Small margin of error

Golf, as we know, is a game of inches. A putt that hangs on the lip. A fairway lie that avoids a divot. Landing above or below the edge of a pond.

Much of that derives from the nature of the golf swing: an athletic move generating an elliptical curve whereby the clubhead, traveling 18 to 23 feet, approaches the ball at a speed of anywhere from 70 to 120 miles per hour. The slightest torque along the way will twist the clubface two or three degrees along any one of three dimensions, creating the difference between a golf ball path that forms an elegant parabolic arch or embarrassing ground skitter.

The same holds for the presentation of a golf course. From entry drive to departure from the clubhouse, there are touch points, moments of revelation and crucial zones of perception and aesthetic impact that make all the difference in how a golfer experiences a day on the grounds. Whether it’s personnel management, landscape design, building architecture or turfgrass maintenance, creating and managing a welcoming perception helps shape the success — or failure — of a golf facility.

Sometimes it’s as simple as making sure that employees park at the far end of the clubhouse lot rather than toward the front of the building. Or cultivating a workplace culture in which employees are encouraged and rewarded for taking pride in their appearance rather than adopting slovenly disregard.

Little things can convey a lot. Like the golf course where, upon arrival, you face a long line of golf carts parked out front and the all-too-eager attendants immediately mount your golf bag on a vehicle rather than asking if you are walking or riding. Or the cart itself that doesn’t have divot mix containers available at hand. Equally revealing, in this case of overkill, is the club that spells out the name of the facility in a vast array of annual flowers arranged in a circular bed.

What a difference it makes for the early golfer on a course to spot maintenance workers in bunkers, on fairways or greens who actually look up and see if golfers are approaching — and momentarily step away from their task to let players proceed. Of course, it would help a lot to create a welcoming environment all around if those same golfers went out of their way to thank the crew for their efforts as they proceeded.

Out on the golf course, some things communicate a lot. I’m always made uneasy by the presence on tees of a standard vertical package of intrusions: ball washers, benches, towel stands, litter baskets and cemetery-style hole markers, replete with advertising from your local bowling alley or laundromat. Nothing says “cheesy” like this array of aesthetic incompetence.

The same goes for broken-down bunker faces, with the sand leaking all over, due to the constant grind of Sand Pros eating their way into the ground upon entry and egress. It’s a sure sign of labor shortage, budgetary decline and indifference on the part of management.

How much more expressive of stewardship and ecological regard are large stands of wildflowers, pollinator gardens and avian-protective habitat — including bird boxes — in out-of-play areas? Yes, those areas take a lot of work to establish. But they add so much to the feel of a golf course and provide much-welcome evidence of the game’s larger salutary identity.

For those of us professionally invested in the game, a look behind the scenes at a golf operation can provide loads of information about the maintenance culture. I’ve always thought that the ideal setup of any shop area would be one that was “interview ready” — in other words, something you’d be willing to show off to your next prospective employer as evidence of your care and professionalism. Even within the limits of an old steel Butler building and inadequate storage areas, it’s possible to let people know you care. Like having the garage floor in clean order, and a break room where the staff can relax, eat and not worry about mold, mildew or chemical traces.

By contrast, I recall my disappointment at courses where there were girlie pin-up magazines in the staff bathroom, or the wash shower stall was filled with storage equipment rather than available for use in an emergency. Nothing conveys contempt for your own personnel more than atavistic practices like that.

Like a secret shopper every time I play golf or visit a facility, I’m always on the lookout for these telltale signs. In an industry of small margins, they mark the difference between a facility that’s limping along and one that’s sprinting into the future sustainably.