The Joy of Going Blind

The caddie walked ahead because the tee shot on the second hole at Erin Hills is completely blind. We laughed when she signaled she was ready by cartwheeling across the top of the mound. Then, suddenly, revelation hit: To get here—to be here—I had been hitting one blind shot after the next for years.

Play was followed by a gorgeous autumn evening—cool, with a half-moon presiding over a rustic barn. Firepits and Adirondack chairs, drinks and friends, laughter and stories. It was a dream day, with the golf and conversations we long for. Our group included one gracious U.S. Open champion, along with several accomplished architects and enthusiastic learners. 

It was Design Boot Camp, a four-day fundraiser for the American Society of Golf Course Architects Foundation. We traipsed across undeveloped land, visualizing holes, routings and grading plans for a new 18-hole layout. How was this my life? 

Growing up, Dad would have golf on TV, but I only remember putting with him once. After high school, I had a summer job working maintenance at a nearby municipal course. I was peak 17: easygoing, tan and flexible. Golf was free for employees, and I didn’t swing one club. I walked onto a D1 soccer team, graduated, got married, moved to England, lived near Wentworth and made several trips to Scotland. During the 12 years we lived abroad, I never considered golf.

We left the U.S. with three suitcases and returned with three wonderful sons. They were into sports, and I started tuning in to pro golf. The cadence of the broadcasts, the green landscapes and the feel-good stories felt familiar. It reminded me of quiet Sunday afternoons with Dad. Something clicked: This game is honorable. These people are role models.

Golf became the easiest high. That it rolled around most Thursdays added two days to my weekend. Among work, practices and daily routines, I always found time to check the scores or read an article. I started to play. I was in. 

Discovering other people interested in golf made for joyful connections. The golf community became an addiction. I wanted more time with it but struggled to fit it into a life full of non-negotiable responsibilities. 

Tension mounted at home, and I was told that golf was preventing me from being a better wife, a better mother. That hurt. There were hard times and frustrating, recurring arguments, but pain and difficult conversations can help define what you’re fighting for. My family is always the priority, but I never gave up on golf. 

I contacted a golf-magazine editor and offered to write about the opening of Payne’s Valley at Big Cedar Lodge near Branson, Missouri. He said yes. It was a blind shot, cozied up close to the pin.

Researching the article and knowing our family had always cheered for Payne Stewart, I asked my dad about it. Apparently, we knew him. I was born in Springfield, Missouri, and one of Payne’s sisters lived nearby. We would be at her house sometimes when Payne was home visiting from college. I was just a toddler. 

I also learned my grandparents were charter members of a country club and that, as a kid, my dad picked rocks from its fairways during construction. It occurred to me that the game didn’t have to interfere with family—it could be part of it. Golf was becoming the beating heart of a life that I had never imagined. As the research and articles continued, I included our sons by sharing what I was discovering about everything from match-play strategy to agronomics to legendary shots. They got it.

One of my first articles was with Dr. Mike Hurdzan, who has several titles to his credit and is one of the architects for Erin Hills. Five years later, I was discussing potential hole locations on property with him and Tom Kite. Blind shots can be terrifying—but there may be no greater thrill than summoning the courage to let it fly and seeing where the game takes you.

Lee Carr has been a Broken Tee Society member since 2024.