Money Can Buy Almost
Anything, Including a
Few Choice Words
By Leif Skodnick
In his book Unplayable Lies, Dan Jenkins had a short essay listing a number of criteria to determine whether your club is “old money” or “new money,” a two-page riff on how to tell whether your home course was built by robber barons or the nouveau riche, as if you didn’t already know or your friends couldn’t already tell.
Of course, Jenkins leaves out a third category of clubs, the “go to hell money” clubs — clubs so absurdly expensive (and often so absurdly pretentious) that the members could be said to have “go to hell money,” or that as a group, they’d say “go to hell” to anyone who wanted to join and didn’t.
Perhaps you’ve played at one (or more) of these clubs. Perhaps you have but don’t know it. Luckily, I’ve compiled some guidelines on how you can pick out the “go to hell money” clubs from amongst their lower-browed brethren.
A club that was built on land that was once known as “the ______ Estate” is probably old money. A club that was built on land that had to be logged before building the golf course is probably new money. A club that was built on a reclaimed landfill by an environmentally-conscious billionaire owner is probably go to hell money.
Does your club have a parking lot that’s visible from the clubhouse? Your club is old money. Does your club hide the parking lot behind hedges a short walk from the clubhouse? New money. But if your club has an underground parking garage beneath the clubhouse — that’s go to hell money at work.
If there are caddies at your club, there’s a good chance your club is old money — unless the only caddies are the children of the members, in which case it’s new money. If your caddie tells you about his mini-tour career, it’s a go to hell money club.
Transportation can be a good clue as to what kind of club you’re visiting. If you can take Metro-North, the LIRR, SEPTA, or New Jersey Transit to a point nearby and then either walk or take a cab to the club, it’s old money. If you have to drive to the club, it’s probably new money. If the club has a helipad or a ferry dock, it’s a go to hell money joint.
As you walk the course, take note of the lost balls you find. If you find as many Top Flites as you find Titleists, you might be at an old money club. If you find a lot of tour yellow Pro V1s, you’re probably at a new money club. If you find nothing but Pro V1s with the club logo on it, that’s go to hell money. However, if you find nothing but Pro V1s with the club logo on one side and "PRACTICE" on the other, that's an old money club.
Speaking of logos: what does the club’s logo look like? If it has a single letter, three letters, an animal, a Native American, or a barn, that’s a sure sign of old money. Is the club’s logo a misappropriated family crest that doesn’t belong to the family that owns the course? New money. Does the logo feature a skyline, a bridge or a large statue that’s visible from the clubhouse? Go to hell money.
And what does that clubhouse look like? Is it a fine example of late 19th century Northeastern American architecture, or perhaps a repurposed mansion? Old money, for sure. Does the clubhouse have an open floor plan, where the golf shop flows into the bar and dining area? New money. Does the clubhouse look like a piece of modern architecture befitting a corporate headquarters in Stuttgart? Go to hell money.
Who plays there? If the membership is largely made up of insurance executives, stockbrokers whose last names have been affixed to the front of buildings in the vicinity of Trinity Church, or people who made their money the old fashioned way (via marriage or inheritance), it’s an old money club. If your foursome is frequently filled with tech millionaires, car dealers, or fast food franchisee restauranteurs, you might be at a new money club. But if the guys in your foursome are willing to tell you and anyone else within earshot where the money came from, it’s a go to hell money club.
If your club has a 10-year waiting list, has a six-figure initiation fee, takes one new member a year who isn’t a legacy, or a combination thereof, you’re an old money club. If your club does away with initiation fees when the economy goes south, has done a membership drive since the oil crisis, or has brought in a management company named after a course in the Open Championship rota in an effort to “optimize operations,” you’re at a new money club. If your club lets in anyone who can write the check while also knowing almost no one can write the check, you’re at a go to hell money club.
Do you like to practice? If so, you might not like an old money club, which usually doesn’t have a range because the course was built at a time when frequent practice required the frequent replacement of hickory shafts. That said, there are a few old money clubs with expansive practice facilities that also double as the club’s polo field. At a new money club, you might be hitting limited flight balls with irons only into a range constrained by a net. But at a go to hell money club, you’ll hit Pro V1s on grass tees with a Trackman at every stall, so you can get plenty of data you don’t understand on the shitty swing you can’t fix.
If you imbibe, you’ll love being a member at an old money club, where the profit margin from booze sales probably keeps the course maintained — unless you like obscure craft beers or hipster cocktails. If you order anything more obscure than a transfusion, the bartender will look at you like you’re in violation of the dress code — unless, of course, your club's membership is largely drawn from a religious group or ethnicity that frowns upon overt consumption, in which case you should hide your liquor of choice in your locker and covertly slam it down neat when no one is looking, thus no judgment can be cast. (Don’t worry, David the locker room attendant knows it’s there and will replace the bottle for you when it’s empty.) At a new money club, you’ll probably find some craft double IPAs brewed by a guy who wears overalls without a t-shirt and hasn’t showered since Bonnaroo and a menu of craft cocktails made with small-batch artisan bathtub whiskey made by NYU grads in their Brooklyn apartment. At a go to hell money club, you can get whatever you want whenever you want, because you’re paying for it, and no one is going to judge you, because you’re paying for the privilege of not being judged.
Of course, this list is not exhaustive, and leaves out an entire class of clubs: the “no money” clubs, which are not clubs at all. A no money club takes tee times on GolfNow, has a beer cart girl who takes cash and serves nothing more exotic than Heineken, allows you to change your shoes in the parking lot, and serves roller hot dogs in the grill room.
That’s my kind of place.
Leif Skodnick, a recovering journalist, lives in Rye, N.Y., where he maintains a handicap index that indicates he's modestly abled at the game of golf. He enjoys golf, sailing, beer, barbecue and hopes to one day own a beach house in Ocean Springs, Miss. He'll gladly caddie for you for $100 a round plus tip. Follow him on Twitter at @leifskodnick.
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