The Highs and Heartbreak of Q-school

For years, I have told anyone who will listen: At the end of the year, the most entertaining golf isn’t played in the Bahamas or the Middle East or wherever “The Match” is being held. Not even close. The most captivating, must-see golf is being played at Q school, yet hardly anybody sees it.

This year I got to watch two days of competition at second stage in Valdosta, Ga. And in those two days, I got to witness highs, lows, heartbreak, exuberance and three of the greatest golf shots I have ever seen. It was, unmistakably, well worth the price of admission (which, incidentally, was nothing. Heck, even the coffee was free).  

As for my backstory, I am a huge golf fan. I used to be good, but now I play a few times a month. And my affinity for Q School drama started when I was a kid, when my dad used to drive the family to whenever the finals were held in Florida, where I grew up. Dad was fascinated and charmed by the Q school storylines: journeymen attempting to break through, college studs looking to make a splash, former greats trying to hang on for one more shot. You get a chance to alter your career, your life…but you have to earn it. The ultimate meritocracy. Dad loved it, so I loved it too.

This year, I had extra incentive to immerse myself in Q school fandom: My friend, former college teammate and all-around great guy Mark Baldwin was making a run at earning his card. I got frustrated (and serious FOMO) hitting refresh over and over on the Q School leaderboard website as Mark charged his way through the first stage. So I decided I needed to make the drive to Georgia to watch him in the second stage.

When I arrived at the golf course on the morning of the third round, the first thing that struck me was how quiet and empty the place was. I walked into a clubhouse that was remarkably…empty. Other than the two women working the restaurant who were debating which one had bigger hips, the silence was deafening. Tournament staff wasn’t stationed all over the place, like at a PGA Tour or Korn Ferry event. Hell, I’ve run into more officials at my member-guest than at this Q school site.  

Which makes sense, because there aren’t many spectators at second stage. And that’s the other thing that was striking: I felt as if I stuck out like a sore thumb. Everyone was either a player who was warming up or a caddie who was watching his player warm up. But I was out of place–just a guy walking around aimlessly, sipping on my free coffee.

I soon found Mark and Ryan, and we made some small talk while Mark hit some putts before heading to the range. There was, after all, a task at hand. Mark was 2 over through 36 holes, a handful of shots outside the cut line to make it to Q school finals, but definitely within reach with a couple of good rounds – especially for Mark, who has the game and the length to go low at a long course like Kinderlou Forest.

Mark played well on Day 3. His driver is a weapon, and he was hitting it well. He gave himself a ton of birdie chances. But his putter was ice cold, and he was missing more putts inside 10 feet than even I normally do. He finished his first nine with a clutch birdie, but his 37 dropped him to 3 over for the tournament. From the sidelines, I could feel that he needed something to happen to go on a run.

He made a few frustrating pars to start his second nine. And then he came to the 4th hole, his 13th hole of the day, a 656-yard par-5. Yeah, 656 yards. Mark pulverized his drive, a gorgeous high draw that left him 227 yards to the flag. Do the math…227 yards left into a hole that is 656 yards long. Crazy.

From there, Mark would hit one of the best shots I have ever seen. His drive had come to rest just off the fairway, next to a bunker, and was sitting way above Mark’s feet. The hole doglegs to the right, and going for the green meant launching his ball over a huge wasteland, to a flag that was positioned on the far right of a green perched on top of a hill.

Mark and Ryan did some math. Mark would have to choke down on the club to account for the lie. It felt like the wind was helping – I took a puff of my cigar, and sure enough the smoke wafted toward the flag. But the two decided that, above the trees, it shouldn’t be helping, and they agreed on a club. There were so many things that could have gone wrong with that shot – the lie, the trouble everywhere, the pressure of the situation – but Mark needed to make something happen.

And with that, Mark hit one of the purest shots I have ever seen. The ball never left the flag. As it came down on the green and danced around the flag, I knew it was good. But at my advanced age, my eyes weren’t good enough to see how good it was. That’s when Mark’s buddy Keegan, who was watching from up near the green, yelled out a “holy shit!” that could probably be heard from Augusta National. It was certainly heard by the rules official who was sitting in a cart 10 feet away from Keegan. And it was heard by the three of us. “It sounds like the crowd liked that one,” Mark quipped.

Mark drained the eagle putt, and I was fired up. That could be it, I thought. Here comes the run. If he could get a couple of birdies coming home, he would be in great position going into the last day.  

Sadly, this is where I play the role of spoiler. Mark’s putter stayed cold, he parred out to the house, and he couldn’t get anything going on Day 4. Mark failed to qualify, and I was gutted. I know how hard he had worked in the lead-up to Q school. I know he believed he had a really good shot. I know how life-changing a few more good rounds could have been for him.

Now allow me to tell you another story from Q school that I got to witness: the final round of Taylor Funk, who was paired with Mark on Day 4. If you follow golf, you’ve probably heard of Taylor Funk. And if you haven’t heard of him, you have probably surmised that he is the son of Fred Funk, an eight-time PGA Tour winner. Taylor showed up to the first tee on Day 4 with his college bag from the University of Texas, where he was a standout on a couple of stacked teams featuring the likes of Scottie Scheffler, Beau Hossler, Doug Ghim and Kramer Hickok.  But other than the UT bag with his name embroidered on it, Taylor looked like just a guy. His shirt didn’t have any logos on it. He wore a Jacksonville Jaguars hat. He was rocking aviator sunglasses.  

At the start of the round, I was locked into what Mark was doing and what he needed to do. So I wasn’t paying much attention to what Mark’s playing partners were doing.  

Before the round, I talked to Ryan about what he thought the final qualifying number would be and what Mark’s target score for the day was. Ryan figured that 5 under would be pretty safe and that 4 under had an outside chance. I agreed. Mark and Taylor were both starting the day at 1 over, so Taylor probably had the same goal in mind: A 66 would be needed to have any hope of moving on. Through three rounds, there had only been two rounds of 66 or better. So it would be a tall task, on a really difficult golf course under the most intense pressure. But not impossible

Taylor started off the day with a bogey. Then he made par on the next hole – a relatively easy par-5 that Mark birdied. And on a day when it felt as if he and Mark needed to be perfect, that disappointing start led me to dismiss Taylor’s chances. 

Taylor’s mom, Sharon, was the only member of the small-but-mighty five-person gallery who was not there for Mark. On the 3rd hole, she introduced herself to me, and we had a wonderful chat throughout the day. She had gone to high school in the Washington, D.C. area, where I’d spent a dozen years as an adult. We talked about politics, college, LIV golf, winters in Florida compared to D.C., and about the agonizing grind that these players put themselves through.  

Sharon and I were pulling hard for both Mark and Taylor, now invested in our new rooting interests, and we agonized over every near miss–of which there were frustratingly many throughout the first nine holes. Taylor parred six straight holes after his opening bogey, and Mark followed the birdie on his 2nd hole with a three-putt double bogey at the next. Things were not looking good for either guy.

But then Taylor made a nice birdie on his 8th hole, and backed it up with another birdie to close out his first nine in 1-under 35. He made another birdie on his 10th hole. And another birdie on the hole after that. I turned to Sharon and said, “Was that his fourth bird in a row?” She nodded. “What’s that put him at?” I asked. “Two under,” she replied. I raised my eyebrows, and she responded with a teeth-clenched smile. So you’re telling me there’s a chance…

Taylor parred the next hole, and barely missed a birdie on the hole after that. At this point, Mark had made a couple of double bogeys and was out of contention, so the members of the Mark Baldwin Fan Club shifted their energy and attention to Taylor. He knocked it close on his 14th hole, a par-3, and holed the birdie putt. He pumped his fist. So did I.  

Taylor was now 3 under. I checked my phone and hit refresh on the leaderboard. The scores were delayed and not entirely reliable, so making calculations on the latest target number was difficult. But with the winds picking up, and factoring the pressure that all of the guys in contention were feeling, I figured Ryan was going to be correct with his prediction. Taylor had four more holes to make one or two more birdies.  

The next two holes were a pair of short par-4s that seemed gettable, even with the wind as strong as it was. Taylor hit good approach shots into them, and both birdie putts looked good. But the putt at his 15th hole lipped out, and then the putt at 16 just slid by. Gutting.  

Taylor was frustrated. I was frustrated. I walked ahead to the next green, burning off some nervous energy. It was a par-3 with a pin tucked in the back-left corner. Two bunkers and a severe drop-off loomed left, and the wind was now gusting hard from the left. In any other circumstance, it was pretty clear: this was not a green-light pin. But this was not any other circumstance. Taylor needed to go birdie-birdie to advance. It was time to go flag-hunting.  

Taylor stood on the tee box, and from my position next to the green 190 yards away, I could see he was torn between two clubs. He took a long time deciding. Finally, he picked one, went through his pre-shot routine and hit the shot. Immediately, he hated it. He tossed his club in disgust. The ball sailed left of the green, rolled down the slope and came to a stop about 15 yards from the green. I turned to Scott, another member of the Mark Baldwin Fan Club, and said, “Shit. That is dead.” Scott nodded.  

I walked up to the ball and assessed the shot. I tried to envision what shot I would hit–what shot was even possible. I came up with nothing. The ball was short-sided in the rough, and Taylor would have to chip it back uphill, with a strong wind at his back, and get the ball to stop quickly if he would have any hope of getting it close to the flag, which was only about three steps from the edge of the green.

I turned to Scott again. “What do you think?” I said. “Do you go for the hero shot, or do you just get something on the green and leave yourself 15 feet for par?” We agreed: The shot was impossible. Better to try and make par, go for birdie on the last, and hope that 4 under somehow gets in.

As Taylor did his own assessment of the shot, his demeanor didn’t change. He was focused, stoic, calculating. Then Sharon, who was standing 10 feet from him, said something I’ll never forget: “You can make it.” I’ll never forget those four words, partly because of the soft-yet-confident way that she said them. I’ll also never forget them because I immediately thought, That is not what he needs to hear right now. He needs to be thinking about giving himself a chance at par, not trying to make an impossible shot.

Taylor stepped up to the shot, took the club back and hit it perfectly. It was the unmistakable click of a well-struck wedge shot. The ball hit in the fringe, which softened its momentum, landed on the green, and as soon as it started rolling toward the flag, it was clear where it was headed. “Go in!” I yelled. It hit the middle of the flagstick and dropped.  

“Let’s go!” Taylor yelled, with a big fist pump.

“What a shot!” I exclaimed.

I high-fived Sharon. “That is one of the best shots I have ever seen!” I told her.  

“I knew he could make it,” she matter-of-factly responded.

But the job was still not done. The daunting final hole lurked: a 484-yard par-4 with out of bounds left and long heather grass on the right. I had started walking quickly along the cartpath down the left side of the hole, trying to get in position to see where the tee shots landed and to be prepared in case a spotter was needed for an errant drive. Before I could get there, Taylor was ready to tee off, undoubtedly filled with adrenaline. So I stopped and watched.  

He pounded his drive, but it started right and was leaking farther right. From my position on the opposite side of the fairway, I saw the ball bounce once in the long grass and settle on the other side of a fairway bunker. I knew I would have to help find it, but the other two players still had to hit. So I stood there, staring at my reference point until they both hit their drives, and took off running across the fairway.  

There was no immediate sign of the ball. I looked around, sweeping the grass with my feet. Suddenly there it was, sitting down in the grass so deep that I nearly stepped on it. I stood there until Taylor walked up and pointed it out to him. Taylor thanked me quickly and inspected the lie.  I didn’t know how far he had left. I wasn’t paying attention when his caddie gave him the yardage, and my old-man eyesight isn’t great at estimating yardages. But I would guess that he had about 180 yards left.

Taylor and his caddie discussed the club selection. The ball may have been in deep grass, but it was still a decent enough lie to get a club on it, and the wind was helping. The flag was perched in the back of the green, and over the green was absolutely dead. Taylor would have to play The Price Is Right: come as close to the yardage without going over. His caddie assured him that the 8-iron he had in his hand wouldn’t go over. He stepped into the shot and swung.

The sound as the ball left the face was absolutely pure. The ball launched high, starting about 10 feet left of the flag and cutting ever so slightly. It hit in the middle of the green, directly on line, and rolled up to six feet. My jaw dropped again. In consecutive holes, Taylor had hit two of the best shots I had ever seen.

I walked up to Sharon near the green, shook my head, and said, “To hit that shot, in these conditions, under those circumstances…”  Before I could finish the sentence, she smiled and told me, “He thrives under those circumstances.”

Taylor went through his routine, stepped up to the putt, and drained it. He pumped both fists and yelled out, “Come on!” It was some of the most clutch golf I had ever seen. And only a half dozen people were gathered around the green to see it.

Sharon ran up to Taylor and gave him a big hug. Both had tears in their eyes. Even I got a little choked up. It was an awesome moment for him, and I’m grateful I got to witness it.

I hugged my friend Mark. It has undoubtedly been a long, tough road for him. He had poured so much into this qualifier, into this week. And just like that, it’s over – not with a bang, but with a 79. He goes back to real life now: parenting and the holidays and figuring out what’s next. Watching him play and compete was a thrill, but seeing him leave disappointed was heartbreaking.

I told Taylor that those were two of the best golf shots I have ever seen. He thanked me and gave me a bro hug, still holding back tears from his remarkable finish. I hugged Sharon, too. It’s weird to feel so connected to two people I didn’t even know five hours earlier. But when you go through something as emotional as Q school, even as a spectator, it feels natural to experience some sort of bonding.

Taylor would make it through, on the number at 5 under par, one of 13 players to advance. He had turned in a 6-under 66, matching the low round of the day.

“Will we see you in Ponte Vedra [Florida] for the final stage,” Sharon asked me.

“I mean, I’m invested now,” I said. “I feel like I have to.”

It was an emotional, bittersweet, rollercoaster couple of days. It was the embodiment of Q school, and I didn’t even hit a shot. I think that’s what any fan hopes for: an emotional investment, with highs and lows, and getting to see what competitors are made of when the stakes are the highest and the pressure is maximized. This week I saw three of the best golf shots I have ever witnessed, and only a handful of others were there to see them with me.

Which is why I’ll continue to say to anyone who will listen: This time of year, the most captivating, must-see golf is being played at Q school.