Roscommon — Golf has always been a slow, social game. It’s supposed to be where you escape from schedules, crack open a beer, laugh with friends, and take your time.
But somewhere along the way, golf started to change. Rangers began patrolling the course like traffic cops, golfers grew impatient with any delay, and the once leisurely pastime started feeling more like a job.
When did golf stop being fun and start being regulated to death?
On Labor Day, my parents invited me and my girlfriend to join them for a round at Redwood Golf Course in Roscommon. We weren’t even committing to the full 18 holes—just nine, to try the place out.
It started like any casual golf outing should: We checked in at our reserved tee time, grabbed drinks from the bar, and loaded up our bags into two carts.
Now, I’m no professional. I’m decent enough, but I play for the same reason most people do — to enjoy a relaxing afternoon outside with friends and family. The first few holes went fine. We even exchanged polite greetings with the course ranger at hole five before carrying on.
Everything changed at hole eight. As my girlfriend and I finished putting and rolled toward hole nine, my parents were still walking back from the flag on eight.
Hole nine wasn’t even clear—the group ahead of us was only halfway through—but the ranger pulled up anyway.
“If they’re with you, they need to hurry up,” he told me, referring to my parents.
“They’re on their way right now,” I said.
“You guys need to hurry up, you’re slowing down the game.”
I asked him: “Who’s responsible if I hit into the group still playing in front of us, me or you?”
“If you can even hit 400 yards, then go for it,” he said.
I don’t have a launch monitor or anything, so I can’t throw out an exact number, but let’s just say I got every bit of that swing. I had to yell “fore” as it carried toward them. Thankfully, they were understanding. They had been rushed by the same ranger.
By the time I finished the hole and walked into the clubhouse to complain—something I’ve never done at a course—I could see the top of hole nine through the window. It was empty. There was no group waiting, just the ranger watching.
When I asked why we had been rushed when no one was even behind us, the front desk brushed it off.
“It’s a holiday,” they said. “It’s busy. That’s just how it is.”
Instead of answering why we were pressured to play faster into a group ahead, they refunded my round and sent me out the door.
The money wasn’t the problem. What should have been a casual, lighthearted day with family turned into a confrontation with a ranger who seemed determined to enforce pace for the sake of enforcing it.
The whole encounter left me with one thought: Maybe the “casual round of golf” really is over.
Nobody enjoys a seven-hour round. A well-placed ranger can keep things flowing without anyone noticing.
But in practice, some rangers take it too far. Many rangers seem less concerned with the flow of play and more with flexing their authority. They rush groups even when the fairway ahead is clogged, side with impatient golfers who can’t stand to wait a few minutes, and turn leisure into stress.
Rather than protecting the rhythm of the game, they insert themselves into it.
Golf was never meant to be a sprint. It’s supposed to be an afternoon-long game, something you settle into. When rangers rush groups unnecessarily, and when golfers demand speed instead of patience, the game loses the very qualities that make it unique.
Pace of play matters. But there’s a difference between guiding the flow of golf and policing it. Rangers should solve problems, not invent them. They should de-escalate frustration, not create it.
Courses should take a different approach: Emphasize patience, encourage enjoyment, and use rangers only when the game truly breaks down. Golf should feel like golf, not like being pulled over for speeding.
If I wanted to be timed, rushed, and lectured, I’d be at work.
Landen Taylor is a musician and explorer living in Bay City. Follow him on Instagram @landoisliving.
