I see a lot of you out there. Knuckles white, teeth grinding, a vein popping in your forehead because you left a ten-foot putt an inch short. You look like you’re trying to solve a complex math problem, not hit a little white ball into a slightly larger hole. You’re trying so hard, you can’t even see what you’re doing.

A long time ago, the Dalai Lama himself, a big hitter, told me something that’s stuck with me. “Total consciousness.” So I got that goin’ for me, which is nice. But what does that mean for you, standing over a 4-iron with water on the right and nothing but trouble on the left?

It means you have to stop thinking.

That little voice in your head? The one reminding you about your slice, or that you duffed the last chip, or that Judge Smails is watching from the clubhouse patio? You need to tell that voice to take a little vacation. Send it to the 19th hole for a Fresca. Your brain is a powerful tool, but on the golf course, it’s usually on the other team’s payroll.

The secret is simple. You have to be the ball.

Now, don’t take it literally. You don’t need to become a dimpled sphere of Surlyn. That’s a whole other level of Zen, and honestly, the lawnmowers are a real hazard. To “be the ball” is to see the shot before it happens. It’s a feeling. You look at the target, you see the flight of the ball in your mind-a nice, gentle draw landing softly on the green-and then you just… let it happen.

Think of it like this: you are the ball, the club is just an extension of your arm, and your arm is just a noodle doing what the universe tells it to do. See it, feel it, and then let your body take over. Nanananana…

The more you force it, the worse it gets. It’s like trying to hold water in your fist. You squeeze with all your might, and it just slips through your fingers. But if you relax, cup your hands gently, you can hold it. Your golf swing is the same. Loosen that death grip, relax your shoulders, and just let the club flow.

Golf isn’t a game of perfect. It’s a game of managing the imperfect. It’s about finding that one pure shot in a round that makes you feel connected to everything. That’s the feeling that brings you back. So next time you’re out there, take a deep breath. Look at the trees, listen to the birds, and remember that you’re just a blip in the cosmos hitting a ball with a stick.

Empty the bucket. Stop trying. And just be the ball. You’ll be surprised at what happens when you get out of your own way.

If this little nugget of wisdom helps you find your flow, do me a favor and share it with a friend who’s stuck in their head. The world needs less thinking and more ‘nanananana’. And for more insights from the links, follow us on social media. It’s the Zen thing to do.

Well, another Ryder Cup is in the books. And while the scoreboard didn’t exactly sing a sweet American victory tune, the fans… oh, the fans. They certainly hit a high note, even if it was occasionally a little off-key and yelled with a thick Long Island accent.

For those of you who spent the weekend blissfully unaware of the happenings near the big city, let me set the scene. The ultimate transatlantic golf showdown landed in our backyard—specifically, on Long Island, New York. And when you put a major sporting event in a place known for a certain… enthusiasm (and perhaps a few loud opinions about how to drive on the LIE), things are bound to get interesting.

Now, before the entire Tri-State area cancels my membership (if I even had one), let me clarify. Golf fans, by and large, are the best. They appreciate a great shot, know when to clap, and generally understand that “Hole in One!” is not, in fact, an acceptable battle cry on the tee box.

But then there’s the Ryder Cup. It’s like a regular golf tournament went to a party, had too many energy drinks, and decided to wear a very loud, oversized foam Statue of Liberty hat.

The Long Island Effect

Let’s be honest. Long Island has a reputation. We’re talking about people who love their sports, are fiercely loyal, and occasionally view volume control as a suggestion, not a rule. They’re the kind of fans who make you feel like you should be ordering a hot dog with “the works” and shouting “Yankees!” even if it’s a golf tournament.

This weekend, that famed Long Island swagger was on full display. We saw a few… vocal individuals who clearly believed that the European players needed to be personally informed of every single American’s opinion regarding their putting stroke. Were there chants? You bet. Were there questionable fashion choices in red, white, and blue? Oh, absolutely. I’m pretty sure I saw one guy wearing a Captain America cape and trying to do a chest bump with a security guard.

My advice to those particular patrons? Learn a thing or two from the Zen of the fairway. As I always say, “Nirvana is not as far as you think.” Or, in this case, “Maybe just applaud the guy’s bogey and move on.”

The Quiet Majority

Here’s the thing that often gets lost in the hullabaloo, especially when a broadcast camera zeroes in on the three loudest guys in the grandstands: Most American golf fans were fantastic.

For every chap heckling a European player (which, by the way, is not what golf is about, fellas), there were a hundred others politely murmuring their appreciation, setting a fine example, and genuinely enjoying the world-class golf being played. They’re the silent, appreciative backbone of the gallery—the ones who understand that the real drama is between the golfer and the ball, not between the spectator and his blood alcohol level.

The U.S. is a big place, and our golf culture is deep and respectful. We don’t all act like we’re waiting for the Islanders to score a game-winner. In fact, most of us look at those over-the-top antics and shake our heads with a wry smile, thinking, “Oh, those guys. They must be from the Island.”

A Lesson in Chill

So, to my fellow Americans who might have earned us a reputation for being the loudest kids in the sandbox this weekend: Take a breath. Take a page out of my book. Be the ball. Let the good vibrations flow.

Next time, maybe we could exchange the constant cheering for the serene sound of a well-struck iron. And perhaps trade in that enormous foam finger for a nice, understated pair of sunglasses.

We love the passion, we love the patriotism, but let’s remember that golf is a gentleman’s game. Even when it’s played by guys who might still think a nine-iron is something you use to fight off traffic on the Southern State Parkway.

Keep it classy, America. And maybe next time, let’s win the Cup quietly—or at least, with a little less yelling and a lot more accurate putts.

There’s something about Bethpage that makes the heart beat a little faster. Maybe it’s the sign—the infamous warning at the first tee: “The Black Course is an extremely difficult course which we recommend only for highly skilled golfers.” Or maybe it’s the ghosts of past Opens—Phil’s near-miss in 2002, Tiger’s steely win that same year, or the soaked chaos of 2009. Whatever it is, the return of the U.S. Open to Bethpage Black promises a test of grit, patience, and pure golf artistry.

As we count down the weeks, the buzz is building. The New York crowd—famously rowdy, proudly loyal, and brutally honest—is ready. And so are the players, many of whom call a win at Bethpage one of the greatest badges of honor in the game.

This isn’t your average Open venue. Bethpage, a public course with a working-class soul, doesn’t rely on country club prestige. It relies on its teeth—towering rough, penal bunkers, narrow fairways, and greens that demand nerves of steel. This is where champions are forged under pressure, where shot-making and strategy take center stage, and where mistakes are punished with merciless efficiency.

For golf fans, it’s also a spectacle. The energy at Bethpage is electric. It hums with the passion of true golf lovers who’ve stood in line at 4 a.m. just to play it. It’s a place where pros walk the same fairways as weekend warriors, and where every shot is met with a roar—or a groan—that echoes through the Long Island air.

What makes the U.S. Open at Bethpage special isn’t just the course. It’s the drama. The weather. The unpredictability. It’s the way the leaderboard tightens on Saturday and explodes on Sunday. It’s the way golf feels here—gritty, real, and raw.

As the best in the world prepare to battle one of the toughest tracks in America, fans everywhere should be ready for a tournament that will be talked about for years to come. Bethpage doesn’t just host Opens—it defines them.