My son played in his first golf tournament a few weeks ago. He’s six years old.
Let’s be clear about one thing: Scottish golf is awesome in more ways than I’d ever thought possible. My own introduction to golf in America – at the ripe old age of three – involved loitering on a driving range and the floor of my father’s golf cart. My kids have done both of those things as well, but we also have two children’s golf courses on our doorstep which forbid adults from playing unless accompanied by a minor. The children’s course in North Berwick has nine holes, while its neighbour in Gullane has only six; their holes are all between 50 and 130 yards in length, each features properly linksy turf and rolling terrain, and both make me wish I could be 10 again, playing three-handed matches between my own ball and those of “Nicklaus” and “Watson” until sunset.
The North Berwick course hosts regular competitions throughout the summer, but the event my son entered was part of a UK-wide scheme called “Wee Wonders”. Founded by the head professional at Gullane, Wee Wonders is for kids aged 5-12 and encompasses 15 nine-hole regional qualifiers in England, Scotland, Ireland and Wales and a Grand Final in St. Andrews in late August. Tournament rules include a 10-shot limit per hole, a three-shot limit per bunker (after which you can throw your ball out with no penalty), and a prohibition on parental advice: “Competitors must make their own decisions on issues that affect the way in which the shot is played.”
My son is not a wee wonder, in golfing terms: his sportiness and hand-eye coordination have yet to fully manifest on the golf course. He’s also insanely competitive, which became peculiarly apparent when we realized the other two boys in his 5-6 age group hadn’t shown up: he’d “won” without firing a shot, and he couldn’t have been happier. As someone who hopes my son might come to enjoy golf for its own sake, this result was a mixed blessing.
He still had nine holes to complete, though, and was duly paired with the two youngest girls in the event. All three players bogeyed the short first hole, which was good: bogey is my son’s best score on any hole in his brief career. Alas, a whiff on the uphill second led to a six, and three whiffs on the third tee led to a 10. He lost confidence in his three-wood, normally his favourite club, and became increasingly frustrated and peevish. Meanwhile, one of his playing partners – a lass named Grace with a swing worthy of her name – kept dinking shot after shot toward each flag and making nothing but pars and bogeys. Grace’s consistency literally reduced her opponent to tears: a lovely golfer in her own right, she couldn’t cope with Grace’s dominance and required her father’s repeated coaxing to even finish the round.
My son didn’t cry, and at the long eighth hole he finally unsheathed his three-wood again – and hit two great shots en route to another bogey. He finished with a 59, a magic number for Tour pros but fully 26 shots behind Grace’s winning total. Did that bother him? Nope: he’d qualified for the final in St. Andrews. Ah, the innocence of youth.