My Blind Date With Victoria at the Presidents Cup

I didn’t know much about Victoria. I’d seen pictures. Beautiful. Heard good things. Likes wine. Outdoorsy. Really into golf.  

Then, last Friday, she invited me to the Presidents Cup.

Technically, Victoria is a state in Australia. And technically, I was invited by the people whose job it is to convince Americans like me to visit it. But we’re getting ahead of ourselves. First, I had to figure out what to wear.

I’d never been to a professional golf tournament. And I was going as a guest, into someone else’s suite, where there are presumably rules nobody tells you until you’ve already broken one.

I settled on Buck Mason Big Chinos, an Elk Head polo, a shaggy alpaca sweater, and Paraboot loafers. I didn’t look like anyone else. I also didn’t look out of place. A blind-date sartorial sweet spot, if I may.

I drove about an hour from Chicago to Medinah Country Club on Friday afternoon. I was running late and missed the first swing. So I took my time getting from entrance to suite.

It smelled of wet grass and cigar ash. People moved in packs. Freezing whenever play approached. Continuing when it passed.

A man appeared in front of me and raised a sign that read QUIET. The crowd obeyed. A ball was struck. The sign came down. The social life of the crowd continued.

This is the genius of watching golf in person. You walk. You talk. You drink. And every few minutes someone tells you to shut up and pay attention.

It’s mindfulness. It’s mindlessness.

Eventually, I found the Victoria suite. It overlooked the 14th green, and my contact person was waiting inside. She works for a PR firm. And PR people are kind of like realtors. They’re good at making you feel at home in any house. Or suite, in this case.

To clarify, I’m not some VIP guest. The invitation fell into my lap about a week earlier. Presumably several more important people had scheduling conflicts, and I just happened to be around and available. 

I expected to politely stand in a corner, make appropriate small talk when approached, and leave basically undetected. Instead, people started introducing themselves immediately. Some had Australian accents. Ash Barty even made an appearance. Others were guests from (Chicago-based) United Airlines. Someone from the LA Rams had just returned from Melbourne for the 49ers-Rams game. Mid-conversation, someone approached to update her on the handling of her luggage from hotel to airport.

Next door was the NetJets suite, separated from us by a shin-high fence. During a particularly dramatic putt, a woman on their side reflexively grabbed my arm. She apologized several times. It’s the closest I’ve come to flying private.

For a few hours, the suite became its own strange little neighborhood. Strangers leaning over railings together. Drinks appearing and disappearing. Introductions being made. People gasping at putts. And slowly, I started learning a little more about my date.

Victoria, it turns out, is not casually into golf.

Melbourne’s famed Sandbelt is packed with championship courses, including Royal Melbourne, Kingston Heath, Metropolitan, Victoria Golf Club, and more. Royal Melbourne has already hosted the Presidents Cup three times, including 1998, the International Team’s only victory. In 2028, the tournament returns to Melbourne for a fourth go. This time at Kingston Heath, where Tiger Woods, Gary Player, Adam Scott, and Karrie Webb are among those who have won tournaments over the years.

There’s even a strange little bridge between where I was standing and where the tournament is headed. OCM, the Australian golf architecture firm, redesigned Medinah’s Course No. 3 ahead of this Presidents Cup. The firm has also done work at Kingston Heath. And OCM’s own Geoff Ogilvy, who grew up around the Melbourne Sandbelt, captained the International Team at Medinah. 

Australia’s influence had been hiding underneath my feet all afternoon.

By the time I made the trek back to my car, I understood golf in a deeper way. The walking. The talking. The intimacy of standing shoulder-to-shoulder with strangers, all getting quiet as we waited for something to happen. The swing. The eruption. Then everyone returning to whatever they were talking about before the QUIET sign went up.

I understood Victoria a little better, too. Enough to know I’d like to see her again. Perhaps at the next Presidents Cup at Kingston Heath in 2028.

Victoria, if you’re reading this, I had a nice time. Call me.