Golf is a wonderful, challenging game, as long as you can escape the stench of white, male privilege. In the clubhouse, it's as bad as it can be: men with moustaches in striped polo shirts, talking about their new SUV, occasionally with a wife in tow who's thinking about the dinner party she'll throw next week. Freshly scrubbed blond girls drive drink carts around, hoping for tips from the nouveau riche who are still cheap bastards ("Hey honey, how the hell do you think I got rich in the first place?"). The parking lot is full of cars with the word "luxury" somewhere in the model name.

If you actually golf, though, you'll find yourself on the course at some point, alone, looking at your ball sitting next to a tree, wondering how the fuck you'll swing without wrapping your club around a branch. You'll realize that there could be hordes of Navajo Indians riding wild stallions through the clubhouse, and you'd still be faced with the fact that swinging the club properly involves relaxing and looking at the ball as your arms are pulled through the proper arc by your hips. You may even think that how much money you have in the bank, or what kind of car you drive, or whether your clubs cost more than the braces you once wore, just doesn't matter since the essential problem now is keeping your arm straight.

It's a game that was co-opted by privilege, much to the game's detriment.