Railway

The stone wall at Prestwick’s opening hole does not care for your handicap. It runs tight along the right flank, an unyielding gray partition separating the fairway from the iron rails of the Glasgow-to-Ayr line. On the card, the hole measures a scant 346 yards. In the mind, it is a narrow throat through which the ball must pass.

This is the ancestral home of the “Railway” template. Old Tom Morris understood that fear is a more effective hazard than length. The geometry forces a decision of uncomfortable absolutes. One may guide a nervous iron into the rough on the left, accepting a difficult angle, or one may challenge the boundary. The turf is firm, and the bounce is unpredictable. The green complex sits quietly at the end of the corridor, guarded not merely by sand, but by the lingering adrenaline of the tee shot.

The commuter train rattles past, indifferent to the slice sailing toward its windows. Logic dictates a conservative layup to the fat of the fairway. The ego, rarely quiet on the first tee, whispers for the driver. The result is often a reload. To walk off with a par here is to have embezzled a stroke from the gods of the links.