The tee time doesn't care about your routine. It cares about whether you're ready to play.
I found that on a lot of golf courses we went to play on, the practice facilities were never big enough for everyone to do their gym sessions. Players would be standing around, talking to each other, not hitting golf balls — and they'd be standing in a place where another player could walk in and warm up before their tee time.
There always seemed to be that moment of a need to show people you stretch ten minutes before you hit a ball.
A person would come in and do this because they were told to. "It's the right way to do it before you play the game."
I disagree.
The right way is not a routine you're told to follow. It's what you need to be ready.
Some players need silence. Some need movement. Some need a few swings and a quiet mind. Standing in a crowded range, talking about nothing, waiting for your body to stretch — that's not preparation. That's just taking up space.
A range is to hit balls.
Because the tee time doesn't care about your routine. It cares about whether you're ready to play.
A Note on Winning
I was not a major winner. I don't want anyone to think I'm one of those famous golfers out there trying to brag. I'm not. I'm bragging about my life on tour. That was it. And I was amongst them. Every single top player I have played with. That's not a trophy. That's a life.
If you get the chance to walk down inside the ropes and look out — that's when you know you made it.
Not the trophy. Not the cheque. Not the name on the leaderboard. The walk inside the ropes. The view from the inside looking out.
It's also a lifestyle when you become inside the ropes. You're always being judged. And that judgment can be fantastic — a roar, a handshake, a nod from a player you've watched on TV. But sometimes that judgment can be humiliating.
Because your intentions become someone else's mouth. Someone else's gatherings. Someone else's story of what you did — when they weren't even there.
You can hit the shot of your life, and someone who wasn't there will tell a different version. You can say one thing, and it becomes ten things by the time it reaches the clubhouse.
That's the cost of being inside the ropes. You're visible. You're watched. And you're at the mercy of other people's narratives.
But you keep walking. You keep playing. You keep your own truth. Because the people who were there know. And that's enough.