In Southern California, golf is as reliable as your morning latte. The sun’s always out, the fairways are always green, and the only “weather delay” you ever experience is the marine layer rolling in off the coast. If you want to play on Christmas morning, you do. If you want to tee it up on the Fourth of July, the course is still there, dutifully waiting for you, like an overly loyal dog.
And then I moved to the East Coast.
Let me tell you something: the Northeast does not care about your golf game. Not even a little bit. Out here, the seasons dictate the terms. Spring gives you just enough hope to dust off the clubs. Summer is your one true friend, throwing BBQs and twilight rounds your way. Fall is a bit of a tease; crisp air, golden light, and the cruel reminder that winter is sharpening its knives. And then winter shows up, like an uninvited in-law, and parks itself on your couch for five months straight.
The Waiting Game
In California, “anticipation” means waiting two minutes for your Uber or ten seconds for your iPhone to update. In the Northeast, anticipation means five months of staring out the window at snow-covered fairways, imagining the buttery sound of a 7-iron flush, while your clubs gather dust in the corner like neglected pets.
By February, you’ve re-engineered your swing in your head a dozen times. By March, you’re standing in the living room, putting across the rug, convincing yourself that rolling a Titleist into the baseboard is “productive practice.” And by April, when the frost finally melts, you head out to the course and promptly chunk your first wedge shot six feet. But you don’t care. Because you’re back.
That’s the twisted joy of golf in the Northeast: the wait makes the game sweeter. Absence, it turns out, really does make the heart grow fonder.
Urgency is the New Luxury
Summertime golf out here feels like a once-a-year music festival. Tee times vanish like Coachella tickets. People are playing at dawn, at dusk, squeezing in nine holes at lunch. Everyone suddenly treats golf like a rare, endangered species.
Coming from SoCal, I used to scoff at the idea of waking up at 6 a.m. for golf. Out here, I’m the one setting two alarms and brewing coffee at 5:45, just to make sure I can snag my slot. Because if you miss your window, you’re toast.
And let me tell you, when the weather’s good, no one wastes it. I’ve seen people play through rain, oppressive humidity, and thunderstorms that would make a California golfer crawl back under the covers. The Northeast golfer shrugs, throws on another layer, and says, “We’ve only got three months of this, play on.”
Winter: The Villain We Love to Hate
Of course, every affair has its heartbreak, and winter is ours.
The first frost delay feels like a breakup text. By November, courses are closing, flags are pulled, and your bag is shoved into the basement. Suddenly, the only golf you see is on TV, the pros walking palm-fringed fairways while you’re scraping ice off your windshield.
Winter is cruel, smug, and relentless. But it also fuels the fire. When you’ve been deprived for months, the first round back in spring feels like a religious experience. The air is sweeter. The grass is greener. Every putt you sink feels like divine intervention.
The Humor of It All
Northeast golfers are a peculiar breed. Shorts in 48 degrees? Check. Refusing to wear a jacket in September because “it’s still summer”? Guilty. Declaring that 40 degrees is “totally playable” if the sun’s out? Every. Single. Year.
It’s madness. But it’s also charming. In California, golf was an easy friend, always there. In the Northeast, golf is a fickle mistress; demanding, unpredictable, occasionally cruel. And maybe that’s why we love it more.
Lessons From the Seasons
What I’ve learned is this: scarcity breeds gratitude. Southern Californians may laugh at the absurd rituals of Northeastern golf, but they’ll never understand the sheer euphoria of that first drive in May or the bittersweet beauty of a September sunset round.
Here, golf is not background noise. It’s a ritual, a seasonal symphony. It demands patience, resilience, and humor. It forces you to endure absence so presence feels electric.
So yes, I miss the endless sunshine of Southern California. I miss playing on Christmas morning in a short sleeve polo. But the Northeast has given me something else: the joy of anticipation, the thrill of urgency, the comedy of denial, and the gratitude that only comes when something you love is fleeting.
And come November, when the frost sets in and the curtain falls, I’ll sigh, complain, and maybe sulk a little. But deep down, I’ll know the cycle is eternal. The game will return, and so will I, probably in shorts, too early, too eager, and grinning like a fool.
