Edgewater Win something. Not the U.S. Open, probably—maybe not even the super senior flight of the Memorial Day Scotch Foursome—but a title of some kind in a contest that makes your heart pound when you’re called to the first tee. Surprisingly many golfers pass through the game without ever entering an organized competition and, therefore, without ever sampling their own adrenaline on a golf course. Competing is a good way to meet other golfers, and making a putt that means something while others watch is a thrill that doesn’t fade quickly. Harry Hurt III, in his book Chasing the Dream (about his failed attempt, during his early forties, to become a professional golfer), writes that his father, on his deathbed, didn’t know the day, the year, or the name his doctor, but did remember what he had shot when he won the pro-am at Seminole: “One over.” (In fact, those were his last words). My own father was a terrible golfer—when he talked about “one over,” he meant 101—but he had a golf trophy on his dresser, and for a number years he kept his clubs in a leather bag that was too heavy even to put on a golf cart. Both the trophy and the bag were prizes from some long-ago member-guest, forgotten by everyone but him.