Why We Play

I’ve just returned from a vacation in Nicaragua—my first time in Central America. The intention was simple: to get away with my wife, experience a new place, escape the cold, and detach—intentionally—from the rhythms of normal life.

Without going deep into the trip itself, the time away offered something valuable: space. Space to observe, reflect, and recharge. When familiar routines fall away, perspective tends to surface.

We found ourselves in a sleepy surf town on the southern Pacific coast. Somewhat unexpectedly, woven through the community was a modest nine-hole golf course. Nothing formal. Nothing imposing. Just golf existing alongside daily life.

I spent part of the trip playing there in a way I hadn’t in a long time. Some days four holes. Some days thirteen. No tee times. No dresscode. Typically just a few clubs in my bag and enough time to stay curious.

Most of that golf happened on what I’d call a cottage-style course—casual, imperfect, and welcoming. Golf that fit around life instead of demanding to be the main event.

Later in the trip, I played a pristine, high-end resort course. Beautifully conditioned. Intentionally designed. The kind of place that quietly asks you to bring something specific with you the moment you step onto the property.

Both experiences stayed with me—not because the contrast was new, but because the trip created space to notice it more clearly. I’ve felt this shift in approach many times before, moving between different styles of courses or experience. What was different here was the distance from routine, the quiet, and the chance to reflect on why that shift happens in the first place.

“The course didn’t change the task. It changed my intention.”

Where Most of Us Begin

Most golfers learn the game on cottage-style courses. They aren’t glamorous. Greens roll a little slower. Lies are rarely perfect. Tee boxes feel more like suggestions than rules.

But these courses offer something essential: permission.

Permission to explore. To hit another ball. To replay a shot just to feel one flush again. To leave early. To come back tomorrow.

This is where many of us first fall in love with golf—not the score, but the strike. The sound of centered contact. The sensation of the ball compressing and launching through space exactly as imagined.

There is very little ego required here. Just presence.

“Cottage courses don’t demand proof. They invite participation.”

The Aspiration Toward Something More

Somewhere along the way, many golfers begin to aspire upward—toward resort courses, championship layouts, and more polished experience.

These courses represent more than golf. They symbolize progress. Achievement. Validation.

They are designed to test. To expose. To reward commitment and punish hesitation. And almost automatically, we bring something different with us.

We don’t simply play these courses—we perform on them.

We think more. Protect more. Evaluate more. Not just the shot, but what the shot might say about us.

“Somewhere along the way, we stop playing and start performing.”

The Task Never Changes

Playing both course styles—especially with the distance and perspective this trip provided—made something feel obvious in a way it often doesn’t during the season.

No matter where we play, the task itself never changes.

Strip away the conditioning, the design intent, the scorecard, the expectations, and the audience, and what remains is simple: place a club behind a ball, organize yourself in space, and send that ball forward with intention.

That simplicity is easy to overlook because golf surrounds the task with structure. Yardages, numbers, ratings, and outcomes begin to define the experience. But none of those things actually perform the swing for us.

What does is our attention.

Where we place it. How long we can sustain it. And whether it is directed toward the task itself—or toward what the result might mean.

On the cottage course, attention tends to stay closer to the strike. There’s less at stake, fewer consequences to manage, and more room to feel the movement unfold. On championship courses, attention is often pulled outward—toward trouble, score, reputation, or expectation.

The swing doesn’t change. Our relationship to the task does.

And in a game that asks us to coordinate a full-body movement at speed, under gravity, with an external object, that relationship matters.

“The ball doesn’t know where it is. It only responds to contact.”

What the Course Asks of Us

Different course styles quietly ask different questions.

Cottage courses often ask:Can you enjoy this? Can you stay curious? Can you be here without judgment?

Championship and resort courses tend to ask:Can you execute? Can you manage pressure? Can you respond when it goes wrong?

Neither question is wrong. Both are valuable.

The problem isn’t the course—it’s forgetting which question we’re answering.

When golf becomes about proving, it tightens.When it becomes about engaging with a task, it opens.

“Golf becomes heavy when intention turns into expectation.”

Returning to Why We Play

Perhaps the invitation isn’t to choose one course style over another, but to carry the spirit of cottage golf into every environment we play in.

Curiosity over judgment. Engagement over outcome. Attention over expectation.

Because at its core, golf isn’t about the setting. It’s about showing up to a simple task that demands care and awareness—again and again.

So maybe the real question isn’t which courses we aspire to play or how are we going to perform but rather why are we there?

When you step onto the first tee—anywhere in the world—what are you actually there to do?