Recently I played in a stroke-play club competition. My group of three happened
to draw the first starting time on the Old Course: 7 a.m. None of us played
particularly well, but when we walked off the 18th green, the big red clock on
the side of the R&A clubhouse said 9:55. Granted, my two partners
were low handicappers—one and three—and one was actually a professional race car
driver, so he knew something about speed. But the truth is, we never rushed.
Since it was a tournament, each of us took a bit of extra care in planning our
shots. We also spent some time looking for miscues in the fescue, and of course
we putted out everything. Nonetheless, we finished in less than three hours.
So why can’t the rest of the world play at that sort of pace? Mind you, I
don’t expect everyone to move as quickly as I do (my game has been described as
a cross between golf and polo) but there was no excuse for the time posted by
the three-ball behind us. Starting at 7:10, they finished at 10:50—a full three
holes out of position. Thus, every ensuing group was compelled to play at that
pace. Sadly, golf has become unconscionably slow, even in St. Andrews.
The
old-timers here are fond of recalling a time—not too many summers ago—when 54
holes a day was common. In an elegant essay, Bernard Darwin wrote of his annual
September fortnight at St. Andrews when daily double rounds were comfortably
navigated “in three hours—no more, no less.” In those days the starting interval
on the Old Course was four minutes—now it’s 10.
So what happened? Why, in
this 21st century society where every other aspect of life moves more quickly,
has golf slowed to a snail’s pace? Why, despite the aid of motorized trolleys,
gas-powered carts and yardages beamed up by satellites and lasers, is modern
golf slower than ever?
