Die Hard and Golf

In the world of sports, our words often create profound misunderstandings. We aim to convey one thing but communicate another. Even though we use the same words, we rarely speak the same language.

Speed is different from quickness. Health is different from fitness. Performance isn’t necessarily the same thing as result. Talent isn’t skill.

Do you see the problem?

We interchangeably use words that are similar but don’t always fit. It might not seem like a big deal, but over time, these words acquire twisted meanings.

A prime example is when people discuss golf. People throw around words like a baseball, offering vague terminology to cover a vast amount of ground. Creating a congestion of throw-away words that lack definition.

What does a hard golf course imply? What does an easy golf course mean? What makes a golf course great? What makes a golf course classic?

We use these terms habitually without any resistance, assuming that no one will question our cliché. Well, here’s my attempt to point out an example… Let's dive into the difference between ‘difficult’ and ‘challenging’.

For most, they’re the same thing: a word to indicate that something isn’t easy or simple. When someone finishes a notably demanding golf round, that person often describes it as “hard”. But the problem with using a word like “hard” is that it lacks specificity. Was it hard because of your skill level that day, or because of the design? Was it hard because of the conditions, or because it was mentally taxing? 

See the miscommunication? Hard is vague, broad, too unspecific.

So, back to our example: difficult and challenging. It often sneaks by us. As we nod our heads and politely agree with whatever Dad, Brad, or Chad is chatting our ears off about golf, we rarely stop and think of the distinction between the two.

But if you think about it, what is the difference between something difficult and something challenging? They seem nearly identical, right?

I think the difference is best illustrated by comparing Die Hard and Skyfall. Yes, the movies.

So, let’s dive deeper into this linguistic hurdle…

On the surface, Die Hard and Skyfall seem pretty similar, both centered around the premise of the protagonist having to overcome insurmountable odds. However, they offer contrasting perspectives on the ramifications of their actions. Die Hard completely embodies the essence of a challenge. Every move McClane makes is calculated, every decision intentful. From dodging bullets to scampering across broken glass, McClane’s quest is an examination of endurance, will, and awareness. His performance is an amalgamation of understanding. He digests what’s at stake with every step he takes, any errors could end in disaster.

When you compare that to a movie like Skyfall it’s the opposite. Bond is a master of difficult. He’s not solving any puzzles, no, other people do that for him. His top priority is completing the task: capturing the bad guy. Sure, his gadgets are sexy, his car timeless, but it’s relatively simple…

He can either catch the bad guy or he can’t. There’s not anything on the line. Of course there’s always the existential threat of the terrorists winning in the end, but Bond doesn’t have any baggage. He’s got no family we know of or relationship worth keeping. He doesn’t care about saving humanity or making the world a better place. He’s simply there to accomplish a task. There are no layers to Bond.

The contrast between the two movies is an appropriate comparison with golf holes. One is an onion, the other an apple. One complex, the other direct.

So, for this exercise, I’m going to compare two holes that I hope you’re familiar with: 15 at Merion and 18 at TPC Sawgrass. One straightforward, the other straightterrifying. One easy, the other hard.

But looks can be deceiving.

For those unfamiliar with 15 at Merion, it’s a short little par 4 that doglegs right, up the hill into the back pocket of the property. It’s guarded by bunkers down the right side swallowing up any shot hit without conviction. And Golf House Road hugs the left, serving as a magnet, daring you to test its field. Always making sure the worst outcome prevails. It stretches all the way out to a measly 379 yards.

For many, the 15th is easily overlooked. It’s not sexy or cool. It won’t make it on any calendar. And for many, you might even forget what the 15th hole is.

But to me, pound for pound, the Mahomes hole is 379 yards of pure, torturous challenge.

Normally, when walking up to a hole so short it can feel like an opportunity. Finally an easy hole. But time after time, I see deflated golfers pick their ball up on the 15th green, after failing to finish out. They trudge over solemnly to the 16th tee thinking how the hell did I just make an 8 on THAT hole?

That’s the sign of a challenging hole. 

How the hell did I just make an 8 on THAT hole? People ask themselves the same question after they finish 10 at Riviera, 12 at Lochinvar, and just about every hole at Garden City. These holes are devilish, and they all share something in common: they don’t allow for wasted shots. So many golf courses are drowned with holes that are thoughtless, aka they allow for aimless shots.

What do I mean by this?

Aimless shots are shots hit without a fear of consequence. They’re thoughtless, they don’t matter. There isn’t a benefit to carefully considering where you want to hit the ball. There’s no difference between being on the right side of the fairway or the left. The only benefit is that you found your ball. A thoughtful shot is just the opposite. There is a clear benefit in one place over another. A clear road map of your options.

So back to 15 at Merion. What makes it thoughtful?

The green design dictates the importance of the tee shot. The challenge of the green relies on how willing you are to step up and test it off the tee.

If you hit driver and catch the fairway, your work isn’t finished, but it is made easier. You are rewarded with an awkward wedge. A false front that ejects mis-hit shots, treacherous bunkers protecting the blind side, a spine that only seems to kick balls away from their intended destination, and a bunker guarding the right side that is harder to escape from than Alcatraz. And that’s if you’re lucky enough to have found the fairway.

After you’ve missed the fairway it simply becomes a damage control game. Long is dead. Short is compromised. Left is doable. Right is coffin-like. 

Pick your poison. And I love that.

Of course you can manage this hole if you miss the fairway. But it quickly goes from an opportunity to (hopefully) a salvageable par.

That's challenging. It doesn’t punch you in the face. In fact, it doesn’t even intimidate you. But it lingers, always in the back of your mind. It’s a credit card hole: the longer you wait to pay it off, the worse it gets.

A challenging hole doesn’t need massive water hazards to snatch bad shots. It doesn’t need inordinate length. All it needs is decent geometry and a few strategically placed obstacles.

Now let’s look at the opposite end of the spectrum, the 18th at Sawgrass. It’s long. Intimidating. Nightmarish. Insert any adjective that creates a sense of fear. You either can or can’t. It’s a test of skill, there is only one way to play it. You either have the stones to stand over the shot and hit it, or you’re content with making a 5 or 6, but at least you didn’t (completely) ruin your scorecard.

That’s what I don’t like about difficult holes. The architect designed it to be played one way and one way only. There is no allowance for artist interpretation. The golfer must hit a perfect drive and approach to be on the green in regulation.

That’s not to say one is right and the other is wrong. There must be a mix and match of challenging, difficult, and (at times) simple, easy holes. That’s what makes a golf course unique. Each course has its own blend of all three. But what I am saying is that I’d much prefer playing Die Hard over Skyfall.

So, next time you play, look for your definition of the two words. Pick out a few holes that you think perfectly capture the essence of being difficult or challenging.

But don’t forget, they’re completely different. Choose your words wisely. This is just one example of the nuanced language we use in sports.