A Game of Inches and Egos

They say golf is a game of inches, but here at Willow Dunes, it’s also a game of egos.

Last week, I watched a gentleman—who shall remain nameless, though he owns two Teslas and refers to them as “the fleet”—attempt a 3-foot putt no fewer than five times. Five. The stroke was wrong, the line was wrong, and yet every time, he stood over the ball with the confidence of a man being fitted for a green jacket. He missed it again and again, each lip-out shaving more from his pride than his scorecard.

It was, in short, glorious.

Golf does that. It equalizes. It waits for no résumé. You can’t charm a bunker, intimidate a downhill slider, or negotiate with the wind. And thank God for that.

At a club like ours—where the valet rotation is longer than some of the members’ patience—there’s no shortage of bravado. The walk from the cart to the first tee is often more of a runway strut than a warmup. And yet, 185 yards into a headwind will humble even the most bespoke polo.

But here’s the other side of it: Golf doesn’t just humble. It lifts. I’ve seen it with the quiet players, the patient ones. The members who speak less and listen more. The ones who shake your hand like it means something, not like it’s a contractual formality. These are the players who don’t care if you hit first—they care if you keep playing.

They’re the ones who hit fairways without fanfare, who miss greens without tantrum, and who celebrate your birdie like it was theirs.

At Willow Dunes, it’s easy to get caught up in who we are, what we drive, or how many putters we’ve had custom-fitted. But out there on the course, we’re all at the mercy of a tiny white ball and the space between our ears. And while some might try to conquer the course with swagger, I’m learning—slowly—that humility tends to travel straighter off the tee.

Because golf, in the end, isn’t just a game of inches.

It’s a game of grace. And the margin between the two… is exactly one ego.



 - Eddie Langston

 Guest Blogger