Why Golf is the Hardest Sport I've Ever Played

Like Happy Gilmore, I came to golf with one simple objective: hit the ball. Hard, straight, and preferably far. The problem was that the ball rarely seemed interested in cooperating. Like most golfers, I started at the driving range. I picked up a 9-iron and began hitting it surprisingly far and consistently straight. Well this is easy, I thought. 

What’s so hard about golf? 

That confidence lasted until I began pulling out other clubs and actually trying to aim for the bullseye or one of the flags. 

On television, golf looks perfect. Calm. Effortless. It blends the things I love most: walking outdoors, taking in nature, riding around in what is essentially a fast little go-kart between shots, and staying active. It’s quiet and reflective — everything my other sports are not. It’s also my sneaky way of getting my Los Angeles-born and raised husband to go “hiking” with me.

The illusion ended when I picked up the driver. My first swing was decent, but the second swing struck the turf so hard that the vibration shot straight up my arms and nearly knocked my shoulder out of place. In that moment, I realized golf might become the most challenging sport I had ever attempted. This was slightly humiliating because, just moments earlier, I had secretly imagined I might possess some hidden natural talent — something like Santi Wheeler in the TV show Stick, smashing a ball 320 yards while scouts quietly observed from behind the range. Maybe even Owen Wilson would wander over and offer one of those relaxed “whoa” reactions. 

Instead, reality arrived in the form of a four-year-old standing next to me on the range receiving enthusiastic encouragement. There was video playback, cheering, and the kind of supportive commentary that suggested this small golfer was on a steady path to greatness. Meanwhile, I was wondering why a ball hit with my 9-iron could travel 75 yards in a perfectly straight line while one hit with my driver either scraped the ground, shot violently left, or — on particularly soul-crushing attempts — traveled two yards directly in front of me.

That four-year-old, combined with my husband gently tapping me on the shoulder, made something clear: if I wanted to improve, I probably needed coaching. However, if I wanted to keep my marriage intact, I definitely didn’t want my husband coaching me. He already coaches me in paddle tennis — a fast, compact cousin of tennis — and while we’ve had some epic battles on that court, golf felt like a different kind of challenge. Learning golf, I realized, is a bit like learning to drive. Eventually, the instructor has to let the student feel the brakes, make a few mistakes, and discover where control actually comes from.

There are endless options when it comes to golf instruction — boot camps, clinics, summer programs, private coaching — but I wanted to begin properly, starting from scratch with an “empty cup.” I also knew exactly what kind of coach I didn’t want: the kind who sits in a chair drinking soda and eating chips while shouting instructions behind your swing. I experienced that kind of coaching growing up in sports, and I know anxiety and criticism have a way of following you directly into your swing. Instead, I found Lynn Ralston. Currently the Head Golf Professional at Westchester Golf Course, Lynn has been teaching the game for more than twenty years and is a longtime member of the LPGA Teaching & Club Professionals division, where she also serves on the Hall of Fame Committee. 

Watching Lynn hit balls on the range was mesmerizing. Each swing produced the same crisp sound as the ball left the club face. She moved from club to club without hesitation, her motions relaxed and fluid, as if gravity itself was helping guide the swing. I wanted that feeling of ease, that sense of rhythm. I imagined stepping up to the ball and letting the motion simply flow. 

Our first lesson surprised me because it focused almost entirely on grip. Lynn adjusted my hands and showed me how the pinky should sit against the other hand. Some golfers interlock their fingers, but my grip is the overlap, also known as the Vardon grip — the pinky resting lightly on top of the index finger rather than locking into place. Within seconds, I realized I had been holding the club incorrectly the entire time. The smallest adjustment made an immediate difference. My husband curiously stepped forward for a quick check as well, and Lynn made a minor adjustment to his grip, too. His already strong game improved instantly. We both stood there studying our hands as if we had just discovered a new instrument we were learning how to play.

During the next several lessons, we worked on timing, wrist position, alignment, and the delicate balance that occurs at the top of the swing. Lynn assured me that I would be ready to step on a course within a few months, and she was right. My first nine holes at Rancho Park were one of the most exciting outdoor sports experiences I had in years. To my surprise, I wasn’t terribly far off par, and for a brief, thrilling moment I wondered whether — with just a few more lessons — I might eventually find myself entering tournaments or, at the very least, sharing a few miraculous tips that changed my game. Golf has a way of doing that. One good round and suddenly the possibilities are limitless. Of course, like my early luck in poker, it turned out that a portion of this success was simply beginner’s luck.

Eventually, I felt ready to tackle a new course, but I didn’t want to be in line with a group of golfers waiting behind me. What I wanted was quiet: the chance to measure each shot, visualize the path of the ball, and enjoy the slower rhythm of the game. That opportunity arrived during a visit to my mom in Canada. Springview Farm Golf Course in Waterford, Ontario, is a beautiful place — very different from Rancho. There, the surrounding Fox Studio blocks most of the wind and reminds me you haven’t escaped the city, but at Springview, the landscape opens wide across fields and farmland. It was just us, a set of rental clubs, a few golf balls, and the courage to see what would happen.

We started on the front nine where I discovered what real trouble looks like. Rancho doesn’t have true woods; a stray shot there is usually one stroke away from recovery. At Springview, when a ball disappears into the trees, it enters a mysterious landscape where bright white golf balls somehow vanish into the most improbable hiding places. More than once, I found mine teasingly perched on the edge of a creek or buried beneath branches in ways that seemed almost deliberate. I complained like Elmer Fudd, convinced something screwy was happening and blaming the divot, the grass, the wind — everything except my own inexperience. My husband simply smiled and handed me a beer.

I cracked that beer, took a swig, and a deep breath. That’s when it hit me: golf wasn’t just about mastering a swing. It was about something I didn’t have in my other sports — an excuse not to be perfect, a reason to be human.

In golf, success isn’t always measured by a perfect score. Sometimes it’s measured by showing up again, taking another swing, and trusting that persistence will eventually place you in the right position at the right time. Maybe not for a hole-in-one — at least not yet — but for something equally meaningful: the quiet satisfaction of improving, the connection with the landscape around you, and the simple joy of seeing how far you can go if you keep stepping up to the tee and taking another shot at that stubborn little white ball.

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