In these frothy times for the golf industry, an empty driving range is a rare sight. It must be savored.
After watching Scottie Scheffler treat yet another field of world-class golfers like an angry toddler treats stacks of blocks, I renewed an annual tradition of heading to the golf course to play or practice after the Open Championship concludes. Despite searing afternoon heat, I still expected to find another couple of golfers sweating and swinging away at Fairwinds Golf Course’s pleasant range. Instead, I had the pleasure of a small bucket’s worth of solitude.
Being the only one on a practice range confers an extra level of focus and confidence. No self-consciousness about your swing. No distractions from others nearby chit-chatting or messing around. Just you and each weathered yellow ball.
All alone on Fairwinds' practice tee, I indulged in a bit of productive self-delusion. I imagined my peers lazing in front of their televisions, beers in hand, neglecting their golf games while I toiled away like a stupidly sweaty hero, working my way through my bag and trying to hit each ball down a corridor defined by two black flags about 15 yards apart.
Anyone else have an annual tradition of going to the golf course to play or practice after The Open concludes?
— Tim Gavrich (@TimGavrich) July 20, 2025
It’s an itch that I need to scratch even when it’s a million degrees here in Florida. pic.twitter.com/e0M4gu6osB
In that moment, I understood why some golfers relish being the last ones on a driving range in the evening, even after a grueling tournament round. There's more than a bit of ego behind it, but the self-satisfaction from that manufactured mental victory can turn mediocre swings into fully confident ones, inviting that fleeting, addictive feeling of invincibility where truly great golf can sometimes happen. From my small bucket, I barely missed a shot.
Will that Sunday session win me the next tournament I play in? Will it make any meaningful difference in my game overall? Of course not. But did I get to imagine, however absurdly, some sort of camaraderie with other sicko-golfers grinding away all by their lonesomes in order to gain the slightest edge on their opponents?
You bet I did.
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