JDV's Bump and Run - Volume II

We completed the 2026 Cotswold iteration of Club Champs about three weeks ago.

I needed the dust to settle before getting this volume of Bump and Run out. As you’ve probably guessed, I’ll be scratching the surface of one of the more highly anticipated, and quietly terrifying, events in a member’s calendar.

Club Champs.

Let’s get the obvious out of the way. It’s nerve-wracking.

If you’re in the A or B division, you’re probably playing medal for two days. Add to that a tough course setup, pin positions placed in areas of the green you only accidentally chip to in ordinary play, and greens that have been prepared for months by the club staff to run at speeds everyone says the greens “normally” run at but complain about when they actually do.

At VCC one year, I swear the greens were basically purple. I wasn’t the only one who hit a birdie putt on the 13th one foot too far, putted off the green, and walked off with a triple. It’s brutal.

Speaking of brutality on the greens, there are few things more awkward than standing there while watching a fellow player implode through a succession of missed tap-ins. I once watched a single-figure player five-putt the 7th at Cotswold. What do you even say after that?

“Unlucky”?

No. You say nothing. You stare at your shoes and try to find some arbitrary pitch marks to fix so you can look busy and avoid making eye contact.

I also heard a story about a guy who played the back nine at VCC first, which meant 18 was his 9th hole. He made 21. Not a typo. Twenty-one. He apparently walked straight to the parking lot, got in his car, and called it a day. Hard to argue with the decision.

Because of these numbers, pace can become its own form of psychological warfare. It’s not uncommon to have two fourballs backed up on a tee box, all watching someone disassemble themselves before your eyes, while you then have to stand there for 15 minutes pretending your own swing hasn’t left the premises. It sometimes becomes a bit of a Pilates session on the box while everyone pretends they know how to keep warm during the wait.

I’ve found alcohol helps.

But you have to get the balance right. Too much and you’re just playing drunk golf. Alcohol is not exactly famous for improving hand-eye coordination. Otherwise police wouldn’t make you walk in a straight line to test sobriety. They might as well keep a wedge in the car and ask you to hit a bump and run. It answers the same question.

But get the dosage right and alcohol does perform one very useful function. It dampens nerves.

And nerves are the real enemy of the club golfer on these weekends.

I managed to make an 8 on my first hole this year after being about 60 metres from the green. That sort of thing doesn’t happen because you’ve forgotten how golf works. It happens because your hands suddenly belong to someone else and your brain is standing nearby with a clipboard, checking the various positions of your swing while forgetting you actually need to make contact with the ball.

So why do we put ourselves through it?

I think it’s because the thing that makes Club Champs so uncomfortable is exactly what makes it so anticipated. It’s one of the few times in the year where you’re not just testing your golf game. You’re testing whether you can keep your head when the wheels start wobbling.

It’s a marathon. You need to stay steady for the long run. You need to survive the bad holes. And, if you’re lucky enough to be in the mix coming down the final nine, you need to avoid choking while somehow not entertaining the thought of choking. I’ve found that thinking about choking is often the first step in choking.

I’ve been in the final group three separate times in various Club Champs. I have never come close to winning.

Read into that what you will.

It’s also one of the rare times the club gets to properly flex. The course is usually in its best condition. The staff have put in serious work. You end up playing with members you might never otherwise play with. Everyone is pretending not to care too much, while very obviously caring a lot.

When all is said and done, Club Champs gives us a tiny keyhole through which we can peep at what the players on TV deal with in the biggest moments. Obviously not on the same stage, with the same pressure, or with anyone paying us money. But pressure is relative.

A two-footer for a net 78 can feel like the back nine at Augusta if you’ve invested enough emotional damage into it.

I struggled badly this year. But I’ll be back.

Because as stupid as it sounds, I can’t wait for the next bit of inconsequential yet highly competitive golf.