By Jelle Loman
This personal essay is just that: personal. It describes my experiences with the game, and my perception of the men playing it at an elite level. I have chosen to focus only on the men’s game, because it is far less progressive than the women’s game at this point in time: the majority of the elite professionals are white, and none are openly gay. Another reason was that I, as a gay man, haven’t felt represented in golf since I got interested in it. I have tried to qualify my statements as being aimed at the men’s game as often as I could, but some may have fallen through the cracks.
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I have had the same Google Alert set for about six years now, because at the beginning of 2015, something began to irk me. I had been watching golf broadcasts regularly for about a year, and had gotten more invested in the game itself. I — of course — started out knowing only Tiger, and getting some impromptu swing tips from my dad on the driving range, refusing to take lessons because golf was “boring” and “not for me.” But the more I learned about the swing and the game itself, the more I became interested in actually playing it, not just hitting balls on the range once every month.
So I started watching golf, although that was easier said than done. There is no Golf Channel in The Netherlands — at least, not one that is free to access. You needed to pay, and because I was too young to pay for cable, I slowly started to introduce that idea to my father. After some mild psychological warfare (that in retrospect was not nearly as genius as I then thought), I got lucky: as a perk for being a long-time subscriber, we got free access to the sporting package, and thereby access to live golf: weekly live broadcasts of tournaments on the European and PGA Tours, and bonus content that I had no idea existed. It was fantastic. For a while, at least.
The inevitable consequence of watching sports on a regular basis is that you start to need a little more than just the presence of the game to get excited. Of course there are those rare tournaments or matches that have you glued to your television or perched dangerously on the edge of your seat, but you need some personalities or storylines to tune into a broadcast every single week. And the more personalities I encountered — from Rory, DJ, and Louis to Jordan, Jason, and Justin — the more I started to feel alienated from the game.
Obviously, their golf games were leaps and bounds ahead of mine, but that does not cause a disconnect; watching exceptional players play exceptional golf is something that paradoxically makes me more excited to play golf myself. No, the real disconnect came from the personalities that hid behind golfing’s gentlemen facade.
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A Gentleman’s Game
I didn’t grow up playing golf with people that aren’t part of my family. In fact, I still rarely play with strangers. Because of that already existing familial connection, I never had to present myself as someone else, or be tentative about my foursome finding out about my “secret.” In return, they probably didn’t feel comfortable (nor should they) throwing out homophobic slurs, or likening themselves with feminine properties when missing a putt. Therefore I’m probably not an authority on “authentic” country club behaviour, or what goes on in a regular foursome of men playing golf. I also never played junior golf, or took part in regular competitions — save for one in my second year of university in the Netherlands.
It wasn’t a prestigious event by any means. I was a high-handicap just there to fill out the team. In fact, it ended up being totally insignificant in the grand scheme of the competition, where different universities competed against each other in different sports over the course of a few days. But it did introduce me to people of my age that played golf, and it allowed me to experience what playing golf with my peers was like, even if it was for just a few days.
As it turns out, I did not like that experience. I had always seen golf as separate from other sports. When I had to choose a sport to play as an 8-year-old, I chose tennis, because even then I already knew team sports weren’t my thing. I thought the whole intimidating culture I didn’t like about gym class and playing football during recess would only be amplified there, so I chose a solitary sport. When my parents started playing golf, it was a sort of natural progression for me to try: solitary, technical, something that can be done for a long time. By the time I actually started playing it, I didn’t want to share that with peers, so I played with my dad, my uncles, and my cousins: people who already knew who I was, and wouldn’t judge my for playing a sport that was associated with seniors and retirees.
During that university tournament, I found out that a similar intimidating culture or ambiance was hiding behind the facade of the solitary sport I was hooked on. When people congregate, their natural urge is to find people like them — no matter the reason they come together. Unfortunately, I am not like most men that play golf. I’m gay, I talk with my hands, I’m shy. I avoid situations I don’t feel comfortable in, i.e. situations with a lot of “bro-y” men.
It wasn’t like they were explicitly homophobic or condemning gay people out loud. In fact, quite the opposite: I didn’t feel like I had to hide my sexuality for fear of retaliation. It was just a general atmosphere of exclusion, an invisible wall that prevented me from ever feeling comfortable or accepted. Maybe that’s not something non-queer people can relate to, but I’m sure every marginalised person has felt its presence. It was the choice of words in moments of self-flagellation, or the talking points over the beers after the round. I’m sure these men supported same-sex marriage, since they didn’t know a world without it (the Netherlands was the first country to legalise same-sex marriage in 2001), and would be eager to tell you that they were not homophobes.
But in the end, that doesn’t matter. How you wish to present yourself to the world is inconsequential if your actions and words don’t support your imagined self. Even though they weren’t homophobic, their semi-exclusionary actions and words — no matter how small and seemingly insignificant — snowballed into a climate of discomfort for anyone that didn’t fit their standard. And to be clear, that standard doesn’t only exclude gay men. It also excludes women, people of colour, and straight men that aren’t as boisterous or “lad-like.” It just so happened that — what a surprise during a university golfing event — other people like that weren’t there.
I don’t want to call it disillusionment, but it did feel like my fear was coming true: the solitary, technical, gentlemen’s game that I had chosen to love and enjoy was nothing more than just another facade for the masculine culture that I had so carefully avoided all my life. I didn’t play any tournaments after that.
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“Hey Google, show me gay golf players”
That confirmation of my gut feeling came a few years after I had set that Google Alert. I had of course already done my research: typing any combinations of the words “professional golfer,” “golf player,” “gay,” “queer,” and “homosexual” into Google, hoping that I would get a search result worth clicking on: an openly gay player in the men’s game; investigating old Wikipedia pages that hopefully would include rumours about the personal lives of male professionals long gone. All to no avail. The only openly queer players were women: an extension of similar patterns in other sports. So I set an alert: anytime an article found its way into Google’s news feed that contained any combination of the words “gay golf player,” I would get an e-mail.
I kept the term simple in the hopes of catching as many articles as possible with just one query. It of course triggered any time Brian Gay was mentioned, keeping me in the loop on his career path — an unhelpful, but chuckle-worthy bonus. And who knew how often Eric Gay’s photography would be cited on a page that also mentioned golf? Most of the stories were on elite lesbian players that had their sexuality mentioned in a profile. And while often interesting and read-worthy, they weren’t the reason I had set the alert.
The first time I got an actual hit was in September 2018, when Tadd Fujikawa became the first openly gay male golf professional. No other caveats. He wasn’t the first active player, or the first non-white player. Not the youngest player, or the first in over 20 years. Just, the first. Seeing his name did spark something of recognition, but most of his popularity came from events before I had even picked up a golf club. It turns out I recognised him from a flashback I had seen about a 16-year old making the cut on the PGA Tour, but not much more than that.
It was courageous to do what he did, and it finally started a news cycle on a question I was really interested in: how would the world of men’s professional golf deal with this? Other than Brandt Snedeker saying he would welcome gay players, and Bubba Watson saying quite the opposite, there hadn’t been a real news cycle that addressed the question while I was paying attention.
As it turns out, what happened was quite underwhelming: as golf is prone to do when dealing with situations that can challenge the status quo, it chooses a centrist position, and hopes everything blows over quickly. Golf’s governing bodies and media associates will usually endorse individual actions that try to be progressive, but it won’t actively support or encourage them — probably for fear of alienating a large portion of their conservative fanbase. This need for individual activism, rather than a celebration of diversity and acknowledgement of the need for structural change from within, will (almost) never result in actual changes to the culture or public image of golf.
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The Ultimate Meritocracy
So, what happens when you have a culture that favours players similar to those already playing it, and that has no desire for structural change? From what I’ve seen, it results in a pressure cooker of replication and over-exaggeration of familiar tropes. It’s why almost all the elite players you see citing Tiger as an inspiration to play golf are white. And why the leaderboard displaying players’ colleges is a thing: nearly every American player on Tour has come from the college-to-Tour pipeline, further shrinking down the eligible players to ones that can attend universities and are therefore active in the junior golf circuit that relies heavily on parents that can afford to let their kids play golf. It’s why the special interests in the profiles of Tour players often don’t go beyond “hanging out with friends” and playing other sports.
It creates a culture where masculinity is inherently tied to your perceived golf ability. Therefore men that aren’t as masculine for whatever reason — be it their size, other interests, behaviour, etc. — might not be scouted as potential future champions because they don’t fit the mould. And no, having a unique swing doesn’t break the mould, no matter how many media outlets say so. It just breaks the swing mould, nothing more.
The mould is the set of expectations of personality and ability that are placed upon golfers. People love to say that golf is a meritocracy: you play well, you win. Claiming a meritocracy means you assume the mould only consists of ability. That is to say, those that can play well, will have success in the game. We of course know that isn’t true.
Maverick McNealy’s interview on the No Laying Up podcast has been swirling around in my head ever since I listened to it. McNealy is the son of “not-a-billionaire-but-very-well-off” Scott McNealy, so opportunities abounded in his childhood. He is quick to debunk any rumours that his parents are bankrolling his career. He didn’t even play much junior golf, and had about three months after graduating where he could live with his parents for free while determining his career path. After that, he would have to pay.
Sounds reasonable, right? His parents merely presented him with opportunities; his success is wholly based on how much he seized those opportunities, and thereby his merit. In his words: “One of my favourite things about golf is that the golf ball doesn’t care. It has no clue who you are, what you believe in, what the colour of your skin is, what your upbringing was. It does not care. […] There is nothing subjective about golf. You can nitpick, of course, but […] the guy who shoots the lowest score is going to win.” Unfortunately for Maverick, I want to do a little more than just nitpick. It is true that the golf ball doesn’t care who you are, or what your upbringing was. But the world that golf ball is resting on does. It cares a lot.
Being presented so many possibilities is a privilege in and of itself. Of course you need to grab it yourself, and work your ass off yourself. But just having access to these things is the first hurdle that already excludes so many in the world. When your parents are rich, you don’t need to worry about helping them put food on the table, or not fitting in. You can just focus on playing golf, and if you like it, focus on playing a lot of it. You don’t need to worry about not fitting in, because being affluent can smooth over many wrinkles that others cannot iron out.
He then doubled down with this anecdote about the conversation he had with his father when he revealed to Maverick that they were very rich. “My dad said: ‘You guys are going to have to work harder, you’re going to have to be nicer, have higher integrity, and you’re just going to have to prove to everyone that you didn’t get to where you are just because of the opportunities you had.’” That is a very interesting quote, for a few reasons. Not only does it flip the script of the societal pressure usually felt by marginalised people, it also indebts the McNealy children to their parents.
His father presented their family’s riches as a burden to overcome. At first glance — especially for a young child — that may feel similar to burdens others have to overcome. The Black kid whose parents don’t have the money or time to drive him to a nearby municipal golf course has a burden to overcome. The transgender kid who gets bullied both at school and at the golf course has a burden to overcome. Everyone does.
But unlike the societal burdens those last two face, the burden McNealy faced was self-imposed. He was already fitting in at the golf club; he already had the means necessary to play the sport. Nobody was asking him to justify his existence. Marginalised people also “have to work harder, be nicer, and have higher integrity.” But they also need to prove to everyone that they deserve to exist: not some self-imposed, self-liberating proof that they are capable despite their family wealth, but proof that they are actually worthy of merely occupying the space others take for granted.
It might be a little unfair to single out McNealy on this topic, given that he probably is as gentleman-like as the golf world likes to see it. I don’t know if he has changed his mind on this. The interview is from November 2018, and maybe he has come to different insights on the subject. I certainly don’t have the connections to ask him. But I do think the words he used are quite popular among the people who govern and watch the sport, and give a great impression of the ideas prevalent in the golf world. He literally called golf “the ultimate meritocracy.”
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So, What Now?
For an essay that was spurred by Justin Thomas’s mumbled slur, I haven’t talked about it much. That’s because in the grand scheme of things, it doesn’t really matter. Rather, it exposes why men’s golf is so far behind: subtle but stinging remarks that snowball into an intimidating culture that those uttering the words don’t experience themselves. Other gay golfers have spoken out about this culture as well.
I’m sure Thomas’s stream of apologies hasn’t come to an end yet. Golf is no stranger to apology tours, even recently: think of Sergio Garcia after destroying some Saudi greens, or Matt Kuchar’s parade of penny-pinching pardons. And that’s a good thing. Public acknowledgement of wrongdoing is the first step in making amends. But it is only the first step.
If Thomas is truly sorry, and wants to effect structural change in the golfing world, I would be eager to support him in that endeavour. Change can’t occur without the strong presence of influential allies, and a top-10 golfer in the men’s game publicly advocating for equality would go a long way in changing golf culture for the good, and in letting the next generation of golfers know that their presence is welcomed, no matter who they are.
Thomas has already faced some retaliation: he has been dropped by Ralph Lauren, and Citibank has pledged to “work with” him by rerouting part of his endorsement deal to support the LGBTQ+ community, in lieu of dropping him. I hope that “working with him” in this context can provide tangible campaigns or steps forward on the long road ahead, but I have my doubts.
Eamon Lynch — one of the very few people in golf journalism that has a relevant voice in this discussion — has (unsurprisingly) probably said it best: “Those [gay aspiring golfers] are the unseen and unheard impact of Thomas’s language, the people who will simply drift away from golf while this binary debate exhausts itself between those who are vocally upset at the slur and those who are just angry that others express their upset.”
If men’s golf seriously wants to address its problems with inclusion and lack of diversity, it needs to hold on to those golfers that feel like they are shunned by the current climate that surrounds elite golf. In order to do that, golf would need to be perceived differently by both the people that are playing it, and those that aren’t.
An important step in that process is allyship, where the “in-group” helps advocate for the interests of the “out-group.” Of course Brandt Snedeker saying he’d welcome a gay player on tour is hardly enough to effect structural change; a bigger number of players and personalities would need to explicitly voice their support for marginalised groups, and act accordingly. That’s a role Justin Thomas could easily fill, if Citi’s statement is the result of mutual agreement about progressing the game and not of damage control for their brands. The golfing world would need to be careful though, as to not seem too disingenuous given their track record.
Another step could be to widen the college-to-tour pipeline that feeds into the PGA Tour: 12 of the first 16 winners in the PGA Tour’s 2020-2021 season played collegiate golf; Kevin Na was the only American who did not. And 14 of the last 21 unique major winners played collegiate golf — all that didn’t were not Americans. So it might be fair to say that a large portion of those that have succeeded on the PGA Tour and major podiums recently have come from this pipeline through one way or another. I obviously don’t have any experience with collegiate golf, as my only experience with team golf wasn’t anywhere close to a college golf career. But I think it would be fair to say — especially given Eamon Lynch’s comments that some college-age golfers have approached him with their dilemma about being welcome in the professional golfing world — that college sports teams aren’t the most welcoming places to those that don’t "fit in.” Creating a more welcoming culture in college golf teams would likely be helpful in promoting diversity.
Something that might help even more is investing in smaller golf tours around the world, as being able to play collegiate golf will already place you in the upper echelons of amateur status. Those that aren’t as fortunate to come from countries or backgrounds with good ties to the American system will most likely find themselves with a much harder road to the big tours. Playing amateur golf can be expensive, and for those that don’t have the means, turning professional and playing the minor tours is the only option to earn income.
Investing in those minor tours, so that prize money can help support not only talented players’ lives, but also their ambition to develop can help the bigger tours in the long run. Growing interesting talent from around the world, and enticing them to play on the biggest stages, should result in a more inclusive tour that showcases both people that fit into the college system, and those that followed their own path.
There is a prevalent phrase in apologies by media-trained people: “This is not who I am.” It has been said by both JT and Sergio to apologise for the aforementioned events, and by countless others pledging their mea culpa.
When I took a small writing class a few years ago, all the basics of storytelling were covered: structure, plotting, characters, conflict — but maybe the most important thing our teacher hammered on was “Show, don’t tell.” You can write page after page trying to explain every character’s personality, but it’s much more convincing to let your characters show their personalities. Telling us over and over who you are or are not doesn’t work, and at some point you just have to believe that golf is exactly what it’s showing you to be.
Again, I don’t know what happens behind the gates of country clubs, and what language is used between men in foursomes on a golf course. But if a vile, hateful slur is so close to the tip of your tongue in a professional setting, with cameras and microphones everywhere around you, I don’t think I want to know. Because it might make me fall out of love with golf for good. I might very well be one of the people Lynch mentioned in his article. — not in the sense that I am an aspiring professional golfer, but a young person that loves the game who doesn’t feel recognised by those determining its image. I don’t know if I’ll drift away from the game. But if it continues to feel like my love and support for it aren’t as important as the fandom of others, there might come a point where I stop trying to prevent that drift.
I’m still hoping for more hits from my Google Alert. But until men’s golf realises that structural changes are necessary to diversify the people playing and watching it, I fear it’s going to take a while.
Jelle Loman is a (soon-to-be graduated) student from the Netherlands. He likes to spend his free time cooking (especially when there is a pandemic), going to the cinema (especially when there's no pandemic), and playing golf. He can be reached at jelle.loman@gmail.com.
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