The Challenge Isn’t the Ball, but the Person

Image: Bob at Nite Moves wearing his race bib. (Location: Santa Barbara, CA)

Image: Bob's golf coaching setting him up to putt.

Since moving from the Boston area to Santa Barbara, my wife and I have felt warmly embraced—by the people, the sunshine, the sea air, and the abundance of fresh fruits and vegetables. What I didn’t expect was the welcome I received on the local golf course practice green one morning.

As a member of the United States Blind Golf Association, I play with the help of a sighted coach. My coach sets me up to the ball, describes the layout of each hole, and guides me around the course. It's a partnership built on trust, rhythm, and a shared love of the game.

On this particular morning, a wonderful gentleman—who had previously coached a blind golfer—offered to guide me through 18 holes. Since we hadn’t worked together before, we met early at the practice putting green to warm up and establish our rhythm.

Just as we were lining up my first putt, a stranger approached and asked, in a surprisingly blunt tone, “You can’t see, right?”

I replied that I had no usable vision—just a bit of light perception. Without missing a beat, he followed up with, “Why on earth would you want to play golf?” His tone was negative, almost dismissive.

I explained that golf is a beautiful way to enjoy the outdoors, spend time with people I enjoy, and—because the ball doesn’t move—it’s one of the few sports accessible to me with a coach's help. But it was clear he wasn’t listening. Instead, he launched into a rant about how hard golf is, implying I didn’t belong there.

He made sure to mention that he was a “scratch” golfer and a doctor, and claimed that even he struggled to play as the light dimmed—so surely, someone like me couldn’t possibly play.

I sensed my coach—who grew up on the streets of Brooklyn—was trying very hard not to let this man’s condescension push him over the edge. It wasn’t the question that bothered me; many people are genuinely curious and respectful when they ask about blind golf. But this man wasn’t curious—he was judgmental, patronizing, and, frankly, rude.

He clearly needed either a refresher in empathy… or a lesson in bedside manner.
I calmly told him that while I’d be happy to continue the conversation another time, our tee time was approaching, and we needed the practice time together. I politely asked him to excuse us. We walked away; he stormed off the green.

Not the most inspiring way to start a round—but the day was beautiful, my coach was a joy to work with, and yes… I did strike that damnable ball.

Some days, victory isn’t just measured in strokes—it’s measured in grace.

​By Robert Resnick