No Laying Up's Kevin Van Valkenburg on the challenge of passing along the game

In this collection of personal essays published to mark the 125th anniversary of the Western Golf Association’s founding, leading voices from the world of golf journalism share how their lives – and careers – have intersected with one of the most impactful organizations in the game.

By Kevin Van Valkenburg
Editorial Director, No Laying Up

My patience, already worn down by a stream of complaints voiced during a long, humid afternoon, had run out. I was tired of arguing. I put down her purple golf bag, looked my 11-year-old daughter in the eye, and told her I was resigning as her caddie.

I could watch from behind the ropes, I’d decided, but I didn’t want to fight anymore about why her round wasn’t going well. I’d introduced the sport to her years ago because I thought it would be fun.

This was no longer fun.

It was just our second official tournament together. We were still getting used to the ins and outs of the competitive junior golf circuit in Maryland. My daughter, Keegan, is the owner of a beautiful, rhythmic golf swing, one that often earned her compliments from strangers on the driving range when she was in elementary school. But she also possesses the temperament of a wildcat. A perfectionist at heart, golf was somehow the best and worst possible sport she could have fallen in love with. She wanted to be great, but neither of us knew the path to get her there. I suggested we start entering real tournaments, and so here we were, in the third fairway at Shenandoah Valley Golf Club, bickering over the cause of her latest double bogey.

“Maybe,” I suggested, “you should work through this yourself. I’m giving you all the wrong advice, and you’re mad at me when it doesn’t fix your swing. I think it would be better for both of us if I stepped away.”

“No, Dad, please,” she said, and I could see the tears welling up in her pale blue eyes, threatening to spill down her freckled cheeks. “Please don’t leave me.”

I picked up her bag again, slung it over my shoulder. I looked away, suddenly awash in guilt. We continued walking toward her ball.

I have tried, in recent years, to understand why golf is such an important part of our relationship. What I keep returning to is moments like the one at Shenandoah, where she is brave enough to admit that she still wants me by her side, even as she realizes she’ll have to walk alone one day.

This is our sport, and our bond, neither of us is ready to walk alone yet.

I was the person, after all, who put a little plastic club in her hand when she was 2 years old, and watched her giggle as she hit balls onto the roof of our house. I was the person who sat her in front of a television, at age 8, and introduced her to Nelly Korda, to Rose Zhang, and to a generation of women she’d come to view as her heroes. Keegan’s grandmother — my mom — never had this kind of roadmap. In the 1960s, when my grandfather tried to take his daughter out for an evening round at his country club, the head pro sheepishly explained that he could not allow it. Females were only allowed on the course one day a week.

We have come a great distance since then. It’s one of the reasons why the Western Golf Association is so close to my heart. Keegan may never play in a tournament as big, or as prestigious, as the Women’s Western Amateur or the Women’s Western Junior. I know this, intellectually. But I see the kind of playing opportunities the organization is creating for young women, whether it’s through tournaments or providing youth caddie opportunities.

If I squint, I can dream of a future where Keegan’s daughter carries a torch my mom passed down, and it makes my heart sing.

When we reached her ball — mercifully sitting up in the rough — Keegan reached for her hybrid. I bit my lip but said nothing.

“What should I hit, dad?” she said. It felt like an olive branch.

“I like 6 iron,” I said. “But it’s your decision. You have to commit to whatever your gut tells you.”

She chose 6 iron.

I said a prayer to the golf gods, then watched her fire her hips and launch one toward the middle of the green. The ball hopped twice but stopped 20 feet from the flag. She said nothing, but when I extended my hand for a surreptitious low five, she gently slapped it with a mixture of gratitude and relief.

We marched toward the green, still committed to figuring out this game together.