Lessons from the old school

There’s an old adage that the best way to learn golf is to play with people better than you. But what does 'better' really mean? Is it simply shooting lower scores — or is it something else entirely?

What if 'better' means enjoying the walk, laughing between shots, or having played so many rounds that you've forgotten more than most will ever learn?

I didn’t learn golf from a flashy YouTube coach or a pro in a crisp polo. I learned it from a group of Golden Oldies — veterans of the game whose wisdom came not through polished lessons, but through quiet nudges, relentless piss-taking, and knowledge as deeply etched as the grooves on their wedges.

They were as dependable as a grandfather clock — if that clock had two knee replacements, a dodgy hip, and refused to play in the rain.

Still, you could find a variation of the group at the 8:00 and 8:10 tee times almost every day. There was a Mick, two Ians, two Tonys, a Graham, one Tim, a Roger, and a Phil (though Phil was less consistent).

I stumbled into this crew by accident. I had booked an 8:00am tee time, and at exactly 7:59, they arrived — right on cue, straight from their cars.

After some quick introductions, I was given four ground rules:

1. No rushing – golf is to be enjoyed, not hurried
2. No phones – they used to email about tee times, not text. Frankly, they’d probably still prefer to fax
3. Play ready golf – when you play with men of a certain age, it’s not unusual to tee off while someone’s making a dash into the bushes.
4. No sulking – what’s done is done. Hit it, find it, hit it again.

They said it wasn’t serious — just a friendly round. The only thing we played for was the loser buys the first drink in the clubhouse.

We teed off, and it quickly became clear this wasn’t just a hit-around with a bunch of retirees. It was a free golf lesson in disguise. Every wayward shot came with a tip: "Right, the reason you went wrong there was..." or "Try this next time..."

We reached the 19th hole, and as the newest member of the group, I was 'encouraged' to buy the drinks. So much for what was said back on the first tee.

Clearly not learning my lesson, I came back — and again met some version of the gang. They shared their thoughts on my swing, my clubs, and even my outfit. I don’t remember the exact insult, but it was something along the lines of me thinking I was Bryson DeShambles — who, I quickly gathered, was not the group’s favourite player.

(For anyone wondering, their favourites were Rory, or Tommy Fleetwood, if he’d just cut his hair.)

These blokes had once been very good golfers, and they knew that course like the back of their weathered hands. They knew the big oak tree on the fourth that marked 150 yards out. They knew the lines, the wind, and — most helpfully for a skint teenager — exactly where people were most likely to lose their golf balls.

Each of them left their mark on my game. Along with their endless advice (which they probably should’ve charged for), they handed me balls, tees, and even a club — which only cost me a pint. I still carry that club in my bag. I’ve no idea what brand it is or how old, but it’s a quiet, constant reminder of those rounds and everything I learned.

What those old boys gave me wasn’t just a better short game or a corrected putter grip — it was something more valuable.

They taught me that a good round isn’t judged by the scorecard, but by the stories told between shots, the silent nod after a well-struck iron, and the pint shared at the end.