By Geoffrey L. Manton
“You’ve ruined our golf course for generations to come.” This accusation from a long-time member at my home club still rings in my ears. How did it come to this? How did I become the grand destroyer?
Well, I am the Green Committee Chairman, and I am trying to restore our golf course.
It had been attempted before — 20 years before, in fact. Not long after our country club’s 100th anniversary, an architecture committee was formed with the intent of addressing some perennial flooding issues and bringing back some of the architectural features originally intended by the 18-hole course’s designer, Devereux Emmet. The restoration committee even hired a young architect. His name: Gilbert Hanse.
The Country Club of Farmington’s par-3 fourth hole.
It’s human nature, I suppose: to resist change, to be comfortable in known surroundings. What had occurred at my club over a half-century was commonplace at clubs all over the country, even the top dogs. Beautification committees planted trees. They wanted to fill the void left by irrigation systems. They wanted to create an arboretum. They wanted a modern course for the modern world. They “needed” protection from ever-lengthening golf equipment. Planted with good intentions, these trees grew, vertically and horizontally. They choked off sightlines and eliminated lines of play. They created a new hazard, both for golfers and agronomical caretakers. It was them who ruined the course for generations, I would say; but these drastic changes happen the same way a child grows before your eyes: incrementally unnoticed, welcomed and embraced.
It had been attempted 10 years before. One of my preceding chairmen grew up playing our course as a youngster and remembered the way it had been. He remembered the views. He remembered the course without clutter. So he had the superintendent fire up the chainsaw. But then his friends, fellow members, called him “Hacksaw.” So he planted trees as retribution.
It happens organically. Fairway mow lines creep inward. Green edges creep inward. After all, mowing a circular perimeter on a green is easier than cutting straight lines or making hard turns. Likewise, problem areas on the edge of a green are easier to resod with bluegrass rough than to nurture back to a healthy putting surface. Before long, small greens are lauded as an attribute rather than shamed as the ill-effects of benign neglect. This is what we know and love, they’ll say; what reason is there to change?
The 14th (foreground) and fourth (background) greens at Farmington once were separated by trees, but clearing the space between the two greens created an intimate bond between the two holes.
It had been attempted five years before. Another of my preceding chairmen dug up Mr. Hanse’s master plan. He photocopied it into binders and distributed them to the Board. He copied articles about course restoration and passed them along. He cited the accomplishments of this rising star who was about to be selected by Rio’s Olympic Committee. He took on small projects from the Hanse plan and asked to do more. “If I hear the name Gil Hanse one more time, I’m gonna spit!” cried one board member following a meeting. Despite the adversity, this Green Chairman carried on. He tagged trees for removal. Unfortunately, he tagged every tree he thought should be removed and not long after, he was replaced as Green Chair — so he resigned from the club.
I never intended to hold this position. When I first became a member, my father-in-law wisely advised me to avoid any leadership roles at the club. Use it as a place to get away from work, he said. All you’ll hear is complaints, he said. So, I listened, and I declined all offers to join club committees — until one day, I couldn’t help myself.
. . .
I’ve loved golf since my grandparents taught me to play at age 11. I was terrible at first. I can still remember the pained look on my grandfather’s face upon seeing my inaugural swings off the pine straw in his backyard. No matter my skill level, however, my annual summer week at their home in the Sandhills region of North Carolina became one my most cherished childhood memories. Back home in Michigan, we lived less than a mile from a country club. As soon as I was old enough, I enrolled in the caddie program. No one else in my family played golf, so looping was my ticket to the game. I’d ride my bike to the club every day I wasn’t in school and learn the game while earning a few bucks. The course was a compact Donald Ross design (or so they claimed; turns out it was actually the product of Tom Bendelow) with a proud membership (and caddie yard), even if they were overshadowed by the other Ross course a few miles away, Oakland Hills. And, as the years passed and life carried me from the Midwest to the East Coast, so it went: me playing and loving the game on any course I could get access to, blissfully aware of, but not tempted by, the heralded courses in my midst. Case in point: for 10 years after college, I lived in one of the epicenters of Golden Age design, but never once did I sniff out the chance to play any of the many famous Philadelphia clubs. I knew they were there, and I thought I knew their importance, but I was never tempted any further.
Every turning point has an axis from which it spins, and the sentinel figure unknowingly responsible for my architectural awakening is my father-in-law, Dennis. I was lucky to find my wife for many, many reasons, but the family joke is that golf nears the top of the list — for Dennis loved golf, and his two daughters did not take up the game. Enter Geoff: direct beneficiary of the patriarch’s pastime. Dennis is a humble man from humble beginnings, but through hard work and a bit of luck, he has played scores of the nation’s top courses and the best across the pond, too. Checking off a magazine’s top 100 list with Dennis will wear a pencil to a nub. “You know, we’re pretty lucky,” starts his favorite saying to his golf partners while enjoying a cocktail on the 19th hole, “but we worked pretty hard to get this lucky.” And indeed he has, having teed it up at nine of the perennial Top 10, each round accompanied by an entertaining tale.
Looking down the fairway at Farmington’s par-4 14th hole.
My renaissance began the morning of my wedding day. Appalled that I had never played his alma mater, Dennis insisted that my final round as a single man would also be my first at the course he had played hundreds of times. Consciously or not, he was passing me the torch, handing me the keys, welcoming me into his family and his love of the game. The foursome that morning consisted of my wedding party. Dennis walked along, no doubt enjoying the gaping looks on our faces as we made our way around The Course at Yale. I had bruises on my chin from my jaw constantly hitting the turf. What was this place? How did they get the elephant under the green? Am I playing golf, or am I on an adventure? It was wonderfully alien. But like a young child, I was oblivious to how these impressions were to shape what was to come.
Fast forward a decade and half. Through a series of fortunate events, connections, and of course, Dennis, my golf CV belt was heavily notched including the likes of Oakmont, Fishers Island, Friar’s Head, Shinnecock Hills — and my personal favorite, National Golf Links of America — to name but a few. My professional trade requires memorization and visual pattern recognition. These skills served me well as my golf travels morphed into an architectural education. I filled my bookcase with works of contemporary authors like Bradley Klein, Tom Doak, and Geoff Shackelford, as well as the classics by MacKenzie, Ross, MacDonald, and Hunter. I dug into websites like Golf Club Atlas and The Fried Egg. Golf architecture podcasts filled my ears. The more I saw, read, and heard, a common theme emerged: my home course had been a victim. A call for salvation simmered inside me until I was cooked to the core. So deep was my sentiment to right what had been wronged was that I found myself stewing whenever I came across an example in the literature that mirrored what I was seeing at my club. Something had to be done.
. . .
A tense discussion took place my first year as a green committee member. The subject, of course, was tree removal, and the candidate on the slate was a cluster of unsightly cedars no more than eight feet high. Even though these trees were on a slope 10 or more yards into the rough opposite the dogleg to the green, their importance was contested. One of those opposed was the 18-hole-ladies representative on the committee. I couldn’t take it any longer; I had to ask: “What is it about trees on golf courses that you like so much?” The unexpectedness of her response floored me. “Well, us ladies, we like to walk in the shade when we play,” she replied calmly. More than anything, it became abundantly clear to me that everyone seeks something different when he or she plays this game.
It can be debated which is worse, congenital blindness or loss of eyesight during the course of life. Is it better to live in a world where you’re aware of what you’re missing, or is ignorance truly bliss? In the case of golf courses, I’d argue that it’s far more painful to know what you’re missing. It’s understandable that someone who has only known one way would be reticent to change. I liken it to being nose blind. But for me, because of what I had come to know and experience regarding golf course architecture, what I saw at my course was like going from a Mont Blanc to a BIC. Our course was the victim of a serial renovationist who innocently defiled the works of the masters of the golden age. Like wielding a crayon through the Louvre, he modified and simplified classic golf courses throughout the Northeast. Though celebrated by some, certainly during his time, I’d come to greet him with disdain. I even despised the fact that we shared the same English spelling of our first name. The majority of our 18 golf holes are Devereux Emmet originals, some with slight modification. However, there are a handful that bear little resemblance to their former selves on a 1934 aerial photograph — like Yosemite Sam without a mustache, thanks to a barber named Cornish.
The 14th fairway at Country Club of Farmington.
We all play golf for different reasons, and each of those reasons is valid. But beyond the exercise and competition, I seek something purer from the game. I’m interested in the sense of place that a golf course possesses: how it attaches the player to the land. I like to see the ball bounce and roll. I like the questions that a golf hole asks, and I love it when there is more than one answer. So herein lies the problem. I had come to discover that my home course possessed the ideals I sought in a golf course, but that many of those features had been hidden. The turf had become soft. Trees had encroached lines of play and reduced options. Even worse, trees were obstructing wonderful views of our unique setting along the foothills of a river valley. The bigger problem was that I could envision what could be, and it tore at me every time I was on property. I came to recognize green pads well beyond the putting surfaces. I loathed the trees that blocked incredible vistas. I scorned vertical hazards that limited options of play. It came to a point where it depressed me and ate at my enjoyment of the game, as though I was watching a virtuoso spurn his talent.
The tipping point had been reached. Through both clandestine efforts, forces of nature, and directives of USGA course consultants, hundreds of trees had been removed from our course over the prior decade. Many of the victims had gone unnoticed or quickly forgotten, as is often the case. But now, we were left with the queen’s guard: the ones so tall and massive and unavoidable that their removal would cause shockwaves. The green committee made its verdict and the sentence was passed. The rows of 85-year-old white pine between adjacent holes fell one cold winter. The earth rumbled as they hit the ground — and for months after.
My collaborators and I anticipated the reaction that ensued, and it was ferocious. As my counterpart at St. George’s (L.I.) had warned me, “You’ll never see so many tree-hugging Republicans until you start clearing trees.” Our names were dragged through the mud. Angry text chains called for our heads. The opening quote to this essay was delivered with pointed finger. We prayed for spring and hoped cooler heads would prevail. It took longer than expected, but the dust settled eventually. Drastic as it was, it was a Band-Aid that had to be removed with one swift pull. Now that we had accomplished this feat, by design, we knew the club’s hand had been forced. We needed to call in a professional.
The response was overwhelming. I cold-contacted six golf course architects, and every single one responded with enthusiasm. Perhaps that was normal for the times, but I like to think that the appeal of Devereux Emmet and the potential that our course possessed provided cause for the degree of interest. Four architects ended up making the visit that spring to tour the property with me and various members of my committee. Some say it’s faster to walk the course when not playing. I’ve found that if you’re walking the course with someone who’s as passionate as you about restoring grounds for golf to their original intent, an eight-hour stroll is the norm. These visits were exceptionally gratifying. My thoughts about the game and the potential my course held were validated again and again. Every architect lauded our tree removal efforts and acknowledged that a tree management program is the most difficult obstacle to overcome in the restoration process. My excitement for what could be could hardly be contained. Still, one major problem remained: how could the rest of the membership be convinced?
I don’t recall if there was a specific inspiration for my idea, but I do distinctly remember pitching it to one of the interviewing architects as we walked the course. We were discussing how best to convey the merits of undertaking a course restoration to the membership. “I’ve had this idea,” I said boldly, “to write a series of articles about the history of the course and its place in the history of golf course architecture.” Instead of words of support, my comment was met with a blank look that I read as, “How the hell are YOU going to do that!?” I knew that education was the keystone. Just as I had gathered a wealth of information over the years, I thought if I shared digested versions of what I knew and how it was relevant to our club, I could garner some support. Challenge accepted.
Being one of the oldest clubs in the state, we have an interesting history that many of our newer members may not have been aware of, so I wrote an article about the origins of our club. Devereux Emmet was a celebrated architect from the Golden Age, so I wrote about him, including his expansion of our course from nine to 18 holes. Emmet had a tendency to experiment with the Templates in his designs, including at our club, so I wrote about the Sahara, and I wrote about Bottle and Knoll. Knowing that having a background in the era was fundamental, I wrote about the Golden Age of architecture. Then, I wrote about one of the hallmarks of the Golden Age: strategic design, including how it had been eliminated from one of our holes over time. To drive the point home about golf course restoration, I wrote about the biggest names in the field, and I wrote an article explaining the importance of green expansions.
My efforts were well received. My appearances at the club were met with smiling faces and pats on the back, rather than icy stares and snarky comments. “You’re singlehandedly one of the best things to happen to this club over the last generation,” someone said to me. Another wrapped his arm around my shoulders and whispered in my ear, “You wrote your ticket to be President one day, if you want it.” There was a sense of pride in the club that hadn’t existed for quite some time. But as supportive as some people were toward my restoration effort, others had little to no interest. They couldn’t be bothered with reading what I’d written. After all, this was the club that had driven Gil Hanse out of town. One member even claimed that I was doing all of this to feed my ego, which couldn’t be further from the truth; I was doing it for the club. I wanted our course to be the talk of the town, the envy of the county. I wanted it to thrive and survive so that my children and their children could enjoy it one day. Most importantly, I wanted it to be the type of golf course that was so good that you’d never want to play an away game.
All my efforts started to pay dividends. The board agreed to establish a restoration fund, and an architect was retained. Work started by altering mow lines, but there was gaining momentum. Plans were drawn, and that autumn we dug in the dirt. The project was intended to be a showcase hole. Partially funded as a drainage project and partially funded by restoration fund benefactors, our 13th hole was modified through the green using Golden Age ideals and elements of Emmet. The renovating architect invited collaboration, and I was thrilled to be included. I even got dirty. It was incredibly gratifying, and we couldn’t wait to show the members what our course could look like. And then the responses came in. “I don’t get it; it doesn’t look like the rest of the course,” they said. Alas, that was the point.
. . .
This is my fifth year as chairman of the Green Committee, and I think I’ve boiled down the recipe to pleasing the majority of members into four key ingredients: level tee boxes, green grass, fast and consistent putting surfaces, and no weeds. If you have those four things, the complaints box will remain empty; lose one of those ingredients, and the cake turns from sweet to sour. This formula also translates into golf course restoration projects. The sure-fire way to detract from the good intentions of a project is to have imperfections – both on delivery of the project and on other areas of the golf course. Therefore, a supportive superintendent is paramount to success; we learned of our shortcomings the hard way. Although our new superintendent is fully engaged, the fallout from inherited sins has had a ripple effect. There has been reluctance to take on additional projects due to fear of failure. Contributions to the restoration fund have plateaued. Leading a course restoration is an exercise in frustration, and it can be lonely and exhausting. At times, I’ve felt like a soapbox preacher on an empty street corner. But without my “disciples,” I would have put the bullhorn away long ago. Their reassuring comments of support and praise for what has been accomplished keeps me going.
Not everyone will understand what we’re trying to accomplish by restoring the golf course, and maybe that’s not their fault. After all, everything is relative. There is a dominant feature on our golf course, a former sand quarry, that has been overgrown for over a half-century. Our consulting architect created computer generated imagery of what a restoration of this feature might look like. “Can you imagine, it looks like Pine Valley!” said one member to another. “What’s Pine Valley?” replied the other. Some detractors have been more direct, like opposing green expansions, citing the atrocity of having a sprinkler head on the putting surface or calling for tree planting to replace those lost from the emerald ash borer. Each member has their own perspective and as I’ve been informed – “I pay dues. I have a right to complain.”
And yet, I carry on. As much as I might wish for a “Field of Dreams” scenario, I know that we’re going to have to bunt a few singles before we can try to hit it out of the park. Continued tree management coupled with a new landscape management program delivered by our new head superintendent this past season resulted in an impressive transformation on one section of our golf course. It even revealed a template hole. Positive feedback has poured in from members and guests alike. Upon completion of his round, a recent Scottish guest drew comparison to playing in his homeland. Now, that’s fuel for the fire. That’s how I want the course to be improved for generations to come.
Geoffrey L. Manton is a member at the Country Club of Farmington in Farmington, Conn. When he’s not writing about golf architecture for his home course, he is reading x-rays for his radiology practice. He lives in Connecticut with his wife and three children, and plays a baby cut. His Twitter handle is @glmanton, and his Instagram handle is @thewolfpit1892.
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