While it is true that hitting balls into screens from plastic turf is better than nothing, especially in the wintertime, it is even more true that there’s nothing quite like the feeling of real grass under foot. And not just any grass, but the very best in pure, true golfing turf.

Those two words have taken on quite different meanings to me as my tenure as a greens committee member and golf tourist become measured in decades not years. Grass to me is that green stuff I mow around my house, that in bad years is this close to being replaced with more natural ground cover, walking paths and decorative boulders. Turf is the word our course superintendent uses. The only time I’ve heard him use the word “grass” is when he is giving lawn advice to a greens committee member.

Turf has a certain connotation to it. A serious one. For me the word expresses a degree of professionalism, expertise and rigour. It implies that there’s an important sporting use for it, and there’s an implied understanding among two people talking turf that they are trying to optimize a handful of its characteristics for the enjoyment of golfers, or other sporting enthusiasts like footballers or equestrians.

I remember my first encounters with pure, perfect golfing turf like they were yesterday. My dad took me and my golfing buddies to Glen Abbey when it hosted the Canadian Open for the first time in the mid-1970s. We entered the gates to the grounds between the practice range and the 18th tee, and seeing a tightly mown PGA Tour-quality fairway for the first time was magical. The eyes of us three junior golfers practically popped out of our heads. The fairway looked like the biggest, longest, widest green we had ever seen. But it would be a couple years before we would play that same course for ourselves, when we would feel what it was like to hit an iron off a Glen Abbey fairway. That same year I would step onto Toronto’s St. George’s GCC for the first time to compete in the Ontario Junior Golf Championships, and experience big budget Toronto country club turf firsthand. Oh my.

April and May turf in the Kawarthas is satisfactory, as we’re just happy to be playing outside not standing in a puddle, but it pales in comparison to that fast, smooth, crusty grass of late July and early August. And to be honest, the best golf turf in Ontario will never be able to match what’s on the seaside links of England, Wales, Scotland, Ireland and Northern Ireland. If you’ve played a crisp, flush five-iron or really gone after a four-wood from a patch of short, tight fescue at Lahinch or Dornoch, you will instantly understand. It is turf that lives in sand. That drains immediately following a downpour. And that seems to naturally be happiest when firm, fast and a thousand shades of goldy-brown.

I feel blessed to have learned just enough about turf to be dangerous from a string of talented, patient course superintendents that are always gracious with their time. To you who we entrust with keeping our playing surfaces as close to perfect as budget, weather, and us hackers allow, we hope that your best wishes for your home turf come true this season. For grass is a hobby. Turf is a profession. And it has to be the toughest job around.

© Peterborough Examiner