mountains, a recoil to summon tornadoes and a fist pump that would put Hercules in a daze. I would stare, wide eyed at the TV screen, as he relentlessly poured in putts at opportune moments and hoisted trophies above misty eyes.
What could be more impressive than conquering mind and body to emerge victorious in ancient championships? That's not rhetorical by the way, the answer is nothing. Anyone in pursuit of a different goal was a fool.
And so my formative years were shaped, their direction in no doubt. Heart and mind set on hunting down the big guns on Tour.
Things changed in the years that followed. Tiger’s halo toppled and with it my understanding of the cost of human achievement. Every heroic victory left behind it a trail of brutal sacrifices, in some cases gross misdemeanours, and in this case deep, irretrievable character flaws. Fronting up the fee for greatness suddenly seemed rife with costly tariffs: ones I was no longer willing to stomach.
And so I hung up the clubs, metaphorically at least, and joined the team at MANORS. 18 months later we’re heading to Japan to attend the ZOZO Championship and uncover the secrets of Japanese golf culture with the PGA Tour. Our first task: to shoot under par in a Texas Scramble format on the iconic final 3 holes at Narashino Country Club near Tokyo.
***
I’m nervous standing on the 16th tee. The rectangle of grass is so pristine it could be confused with astroturf. Box shaped tee markers hover on their metal spikes above the surface: conscious of disturbing the flawless ground. Grandstands loom over the green like they’re trying to spot their ball in the cup.
We hack a quartet of iron shots towards the pin and stumble to a par before rounding the grandstand to the 17th tee. Looking up from my scorecard, I notice the board on the far side of the tee reads 491 yards - Par 4. My heart sinks. It's flat calm this evening though, and the weight of heat still hangs in the air. I send one down the left side of the meandering fairway: a flick with a wedge is all that remains. Birdie secured, we press on to the par 5 finisher.
The sun is setting now, it's bursting through the foot of the pine trees that line the right hand side of the hole. Trunks cast long narrow shadows that run perpendicular to the fairway. Drives soar into the golden light above the parapet of pines and drift back down onto the dense cushion of grass. My 3 wood finds the green in 2 and we shave the lip for eagle. Perched alone in the grandstand behind the green, Creative Director Luke issues a solitary clap that echoes around the amphitheatre.
It wasn’t the PGA Tour debut that 12 year old me envisioned: gritty up and downs and long raking birdie putts to claim victory. It was better.
I’m further than ever from contending for world domination, but there’s a grin on my face that didn’t exist when I was trying to. A peaceful realisation that the last 2 hours couldn’t possibly have been more fulfilling.
Greatness is often measured in public accolades, winner’s cheques and earth shattering fist pumps, and rightly so. These are the blockbuster moments that inspire a generation.
But standing on the final green at Narashino felt a bit like greatness too. From the golf course I was standing on to the people I was playing with. It was an internal nod from a part of my brain that had clung so tightly to one definition of success. Turns out there’s more than one way to make a birdie.