The American Biarritz

The ninth at Yale sits uneasy on the land, a cathedral of turf demanding a carry over the dark water of Lake Wepawaug. It is a hole of violent scale. The green complex stretches nearly 65 yards, severed by a swale deep enough to swallow a man whole. The flanking bunkers, large enough to be hazards on any other course, are rendered insignificant by the trench that bisects the putting surface. The shot requires a long iron struck with conviction, asking the player to find the correct tier or rely on the ground to chase the ball through the valley.

C.B. Macdonald found his muse in the “Chasm” at Biarritz, but at Yale, the concept was pushed to its absolute limit. Carved from the rocky Connecticut hillside during the high optimism of the twenties, the shelf exists only through the force of dynamite and will. Where modern interpretations often reduce the swale to a polite ripple, Yale offers a five-foot trough. Whether maintained at fairway height or green speed, the geometry remains hostile.

To find the front tier when the pin sits on the back is to understand the futility of the sport. It is less a putt and more a negotiation with gravity. Standing over the ball, staring into the hollow, the instinct is to reach for a wedge—a sin against the superintendent, perhaps, but a rational thought given the task. A three-putt here is not a failure; it is a survivor’s fee. The hole remains a stark reminder that the game was once considered an adventure, not a math problem.