Article #2 - The Summer I Worked Grounds Crew.

The summer after my freshman year of college, I worked grounds crew at a golf course. People hear that and always ask me, what was that job like? There's a scene in Shawshank Redemption where Andy Dufresne nearly gets thrown off the factory roof by Captain Hadley and says "I think a man working outdoors feels more like a man if he can have a bottle of suds." It was just like that, except I wasn't old enough to drink.

In my youthful wisdom, I came home from school with no plan and no prospects of a summer job. A family friend knew the superintendent at a local country club and suggested I pay him a visit. Easiest job interview I ever had. Firm handshake. Pulse? Drug-free? Will you get here on time? Can you lift 50 pounds? You're hired. That right there should've been a yellow flag. The summer help was like an older version of the Bad News Bears, an assembly of burners, athletes, formerly incarcerated, and the occasional misplaced female.

Even more interesting was the unspoken class system. It wasn't what you think. Pete, the Superintendent, was the undisputed king of the jungle. The only thing more jarring than his bark when he yelled at you was his stature. He was 6'5" and the quintessential curmudgeon. As you’ll find at most courses, the second in command was his trusted sidekick, a (seemingly 225-year-old) golden retriever. Next was Pete's henchmen, his assistant superintendents. They had very different management styles. One would tear you apart on the spot if you screwed up, but he’d never rat you out to the old man. The other was all smiles and encouragement to your face, then he'd run straight back to the boss like a hall monitor. Either way, you were getting chewed out—it was just a question of when.

Now, you'd think the next tier of grass manicurists might include yours truly, but there's a sobering reality about the pecking order of help at a golf course—summer help lives below the earth's surface. The real middle class were the year-round migrant workers. At our course, that meant Mexicans who worked there every single day, not just when school was out. They maintained equipment in the winter. They knew every inch of that property. They didn't speak English. We didn't speak Spanish. Most days, we just tried to make each other laugh while we worked.

The worst part about the gig wasn't being treated like sewer people, it was the 4 AM wake-ups. I don't care what Mark Wahlberg says, humans aren't made to get up that early. It was a massive oversight on my part. I never stopped to think that in order for the local noblemen and magistrates to tee off at 6:45 AM, someone had to cut the grass first. That someone was me. Mowing greens left to right would've been tough enough on a good night's sleep—try doing it when your alarm clock feels like a fire truck siren. When you get to work before the sun comes up, bedtime comes early. It was dark when I went to bed and dark when I woke up. It felt like living in Alaska during winter.

To add insult to injury, my friends and I rented a beach house that summer. Calling it a house was the world's greatest compliment—it was a shack. It didn’t matter. Everything was set up for the kind of summer break you can only experience in an eighties coming-of-age movie. I thought it was going to be like Ski Patrol. It ended up more like Weekend at Bernie's—except I was Bernie. Instead of booze and babes, all I saw most nights was the back of my eyelids. But going to bed (happily) by 8PM is what kept me from driving a golf cart into a sand trap.

Even still, I didn't make it through the summer accident-free. On my first day on the job, I butchered a tee box. Pete's stepson worked at the club too, and we knew each other from high school. He was teaching me how to use a reel mower. He told me to cut a border around the tee before striping the lines, and my brain malfunctioned. It took eight to ten feet of scalping the long grass before I realized the border was meant to line the inside of the tee box. It probably wasn't my worst mistake of the summer, but it's the one I remember most.

It wasn't all doom and gloom. Working outside was a joy. My friends from school had jobs waiting tables, refilling vending machines, and making sandwiches at a deli. I got paid to breathe fresh air and work on my tan at the same time. In addition to turning golden bronze, I put on about 10 pounds of muscle. It was an unintended outcome of digging up soil for days on end. Waking up early and cutting grass was light work– the heavy lifting was done after lunch.

Once the members were out on the course playing their rounds, that's when the grunt work started. Drainage ditches. Moving rocks. Hauling equipment. The kind of manual labor that makes your back hurt just thinking about it years later. By lunchtime– which came around 10AM because we'd been working since 4– I was absolutely starving. I've never been so excited for a lunch break in any job, before or since. I'd demolish whatever I brought like I hadn't eaten in days.

I’m not sure I returned to school with a respect for the work, but I certainly learned how much time, money, and effort goes into maintaining a golf course. The equipment alone costs a fortune. The materials, the chemicals, the constant upkeep– it never ends. I learned that being a golf course superintendent requires a real education. You need to understand different types of grass, soil conditions, fertilizer chemistry, and drainage systems. It's not just "water the grass and cut it."

I did learn what it means to do real manual labor. The kind that leaves you so exhausted you can barely stand by the end of the day. The kind that makes you appreciate anyone who does physical work for a living.

It was nothing like Caddyshack. We didn't get to swim in the club pool. Not once.

It was brutal, back-breaking, and exhausting, but it was also one of the most formative summers I've ever had. It taught me what I was good at and what I wasn't. It motivated me to use my brain instead of my back. It gave me a respect for golf courses—and the people who maintain them—that I carry to this day.

Ironically, two decades later, I'd find myself founding a golf brand.