Finding my Game

My golf game wasn’t in great shape when I went home for seven days this summer, but I shipped my clubs anyway. I did not need them for my first two destinations but wanted them for my third. I knew I would be playing a course where I had a history of finding my game when playing poorly, and where it was arguably first found.

Merchantville Country Club is an 1892 nine-hole course in New Jersey, outside of Philadelphia, that features eleven greens and twelve tee boxes. Three and twelve are par-3s that lay across each other and thirteen has a different green, but same fairway, as four. When looped, from the varying tee boxes, you get 18.

My dad has been a member since I was a kid, and I became a junior member when I turned 12. I won a few junior club championships and took lessons from the head pro. I cannot even guess how many times I have gone around this extremely walk-able course. And always with my dad.

The routing does a great job of providing club variety throughout the round. The fairway lines are tight, the rough thick, and the greens small and fast, though relatively flat save for the third, fifth and seventh. Because there is less ground to maintain, and therefore less water expended, the course generally plays in good to great condition when it is not covered in snow.

In an eight-month period leading up to this trip home, my index went up three points. I was struggling with my mental health and every bad shot and bad round affected me. I had to focus on focusing, which is never good. The worst part was how weak my putting had become. It almost felt like a yip, and for someone who considers themselves a good putter, this was terrifying.

My first round home involved an early wake-up after a space oddity the night before with my siblings. On the first tee, I questioned how in the world the club face was going to find the ball, let alone send it straight. I quickly ordered a breakfast ball.

The humidity was already worth complaining about in the first fairway, so we did. Neither of us got off to a great start, me missing a long par putt, but we were golfing together. Golf is the activity that I have shared with my father since I was seven. In the last nine months, for better and worse reasons, I have travelled home from Los Angeles three times and have played with him multiple times each trip. I think we both just assume the other wants to golf, so we do it.

After my double on two, the second, and last, par-5 on the course, we crossed the road to my favorite stretch. My mantra became, “just make a f*#%^$g par”. This worked on the third when, to my surprise, I rolled in a six-footer. Now the message became, “make another par”.

I think my love of short par 4s began at the fourth. Playing just under 300 yards from the men’s tee, there is no real advantage to hitting all the way up to the creek short of the green, as the player is left with an awkward yardage. I truly think this is one of the first holes where I began to understand strategy and the importance of hitting “high percentage shots” when available. I also have a vivid memory of a member telling me the green breaks one way even though it looks like the other. That knowledge has stayed with me over twenty years, and I did not need a read on my gimme par putt.

Five is the final hole before walking back across the road. This short par 4, playing just over 300 yards, can be reached with a very accurate, right to left drive. But again, it allows for anything off the tee. Feeling comfortable after two pars, I smothered a 3-wood left to where trees used to be. I then hit a solid wedge shot over the guarding bunker and made yet another par. I got away with one and knew it.

There was a game I always played on the 6th tee when I was a teenager. The hole marker is a marble slate three-feet off the ground at a 45-degree angle to the sky. The game involves throwing a golf ball and catching it before taking a step further back and doing it again until the ball is dropped. This round I made it all the way to the opposite end of the tee box and exclaimed to my (unimpressed) dad that I won.

Whether or not that game had any impact on the moment, I hit a good long iron just short of the green. I got up-and-down for another par. More than just my course knowledge was coming out of me during this round. Immeasurable joy was being had on the golf course, something I had been without for a few months.

Now I am thinking that I am on to something with four straight pars. It’s muggy out and I am exhausted, but I feel relaxed. My dad is playing ok and making a few pars of his own. The company is great as always and I am looking forward to my post-round nap. We are only playing nine. I had another party time to attend that night with my brother.

I have forever known the play on seven is to hit the same club as the previous hole, especially if that previous one was struck well. For me, this is always a club I know will never reach the right fairway bunker, and will leave me approximately 110-yards in. After a wedge shot to the middle of the green, I two-putted for another par.

I have such comfortability on these grounds. I know what to hit, where to land certain shots, and which way putts break. I have never been a great driver of the golf ball. Generally, my miss is high and right with the occasional smother-ball mixed in. Maybe that’s why I never play one and two well, even though they are par 5s. Or maybe my game is what it is now because Merchantville didn’t require me to be particularly long off the tee, instead demanding approach accuracy and a solid short game. That said, eight and nine have always fit my eye with driver for some reason.

On eight I uncorked one up the hill and was left with less than 100-yards on this 350-yard hole. With the pin deep, and knowledge that everything short runs out to the back, I landed my wedge barely on the green and watched it roll to within 10-feet. My putting wasn’t strong enough to hole that putt, or any birdie putt, but I left the eighth with my sixth straight par.

I ripped another tee ball on nine down the fairway to the upper tier. From here, I was slightly above the green and 150 yards out. I hit another solid approach that just covered the front bunker that left me with forty feet. I was getting hyped that I was about to finish with seven straight pars. I already had the “he’s back” text ready to send to my buddies. Then I left my birdie putt ten feet short, heard a groaned “go” from my dad, and then missed the par putt. That’s what happens when you think down your score before ever holding a pencil. Oh well, it felt like my game was returning.

I hugged my dad on the ninth green, thanking him for the round. And him thanking me. It’s something we’ve done since I moved out for college over fifteen years ago. Someone came up to us not too long ago, almost teary-eyed, saying how nice it was for him to witness that moment. There is no one on earth who I’ve played more golf with, and I love that stat.

I think being back at the course I grew up on calmed me and removed any pre-conceived expectations for my round. The humidity helped to keep my focus off my score and on just hitting the next shot. And playing with my first “golf buddy” on the course where it all started, I could not have been more comfortable. I came home hoping to find my brand of golf and did.