To: <golf@umail.ucsb.edu>

From: Alicia Siebers <aliciasiebers@umail.ucsb.edu> 

Subject: On missing my tee time

Photo courtesy of Alicia Siebers

Something terrible has just occurred. In a panic to make the most of our tiny slice of time together this summer, my family and I somehow ended up at Topgolf. And, unfortunately, I was really damn good. 

If you are not previously familiar with the notorious Getty image of little golfer me that exists in some corner of the internet, or have not been subjected to hearing my gripes about golf course sustainability, you may not know that I was born into a golf household. My dad grew up golfing, and when family friends gifted my older brother a plastic set of clubs as a toddler, it seemed to be that the passion ran in the family — until I was born.  

I hated everything about golf. I hated practicing; I hated when the ball didn’t go where I wanted it to (seriously, wtf); I hated walking for miles and seeing the same manicured, grassy landscape over and over again; I hated when it got windy and cold. I was, however, as my dad will tell you, “a natural.” The mechanics of a golf swing just made sense to me, and compared to the other seven-year-old girl golfers in Seattle, I could hit the ball far enough and straight enough most of the time to be decent.

But “natural” talent only takes you so far when you refuse to practice in cold, rainy weather (welcome to the Pacific Northwest) and will only register for golf tournaments under heavy bribery of gas station bubble gum and new clothes (thanks, Dad). Eventually, I reached my limit and quit before I would have to start putting in real, year-round effort. 

My brother, on the other hand, was in too deep. He was — is — really, really good. For as long as I can remember, family vacation destinations have revolved around his tournament schedule. Thanks to his talents, I’ve gotten to visit several unofficial wonders of the world — North Dakota, northwestern Ohio, the suburbs of Chicago and practically every single golf course in Washington state. Unfortunately, I think my invite to the 2019 Junior Presidents Cup in Australia got lost in the mail. The Bahamas tournament, too …

Luckily, my unconventional childhood of fairways and collared shirts and amateur caddying — I’ve been recruited to clean clubs and rake bunkers for my brother since I was 12 — paid off when he committed to play collegiate golf with a nice scholarship to an even nicer university. Worth it were the early-morning car rides and endless afternoons spent sitting around on cold leather chairs in clubhouses with my brother and his friends. 

I digress.

There I was, on the third story of a Topgolf, holding a 3 wood (the second longest club in the bag, behind the driver), standing in front of an ugly golf ball on a stupid rubber tee. What the hell. I took my swing, hitting the ball 140 yards into the distance, bouncing and rolling into the blue target — if you are familiar with golf, this might not be very far at all, but I do not care. 

I took a few more shots and watched as the Topgolf screen traced their arcs into the range. 138 yards, 145 yards, 153 yards. A decade removed from my last childhood golf tournament, but just as consistent as the day I “retired.” 

“Should’ve stuck with it,” my father said to me as I sat down next to him on the couch. I scooted further away from him.

I lost the virtual game to my now-professional golfer brother by a slim 3-point margin, 592-589, and destroyed my dad’s final score of 461.

Should I have stuck with it?

Honestly, no. I still hate the sport. I think it’s riddled with an unfathomable amount of sustainability issues, can be terrifyingly expensive and is quite frankly one of the most boring activities I could imagine people wanting to participate in, much less watch through a television screen.

But I can’t help but wonder what could’ve been, if I’d liked it enough to stick with it. 

I wonder if it would be easier to spend time with my dad. It’s hard to find things to talk about and ways to spend time together. Car rides get awkwardly silent really fast, and I can’t handle one more conversation about my post-grad plans or what my brother is up to (golfing, most likely). Maybe he’d even remember the names of my best friends. 

I wonder if my iMessage history with my brother would contain more than a back-and-forth series of “happy birthday”s and “Can you walk the dog tomorrow?”s. We made it out of the inevitable sibling war stage, and get along well now, but I don’t think we’ve ever had a real conversation in our lives. 

I wonder if I could’ve gotten a scholarship and saved some money on college tuition. My dad seems pretty confident in this idea. Maybe I could’ve flexed being a D1 athlete or posted gear hauls on TikTok for internet clout.

I can’t imagine myself enjoying golf, but sometimes I hate that I hate it. I guess that’s just who I’m meant to be — it appears I’ve missed my tee time, and I don’t think I ever want to make another one. 

Forever hole-in-wondering, 

A.S.

Alicia Siebers is, more than anything, secretly jealous of student athletes who wear their logoed backpacks everywhere. 

Photo courtesy of Alicia Siebers