Opinion & Analysis
Finding solace in golf

Among other things, they call him a friend.
There is a secure reckoning in Tony Ferrell’s tread; every turn in the golf shop leads him to something –- and in this case, someone -– familiar.
Happy Valley Country Club — population 235 — is not a vast continuum of old money, privilege or status. By contrast, the sharpest points of its spectrum are found in dollar bets, the last few hands played on a Wednesday evening and the speakeasy nature of its membership.
Most of the club’s longstanding bourgeois have parted ways with their given name –- some enthusiastically, some reluctantly -– in favor of a moniker truly befitting their disposition.
Glide. Skeeter. Candy. Nokahoma. Rickonite. Canted faces, built on the backs of grandiose tales, on a mocked-up Rushmore.
“It’s the people. There’s a brotherhood here,” Ferrell says.
Indeed. They are one against all comers, more than capable of marking each other’s shadow in a darkened alley. Furthermore, and perhaps most important, is their ability to know when that grayed figure, albeit out of reach, is in need of a helping hand.
And Ferrell’s bearing –- whether as acting presider of the men’s golf association, or tending bar, or splitting trees after a hurricane, or telling a member to “call home, immediately” — is not obligatory, nor the genesis of a debt left unpaid.
It is the spirit of camaraderie.
Perhaps brothers best define this force; riding atop the crest of time together in the tide, well beyond inside jokes, and settled in the merriment of an emergency nine holes.
This is Tony Ferrell’s home, and his second Happy Valley -– one markedly different from the first.
Among other things, they call him honorable.
He watched, as did the naivety of America, and waited.
“They (the United States Army) were drafting so many in such a short period of time,” he recalls, “and I applied for the National Guard. But there was a list. A long list.”
Vietnam –- the irony still mocks him.
“By the time I was eligible,” he said, “I already had three weeks in boot camp.”
Grueling five-mile runs, homesick. Classroom sessions, homesick. Weapons training, homesick. Pick up the man around you, soldier –- he is homesick, too.
“It was scary,” he says, “I grew up on a farm. And in four months, everything changed. I got married in September of ’65, and I was in the Army by February of ’66.”
Basic training, his crude goodbye to adolescence, was in Fort Gordon, Ga., -– just a stone’s skip from Alister MacKenzie’s famed architectural masterpiece, Augusta National.
But, as he recalls, “I didn’t know anything about golf, and didn’t care. When the Masters was played, they let us take a vacation.”
Any furlough, however, was short lived.
Happy Valley, a nickname given the rugged terrain southwest of Qu?ng Nam Province –- and a primary North Vietnamese tactical position -– lay in wait.
And along with countless young men who looked just like him –- green, jittery on the trigger, and full of dreams otherwise –- Tony Ferrell began a descent into madness.
Among other things, they call him dedicated.
Someone kicked the rail of his bunk.
“Hey, Ferrell,” the man said, “Congratulations. You have an eight-pound, 10-ounce boy.”
He doesn’t recall who told him the news; not that it mattered. In two years, and still a month shy of his 21st birthday, he had traversed life in total –- farm boy, husband, soldier and now, father.
“I’m from Lucama, N.C.,” he said, “just as far away from home as you can get.”
His voice trails.
“I thought, I’ll probably never see him,” he said.
A soldier’s intuition.
It is a valuable part of infantry life, a way to preserve those closest to you — and very much a natural by-product of watching dreams explode, the daily threat of jungle rot and love letters sent home by dead men.
But even by Hell’s new standard, something was wrong. He knew it. With only 45 days left in the broiler plate, an eerie premonition settled over him -– one that would not relent.
“The night before all this, I told a friend of mine, another squad leader, ‘Something’s going to happen to me tomorrow,’” he recalled.
The next morning, as Ferrell’s men organized a position necessary to relieve a weary night patrol, a Viet Cong soldier ran through the perimeter’s post.
Charlie blinked, and his goal -– part concentrated chaos, part death en masse — was achieved.
“We took fire,” Ferrell recalls, “And I got lucky; the first bullet that hit me knocked me down.”
He never felt the impact. The crossfire entered just underneath his breastplate; it seared through his skin, glanced down the collar bone, and exited near the fold of his right arm.
“I was face down on the ground,” he said. “Trembling. Every time my heart beat, blood came out of my mouth.”
It was eight in the morning. It was his 21st birthday, and his son had been alive just three weeks.
Among other things, they call him loyal.
He was in the wrong pile.
Amongst a litany of the dead, wounded, and those not expected to survive their maker’s call — he attempted to move, to highlight for anyone that his life, though in jeopardy, remained loosely intact.
“Everything was moving in slow motion,” Ferrell noted. “I couldn’t hear anything. I kept going in and out.”
He would die there, by God’s grace, with the rest of them. Back home, family would tell stories. His widow would receive an impeccably folded flag. Taps would be played.
His son would have only pictures.
“They just happened to see me trying to get up,” he said, “and got me inside a medic tent. I could see a great big, white light, and people with masks on around me.”
A squadron helicopter circled back for the farm boy from Lucama. Time was on the vine, dangling.
“Those choppers had nothing but wall-to-wall radios,” he said. “I remember seeing the equipment, everything turning red –- and I kind of knew what that was.”
One rotor blade after another, he rose into the azure sky, high above the blood-stained floor of Conrad’s darkness.
He thought of his friends; there were other farm boys, too.
Among other things, they call him fearless.
His return home was met with no ticker tape parade; the main street of America -– at least for Ferrell –- was closed. Public opinion was divided, and our soldiers fodder for its ranging passion.
America had become immutable.
“If you ever saw the movie ‘We Were Soldiers,’ when one of our guys was pushing his buddy in a wheelchair, through the airport, the people wouldn’t walk close to them,” he says.
The film’s facsimile is all too clear.
“One lady grabbed her daughter,” he said, “and pulled her to the other side of the terminal. That’s the feeling you had -– that all of us had.”
Like many others, he pondered life anew. There were endless days of wracked silence, fury, guilt and visions of mind-numbing horror that would never be erased.
“I tried to wipe out everything,” he says, “I drank. Never mentioned anything about my company. Never looked at my pictures.”
He pauses, wearing the long look of the dead pile.
“My friends weren’t with me,” he recalls, “and I didn’t have my rifle.”
Among other things, they call him grateful.
No. 15 at Happy Valley Country Club prefers a gentleman’s fade from the tee; measuring only 315 yards, it hardly qualifies as a task insurmountable.
Here, bets are doubled; salty verbiage flies, as one might expect from names like Glide, Skeeter, Candy, Nokahoma and Rickonite.
The perfectly struck drive can, however, receive the proper bounce and with any luck, leave the deserving author a bid for eagle.
In an instant, things can change.
Ferrell’s round that Sunday resembled many he has played at Happy Valley Country Club. It was a charted study in normalcy, complete with the ridiculous and splendid.
There were fairways hit, three putts, bogeys and birdies — marks of layman’s golf on the card.
His cell phone rang.
“It was my wife,” Ferrell recalls, “she said I had a very strange message — from a guy who said he was in Vietnam with me.”
Thirty-seven years. He was scared again, just like Fort Gordon. Just like the night before his birthday. Just like coming home.
“What if this guy is real?” he asked himself.
It was nearing midnight.
Ferrell clutched the piece of paper. Looked at the phone number for an eternity, each time hoping the numerals would disappear. If they did, he wouldn’t have to go back.
“I’m trying to picture this guy,” he recalls of the moment. “But I just couldn’t remember. I had wiped all of that stuff away.”
The voice wasn’t instantly recognizable -– too many years had now passed, and too much time had been spent parting with his deeds done for God and country.
“Look at your pictures,” the man said.
Piece by fragmented piece, it came back to him. LRP rations. An Khe District. Night patrol. The matrix laden, earsplitting burst of a Claymore mine. His first trip through Happy Valley.
He longed for his rifle; that would make him safe.
But the boys of Delta Company, 2nd Battalion, 12th Brigade, First Calvary Division –- Ferrell’s unit -– had survived the mayhem of his birthday in the jungle.
And to a man, at every reunion since, they had asked about him.
Among other things, they never call him a hero.
Sgt. Tony Rose Ferrell, United States Army, is not the flowing, regal cape of a graphic novelist’s inkwell. He is not the ninth inning grand slam we dreamt of hitting as teenagers, nor a jersey canonized in the rafters of a gymnasium.
He is more, and unfortunately, often what we take for granted — a father’s timely counsel, an easy smile, an honest day’s work in the golf shop, and the corner chair of the Wednesday night poker tournament.
“Life has been great to me,” he says, “really great to me. I have a son, a daughter, and five of the prettiest grandchildren you’ve ever seen. I’ve been rewarded to the max.”
He shifts in his chair. “Blessed,” he says.
The jungle still echoes, still prowls his dreams. But its cacophonous hymn is somewhat softer now –- he knows they made it.
This weekend, the 10 o’clock crowd will gather in its usual regalia at Happy Valley Country Club. Dollar bills and barbs will be exchanged. The same stories, about the same exploits, will be given new life.
And Tony Ferrell will be there –- he’s a company man.
Opinion & Analysis
The 2 primary challenges golf equipment companies face

As the editor-in-chief of this website and an observer of the GolfWRX forums and other online golf equipment discourse for over a decade, I’m pretty well attuned to the grunts and grumbles of a significant portion of the golf equipment purchasing spectrum. And before you accuse me of lording above all in some digital ivory tower, I’d like to offer that I worked at golf courses (public and private) for years prior to picking up my pen, so I’m well-versed in the non-degenerate golf equipment consumers out there. I touched (green)grass (retail)!
Complaints about the ills of and related to the OEMs usually follow some version of: Product cycles are too short for real innovation, tour equipment isn’t the same as retail (which is largely not true, by the way), too much is invested in marketing and not enough in R&D, top staffer X hasn’t even put the new driver in play, so it’s obviously not superior to the previous generation, prices are too high, and on and on.
Without digging into the merits of any of these claims, which I believe are mostly red herrings, I’d like to bring into view of our rangefinder what I believe to be the two primary difficulties golf equipment companies face.
One: As Terry Koehler, back when he was the CEO of Ben Hogan, told me at the time of the Ft Worth irons launch, if you can’t regularly hit the golf ball in a coin-sized area in the middle of the face, there’s not a ton that iron technology can do for you. Now, this is less true now with respect to irons than when he said it, and is less and less true by degrees as the clubs get larger (utilities, fairways, hybrids, drivers), but there remains a great deal of golf equipment truth in that statement. Think about it — which is to say, in TL;DR fashion, get lessons from a qualified instructor who will teach you about the fundamentals of repeatable impact and how the golf swing works, not just offer band-aid fixes. If you can’t repeatably deliver the golf club to the golf ball in something resembling the manner it was designed for, how can you expect to be getting the most out of the club — put another way, the maximum value from your investment?
Similarly, game improvement equipment can only improve your game if you game it. In other words, get fit for the clubs you ought to be playing rather than filling the bag with the ones you wish you could hit or used to be able to hit. Of course, don’t do this if you don’t care about performance and just want to hit a forged blade while playing off an 18 handicap. That’s absolutely fine. There were plenty of members in clubs back in the day playing Hogan Apex or Mizuno MP-32 irons who had no business doing so from a ballstriking standpoint, but they enjoyed their look, feel, and complementary qualities to their Gatsby hats and cashmere sweaters. Do what brings you a measure of joy in this maddening game.
Now, the second issue. This is not a plea for non-conforming equipment; rather, it is a statement of fact. USGA/R&A limits on every facet of golf equipment are detrimental to golf equipment manufacturers. Sure, you know this, but do you think about it as it applies to almost every element of equipment? A 500cc driver would be inherently more forgiving than a 460cc, as one with a COR measurement in excess of 0.83. 50-inch shafts. Box grooves. And on and on.
Would fewer regulations be objectively bad for the game? Would this erode its soul? Fortunately, that’s beside the point of this exercise, which is merely to point out the facts. The fact, in this case, is that equipment restrictions and regulations are the slaughterbench of an abundance of innovation in the golf equipment space. Is this for the best? Well, now I’ve asked the question twice and might as well give a partial response, I guess my answer to that would be, “It depends on what type of golf you’re playing and who you’re playing it with.”
For my part, I don’t mind embarrassing myself with vintage blades and persimmons chasing after the quasi-spiritual elevation of a well-struck shot, but that’s just me. Plenty of folks don’t give a damn if their grooves are conforming. Plenty of folks think the folks in Liberty Corner ought to add a prison to the museum for such offences. And those are just a few of the considerations for the amateur game — which doesn’t get inside the gallery ropes of the pro game…
Different strokes in the game of golf, in my humble opinion.
Anyway, I believe equipment company engineers are genuinely trying to build better equipment year over year. The marketing departments are trying to find ways to make this equipment appeal to the broadest segment of the golf market possible. All of this against (1) the backdrop of — at least for now — firm product cycles. And golfers who, with their ~15 average handicap (men), for the most part, are not striping the golf ball like Tiger in his prime and seem to have less and less time year over year to practice and improve. (2) Regulations that massively restrict what they’re able to do…
That’s the landscape as I see it and the real headwinds for golf equipment companies. No doubt, there’s more I haven’t considered, but I think the previous is a better — and better faith — point of departure when formulating any serious commentary on the golf equipment world than some of the more cynical and conspiratorial takes I hear.
Agree? Disagree? Think I’m worthy of an Adam Hadwin-esque security guard tackle? Let me know in the comments.
@golfoncbs The infamous Adam Hadwin tackle ? #golf #fyp #canada #pgatour #adamhadwin ? Ghibli-style nostalgic waltz – MaSssuguMusic
Podcasts
Fore Love of Golf: Introducing a new club concept

Episode #16 brings us Cliff McKinney. Cliff is the founder of Old Charlie Golf Club, a new club, and concept, to be built in the Florida panhandle. The model is quite interesting and aims to make great, private golf more affordable. We hope you enjoy the show!
Opinion & Analysis
On Scottie Scheffler wondering ‘What’s the point of winning?’

Last week, I came across a reel from BBC Sport on Instagram featuring Scottie Scheffler speaking to the media ahead of The Open at Royal Portrush. In it, he shared that he often wonders what the point is of wanting to win tournaments so badly — especially when he knows, deep down, that it doesn’t lead to a truly fulfilling life.
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“Is it great to be able to win tournaments and to accomplish the things I have in the game of golf? Yeah, it brings tears to my eyes just to think about it because I’ve literally worked my entire life to be good at this sport,” Scheffler said. “To have that kind of sense of accomplishment, I think, is a pretty cool feeling. To get to live out your dreams is very special, but at the end of the day, I’m not out here to inspire the next generation of golfers. I’m not out here to inspire someone to be the best player in the world, because what’s the point?”
Ironically — or perhaps perfectly — he went on to win the claret jug.
That question — what’s the point of winning? — cuts straight to the heart of the human journey.
As someone who’s spent over two decades in the trenches of professional golf, and in deep study of the mental, emotional, and spiritual dimensions of the game, I see Scottie’s inner conflict as a sign of soul evolution in motion.
I came to golf late. I wasn’t a junior standout or college All-American. At 27, I left a steady corporate job to see if I could be on the PGA Tour starting as a 14-handicap, average-length hitter. Over the years, my journey has been defined less by trophies and more by the relentless effort to navigate the deeply inequitable and gated system of professional golf — an effort that ultimately turned inward and helped me evolve as both a golfer and a person.
One perspective that helped me make sense of this inner dissonance around competition and our culture’s tendency to overvalue winning is the idea of soul evolution.
The University of Virginia’s Division of Perceptual Studies has done extensive research on reincarnation, and Netflix’s Surviving Death (Episode 6) explores the topic, too. Whether you take it literally or metaphorically, the idea that we’re on a long arc of growth — from beginner to sage elder — offers a profound perspective.
If you accept the premise literally, then terms like “young soul” and “old soul” start to hold meaning. However, even if we set the word “soul” aside, it’s easy to see that different levels of life experience produce different worldviews.
Newer souls — or people in earlier stages of their development — may be curious and kind but still lack discernment or depth. There is a naivety, and they don’t yet question as deeply, tending to see things in black and white, partly because certainty feels safer than confronting the unknown.
As we gain more experience, we begin to experiment. We test limits. We chase extreme external goals — sometimes at the expense of health, relationships, or inner peace — still operating from hunger, ambition, and the fragility of the ego.
It’s a necessary stage, but often a turbulent and unfulfilling one.
David Duval fell off the map after reaching World No. 1. Bubba Watson had his own “Is this it?” moment with his caddie, Ted Scott, after winning the Masters.
In Aaron Rodgers: Enigma, reflecting on his 2011 Super Bowl win, Rodgers said:
“Now I’ve accomplished the only thing that I really, really wanted to do in my life. Now what? I was like, ‘Did I aim at the wrong thing? Did I spend too much time thinking about stuff that ultimately doesn’t give you true happiness?’”
Jim Carrey once said, “I think everybody should get rich and famous and do everything they ever dreamed of so they can see that it’s not the answer.”
Eventually, though, something shifts.
We begin to see in shades of gray. Winning, dominating, accumulating—these pursuits lose their shine. The rewards feel more fleeting. Living in a constant state of fight-or-flight makes us feel alive, yes, but not happy and joyful.
Compassion begins to replace ambition. Love, presence, and gratitude become more fulfilling than status, profits, or trophies. We crave balance over burnout. Collaboration over competition. Meaning over metrics.
Interestingly, if we zoom out, we can apply this same model to nations and cultures. Countries, like people, have a collective “soul stage” made up of the individuals within them.
Take the United States, for example. I’d place it as a mid-level soul: highly competitive and deeply driven, but still learning emotional maturity. Still uncomfortable with nuance. Still believing that more is always better. Despite its global wins, the U.S. currently ranks just 23rd in happiness (as of 2025). You might liken it to a gifted teenager—bold, eager, and ambitious, but angsty and still figuring out how to live well and in balance. As much as a parent wants to protect their child, sometimes the child has to make their own mistakes to truly grow.
So when Scottie Scheffler wonders what the point of winning is, I don’t see someone losing strength.
I see someone evolving.
He’s beginning to look beyond the leaderboard. Beyond metrics of success that carry a lower vibration. And yet, in a poetic twist, Scheffler did go on to win The Open. But that only reinforces the point: even at the pinnacle, the question remains. And if more of us in the golf and sports world — and in U.S. culture at large — started asking similar questions, we might discover that the more meaningful trophy isn’t about accumulating or beating others at all costs.
It’s about awakening and evolving to something more than winning could ever promise.
Tim Wiggs
May 15, 2014 at 9:31 pm
So proud to have worked with you at The Wilson PD all those years. Tha nks for being the friend and great guy that you are.
Tim
Kitty and Donnie
Sep 1, 2013 at 12:36 pm
Proud to call you our friend.
Jim Swan
Apr 9, 2013 at 5:39 pm
A brilliant writer writing about a real American hero. This is the kind of story this country needs more of.
Gabe Brogden
Apr 5, 2013 at 6:49 am
Great article! Justin. You are a talented writer!
Cyd
Apr 4, 2013 at 8:13 am
God Bless
Yvonne Hedgepeth
Apr 3, 2013 at 9:43 pm
You were – and still are – my hero!
I love you and am very proud to call you brother,
Bondi
Johnny evans
Apr 3, 2013 at 9:10 pm
Great read, thanks Tony for your service.It would be an honor to play and meet with you in person. I am from Ro Rap.
mary ordess
Apr 3, 2013 at 10:32 am
very nice! so happy and honored to call him my stepdad
J
Apr 2, 2013 at 3:13 am
Appreciate the honor of reading the story. Appreciate your service Sir.
Well written. Thanks.
Chippster
Apr 2, 2013 at 12:03 am
1) Thanks for your service, Tony.
2) Nice piece of writing, Justin.
Marc Kilgore
Apr 1, 2013 at 11:35 pm
I really enjoyed that well written piece. Nice work.