It’s just before noon on a Sunday in July. The breeze is hot and dry. The course is buzzing. People come in and out of the pro shop and cheek kiss hello by the starter’s hut. It all feels both serene and animated.
My group and I finish our first 9 with a spring in our step (less so me because I’ve just downed back-to-back-to-back double bogeys) as we all head toward the clubhouse. Out of nowhere, the delightfully warm and comforting scent wafting from the canteen hits us with full force. Our nostrils fill with the delectable aroma of fried food, sausage and vanilla. Smells promising. The four of us glance at each other and wonder: do we have time for a hot dog?
Objectively speaking, we DEFINITELY have time for a hot dog but stopping—a quick breather between the two 9s—feels frowned upon. We bio-break, refill our water bottles, grab a ham salad sandwich on the fly and are already on our way to hole 10 between two bites. But sometimes you need a little pause, right?
For as long as I’ve been playing golf, I’ve been torn about the time I spend on the course.
My head tells me I should invest every effort to finish the round as quickly as possible. Walk fast (never run though), rely on the ready golf guide (btw, I don’t think you need to specify ready golf rules at the start of the round since they’re basically the norm) and even pick up my ball if I’m, like, 9 shots on a par 4 (it gets to a point when it’s just obstinacy). But at the same time, the golf season in Québec is so short, exhilarating and intense that I want to stretch my experience to the max now and then, revel in the whiffs of freshly cut grass for an extra hour. I want to take my time, putt properly and clear the mud from my sand wedge as I lumber out of the trap (Québec sand traps can get so messy).
Giving in to this need to linger, I’m advocating for a mini revolution (nothing less!) that could satisfy my craving and curb some of the confusion and heartburn: a mandatory 10-minute break at the end of the first 9. Done at 11? Wait until 11:10. Even if you’re ready, even if you’re the best golfer ever, even if you’re not hungry because you had a breakfast burrito like the responsible adult you are (good for you).
Time is precious, for sure, but I truly believe the break could have a myriad of positive effects.
First, it would help calibrate the distances between groups to start things up again on solid ground. A pause to slow the overly hurried and galvanize the overly happy-go-lucky. Worse comes to worst, it opens the door to gently asking the idlers to let you go ahead of them. It would also make it easier to join a group of two or three. You get there, you’re alone, you see who’s waiting between the two 9s and you try to convince them to adopt you. By the way, it also creates a fairer player spread across the course.
Finally (my favourite reason), the break provides just enough time to savour and polish off your all-dressed hot dog in peace, without crumbling under the weight of the guilt or the biting stares of the players who come after you. To me, it feels like one fleeting moment more on the course, an added way to ritualize my love of the game.
I know there’s a slew of revolutions in need of launching and a bunch of other ways to get golf to evolve (don’t get me started on the white belts), but I think it’s important to listen to your heart. So that’s what I’m campaigning for. Are you with me?
