Golf Clubhouse Quotes

But in Old Rimrock, NJ, in 1995, when the Ivan Ilyches come trooping back to lunch at the clubhouse after their morning round of golf and started to crow, "It doesn't get any better than this," they may be a lot closer to the truth than Leo Tolstoy ever was.

Weak and trembling from passion, Major Flint found that after a few tottering steps in the direction of Tilling he would be totally unable to get there unless fortified by some strong stimulant, and turned back to the club-house to obtain it. He always went dead-lame when beaten at golf, while Captain Puffin was lame in any circumstances, and the two, no longer on speaking terms, hobbled into the club-house, one after the other, each unconscious of the other's presence. Summoning his last remaining strength Major Flint roared for whisky, and was told that, according to regulation, he could not be served until six. There was lemonade and stone ginger-beer. You might as well have offered a man-eating tiger bread and milk. Even the threat that he would instantly resign his membership unless provided with drink produced no effect on a polite steward, and he sat down to recover as best he might with an old volume of Punch. This seemed to do him little good. His forced abstemiousness was rendered the more intolerable by the fact that Captain Puffin, hobbling in immediately afterwards, fetched from his locker a large flask of the required elixir, and proceeded to mix himself a long, strong tumblerful. After the Major's rudeness in the matter of the half-crown, it was impossible for any sailor of spirit to take the first step towards reconciliation. Thirst is a great leveller. By the time the refreshed Puffin had penetrated half-way down his glass, the Major found it impossible to be proud and proper any longer. He hated saying he was sorry (no man more) and he wouldn't have been sorry if he had been able to get a drink. He twirled his moustache a great many times and cleared his throat--it wanted more than that to clear it--and capitulated. "Upon my word, Puffin, I'm ashamed of myself for--ha!--for not taking my defeat better," he said. "A man's no business to let a game ruffle him." Puffin gave his alto cackling laugh. "Oh, that's all right, Major," he said. "I know it's awfully hard to lose like a gentleman." He let this sink in, then added: "Have a drink, old chap?" Major Flint flew to his feet. "Well, thank ye, thank ye," he said. "Now where's that soda water you offered me just now?" he shouted to the steward. The speed and completeness of the reconciliation was in no way remarkable, for when two men quarrel whenever they meet, it follows that they make it up again with corresponding frequency, else there could be no fresh quarrels at all. This one had been a shade more acute than most, and the drop into amity again was a shade more precipitous.

After missing the cut at the 1957 Masters because of poor putting, Hogan retired to the clubhouse and suggested that putting should no longer be a part of the game. “If I had my way,” Hogan grumbled, “every golf green would be made into a huge funnel. You hit the funnel and the ball would roll down a pipe into the hole. I’ve always considered that golf is one game,” Hogan added, “and putting another.

and parking is often an issue. None of these is my favorite. I have thought long and hard and decided not to name my preferred south shore beach, because what I love about it is it’s not popular and never very crowded except by locals and summer residents. Because I feel guilty for holding back, I will say that if you want a terrific not-crowded beach, drive out to Miacomet Golf Course, but just before you reach the clubhouse, take a right onto the dirt road that leads past the big antenna.

if you want a terrific not-crowded beach, drive out to Miacomet Golf Course, but just before you reach the clubhouse, take a right onto the dirt road that leads past the big antenna.

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The scream is the great multitasker of human expression. It covers agony, ecstasy, relief, frustration. It's especially useful when you're at a loss for words. Tiger did a lot of screaming that afternoon. With Joe. Coming off the green by himself. Walking toward the clubhouse, in response to his fans. His people. Primal screaming, his mouth so open you could count his teeth. Golf is famously a game for whispering. Roger Maltbie, in the NBC Sports trailers, is the Golf Whisperer. Spectators use their library voices. Players and caddies confer quietly. Golf, Calvinist by origin and reserved by tradition, had never heard such screaming, the likes of Tiger Woods, either. Tiger had won at Augusta, the place where he got the first of his fifteen, and a dam had burst.

We are walking along the path on the way to the golf course. The clubhouse is behind us, and out in front of you, the whole of your golfing experience lies ahead, waiting to be discovered and all rather exciting. Along the path you see a fork ahead, a large sign catches your eye that says, “Accept your good shots, but after every bad shot, stop, analyse what you did wrong, correct it, and move on.” ……Seemingly logical advice, and one would imagine you need to find out what you are doing wrong and correct it to progress. This all sounds fine. However, as you look down the path along the other side of the fork, a little in the distance and slightly more obscure—is a smaller sign—a sign that has a different message. It says, “Accept your bad shots, but after every good shot, stop, replay it through your mind, imagine what it felt like, remember it, and move on.

their mother.” All over England, other citadels of the British class system were falling to the Poles. One 303 Squadron pilot, shot down during the Battle of Britain, parachuted onto an exclusive golf course, landing near the eighth tee. The men playing the hole insisted on carting the dazed flier off to the clubhouse for drinks. Another parachuting pilot drifted into a copse near a private tennis club in the London suburbs. Three club members observed his descent as they awaited the arrival of a fourth for their weekly doubles match. They helped extricate the Pole from the trees and, giving up on their expected fourth, asked if he played. When the young pilot said he did, he was dressed in borrowed white flannels and was soon on the court, borrowed racket in hand.

Later, I learned a golfer was hitting from the ninth tee with his comrades. He had been drinking a few beers and thought he could drive the green. His aim was dangerously off, and he managed to hit the golf ball over the clubhouse, a mere 200 yards away. To my misfortune, it struck me on the head with the force of something much larger. My young, vibrant, and motivated life, as I knew it, changed in an instant.

The clubhouse on the golf links was

An expanse of short green grass undulated around sand traps and manicured trees. Up ahead, a multi-winged clubhouse loomed. “Jesus God,” I muttered. “Ninth circle of hell.” “I think they have eighteen at courses like this,” Andy said. “Ha.