Confessions of Golf Ambassador

Same Time, Same Slice: Confessions of a Golf Ambassador

Golf courses truly come alive in the early morning with a mix of eager players and their quirks. This community, built on shared frustrations and laughter, embodies a deep love for the game, despite its challenges. Captured in a lighthearted poem, these everyday moments highlight the camaraderie and dedicated spirit of golf enthusiasts.

Every golf course has its own rhythm in the early morning hours—the quiet hum of sprinklers, the glow of the first sunrise, and the shuffle of golfers eager (or not so eager) to make their tee time.

As an ambassador, I've had the chance to greet all sorts of characters:

• The early birds carrying polished clubs.

• Latecomers sprinting across the tee with shoes still in hand.

• Grumpy regulars complaining about the exact same issues week in and week out.

• The dreamers who promise themselves that today they will finally figure it out.

Golf is more than a simple game; it builds a real community among players. It brings comedy into the mix at times, and sometimes it tests how much patience you really have. We get up before the sun even rises. We battle the reservation system just to get a spot. We push through wind and rain or even that blistering heat on the course. All of this happens for a handful of hours filled with joy and a bit of frustration alongside friends.

It might feel like a circus out there, but it turns into a steady ritual for so many—an ongoing love affair that pulls us back again and again. No matter the slices, shanks, or those endless three-putts we endure.

That kind of spirit led me to collect some of these quirks and honest truths. I shaped them into a lighthearted poem that gives a nod to all the characters we run into on the course. It captures the laughs we end up sharing and the madness we choose to dive into every single time we step up to that first tee.

Same Time, Same Slice: The Ambassador’s Confessional

Good morning, friends, Welcome, one and all, To the crack of dawn, where the golf balls call. The morning sun’s still yawning, the dew’s still wet, But here you are—best tee time you’ll get.

Most show up early, bright-eyed, alive, Clubs polished, ready by quarter to five. And then there’s Joe, shoes still in his hand, Sprinting to the tee like it wasn’t planned. “I’m here!” he shouts, as his buddies swing, Already two shots in, ignoring the ding.

The old grumps gather, week after week, Complaining ’bout pace, the course, or their sore feet. They gripe about bunkers, the rough, the new pin, But they’ll be back next week to complain again.

We joke about freedom, escaping the spouse, “This is my church, not just my house.” We rise before sunrise, fight apps for a slot, To play in the cold, the rain, or when it's too hot. We dream of a round that’s well out of sight, (Though a five-hour round is a slow, bitter fight).

Bob’s searching for his ball in the trees on the right, He tees from the tips like he’s Rory, Then tops it ten yards—oh, what a joy. They line up the putt like their mortgage is due, Then three-putt the hole—“Mark me down for two.”

They mark down a par, though we all saw a six, Golf math is magic—just one of their tricks. Yet this is the circus we love, and delight, Chasing a five-dollar ball we just can’t control, Paying good money to torture the soul.

For no matter the shanks, the slices, the pain, We’ll chase it tomorrow… again and again. For every hook, shank, or putt gone astray, We’ll be back tomorrow—same time, same slice. (Because, let’s be honest, that swing isn’t fixing itself overnight.)