If this is your first issue, welcome.
If you’ve been following along, thanks — I appreciate it.

This week we translate golf jargon from Martian, discover what NOT to do when it’s too hot to play, and examine the aftermath of a tie-dye convention.
And somewhere in there, we’ll help you hit a few better shots.

Let’s get into it.

In This Issue:

Do You Speak Martian?

Golf Words Normal People Shouldn’t Have to Understand

Golf has its own very unique language.

Some of it sounds like it was created after the scotch bottle had been opened. Some sounds like military jargon. And some sounds like Gen Z and AI got locked in a room together and were told to invent words without using English.

A golfer can say, “I hit a hosel rocket, tried a little punch-and-Judy from under the trees, caught the next one a groove low, got it on the dance floor, then yipped the three-footer,” and everyone in the foursome nods like this is a perfectly normal sentence.

A non-golfer hearing the same thing would reasonably wonder if medical assistance, law enforcement, or a translator from the UN should be contacted immediately.

So, as a public service, here is a brief Golf-to-Human translation guide.

Hosel Rocket

No, this is not a new invention by Elon Musk for SpaceX.

It is actually a golf shot.

Although, to be fair, calling it a golf shot may be a little generous.

A hosel rocket occurs when the ball is struck by the hosel of the club instead of the clubface. For those unfamiliar with the anatomy of a golf club, the hosel is the little neck area where the shaft connects to the clubhead.

It is useful for assembling the club.

It is absolutely horrifying when used to strike the ball.

The result is a shot that shoots violently sideways, usually toward another person, another fairway, a golf cart, a maintenance shed, or something with insurance implications.

A hosel rocket is the kind of shot that shows up on Friday the 13th.

And someone in your foursome may need to perform an exorcism.

At minimum, nobody should make eye contact with the golfer for several minutes.

Worm Burner

A worm burner is a shot that travels very low to the ground.

Very low.

Low enough to frighten worms, ants, grasshoppers, sprinkler heads, and anyone standing within the first twenty yards of the golfer.

The ball usually comes off the club with plenty of speed, very little altitude, and absolutely no concern for the safety of small creatures living at ground level.

It is not a pretty shot.

But every once in a while, it runs forever, finishes somewhere near the fairway, and the golfer says, “That will work.”

Which is another strange golf phrase meaning, “I did not intend to do that, but I am willing to accept the result.”

Punch-and-Judy

A punch-and-Judy shot is a small, controlled shot usually played from trouble.

The golfer might be under trees, behind trees, beside trees, or in a location that suggests the previous shot was not their finest work.

Instead of taking a full swing, the golfer plays a shorter, lower, more controlled shot to get the ball back into play.

In theory, this is a very sensible golf shot.

In reality, it is often used immediately after a golf shot that suggested judgement had temporarily left the premises.

So the punch-and-Judy is not really a sign of greatness.

It is more like golf damage control.

Thin

A thin shot happens when the club strikes too high on the golf ball.

Instead of the ball launching nicely into the air, it shoots forward at knee height with the sound of a spoon hitting a rock. (See “worm burner”)

A thin shot can be painful to watch, painful to hear, and, in colder weather, painful to feel all the way up both arms.

The good news is that thin shots often travel a surprising distance.

The bad news is that very little about the shot was intentional.

Thin is not good.

But in golf, thin can sometimes be useful, which is one of the reasons this game continues to confuse people.

A fat shot is the opposite of thin.

Instead of hitting the ball first, the golfer hits the ground before the ball.

Sometimes a little before the ball.

Sometimes a lot before the ball.

Sometimes far enough behind it that the golf ball starts wondering whether it is even involved in the shot.

The club digs into the ground, speed disappears, dirt flies, and the ball usually travels about the same distance as a disappointed sigh.

A fat shot is also known as hitting it heavy.

Or chunky.

Or digging.

Or, in extreme cases, a small landscaping project nobody approved.

The golf ball may move, but only because it feels sorry for everyone involved.

Pure

Now we come to the word that keeps golfers coming back.

Pure.

A pure shot is when the ball is struck exactly how the golfer hoped it would be struck.

The sound is better.

The feel is better.

The flight is better.

For one glorious second, the golfer believes everything is finally fixed.

This is dangerous, of course, because golf knows exactly when to give you one pure shot.

Usually just before you are ready to throw the clubs in a lake, delete the handicap app, and begin researching other hobbies that still involve humiliation, but are cheaper.

Then you flush one.

And suddenly Tuesday at 10:40 is available.

Yips

The yips are difficult to explain to normal people.

Basically, the golfer is standing over a short putt that should be fairly simple. The hole is nearby. The ball is sitting still. The putter is not heavy. Nobody is asking for a miracle.

And yet, something strange happens.

The brain, hands, putter, confidence, and dignity all have different plans for how to get the ball into the hole, and each one is trying to run the show.

The result may be a jab, a twitch, a stab, a flinch, or a putting stroke that appears to be controlled by a puppet master on scotch.

The yips are not fun.

They are not helpful.

They are not welcome.

But they are very real, and once someone mentions them, everyone nearby immediately becomes nervous.

Army golf is when a golfer hits the ball left, then right, then left, then right.

Marching down the golf course.

Sometimes with military precision.

Usually with utter chaos and frustration, while wondering if watching just one more YouTube video at 2:30 a.m. last night might somehow have prevented all of this.

It is a very efficient way to see both sides of the golf course, meet people in other fairways, and quickly become reacquainted with every club in your bag — especially your least favourites.

Army golf sounds organized.

It is not.

A snowman is an 8 on the scorecard.

This is because the number 8 looks like a snowman.

It is one of golf’s kinder-sounding disasters.

There is something almost cheerful about the word snowman.

Unfortunately, there is nothing cheerful about making an 8.

A snowman usually involves a bad drive, a bad second shot, some combination of water, trees, sand, muddy shoes, and poor execution — followed by at least one quiet moment where the golfer wonders how he can convince his playing partners that he made bogey and usually birdies this hole.

A mulligan is a do-over.

It is mostly used in friendly golf, charity tournaments, and situations where everyone quietly agrees the first shot was too ugly to count.

Nobody argues, because it is well known within the group that each of them may eventually need to call on this magical rule.

A mulligan is golf’s way of saying, “That did not happen, and I would appreciate everyone agreeing with me.”

Because your turn is coming.

There are no mulligans in serious tournament golf.

But in casual golf, the mulligan has saved many rounds, many friendships, and many opening tee shots from resulting in flying clubs, torn golf bags, and the deeply unpleasant phrase:

“Put me down with a snowman.”

The dance floor is the putting green.

A golfer who barely gets the ball onto the green from 143 yards away may proudly say, “I’m on the dance floor.”

This usually means the ball is technically on the green, even if it is eighty-five feet from the hole and the golfer now has about the same chance of making the putt as they do of being invited to play in a celebrity skins game.

Still, being on the dance floor sounds much better than saying, “I have left myself a long and difficult two-putt from a different postal code.”

Although, realistically, I will probably see you in three-putt land.

Golfers enjoy optimistic language.

We need it.

An up and down means the golfer gets the ball into the hole in two shots from around the green.

One shot up onto the green.

One putt down into the hole.

Simple.

Elegant.

Occasionally possible.

An up and down makes a golfer feel like they know what they are doing. It can save a par, rescue a bad hole, briefly convince the player that their short game is now trustworthy, and even keep a snowman off the scorecard.

This feeling may last anywhere from thirty seconds to several holes.

Golf will decide.

Final Translation

Golf language is strange because golf itself is strange.

It is a game where a grown adult can say they hit a worm burner after a hosel rocket, followed by a punch-and-Judy, then made a snowman after yipping one on the dance floor.

And somehow, every golfer understands the sentence.

Normal people should not have to.

But golfers?

We speak Martian.

Fluently.

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Too Hot to Play?

This is a true story.

I was playing golf with three pals at a local course east of the GTA. We teed it up around noon, because apparently none of us had access to weather reports, common sense, or the basic survival instincts found in most woodland animals.

It was hot.

Not “maybe I should drink a little more water” hot.

Not “I should probably stand in the shade for a minute” hot.

It was “why does this fairway feel like it was built beside moving lava?” hot.

I think it was about 105 degrees Fahrenheit that day. But, as people like to say, it was a dry heat.

Which is a very funny thing to say when it is 105 degrees.

Because at 105 degrees, nobody cares if it is dry heat, wet heat, oven heat, hair dryer heat, or heat being personally delivered by Satan in a golf cart.

It is just hot.

Despite the temperature, I was playing pretty well. By the time we reached the 15th hole, I had convinced myself that something special might still happen.

The 15th was a par five with a winding river sneaking down one side of the fairway before crossing further up near the green. A nice-looking hole. A strategic hole. The kind of hole where an intelligent golfer might say, “Let’s just keep this in play.”

Naturally, I took out driver.

Not only did I take out driver, but I did so with visions of an eagle dancing in my head. I was not simply trying to hit a good drive. No, no. That would have been far too sensible.

I was trying to hit it 546 yards.

Because that is what heat does to a golfer’s brain. It gently melts the part responsible for decision-making and replaces it with a tiny voice that says, “You can reach this in two.”

So I swung.

And I sliced it.

Not a little.

Not a gentle fade.

Not one of those polite little peelers that drifts toward the right side of the fairway and still gives you a chance.

No, I sliced it across the fairway, over toward the river, beyond the river, and onto a peninsula on the far side. It was not in the creek. It was not lost in the trees. It was dry.

Technically.

So I looked at my cart partner and said something along the lines of, “You go ahead to your ball. I’ll just take a club, find a way across the creek, get my ball, and play it.”

This was the first bad decision.

There would be others.

What I had failed to properly factor into my plan was that it had rained very hard for two days before this round. Very hard. Enough that the quiet little creek, which might normally be one or two feet deep, had been promoted to a fairly fast-moving river.

Still, I found a narrow spot, crossed over, and made my way onto the peninsula.

Once I got there, I started working my way toward where my ball should have been. Along the way, I noticed a golf ball sitting in plain sight. Not buried. Not hidden. Not tucked under a branch. Just sitting there, waiting to be adopted.

So I picked it up.

Then I saw another one.

And another.

And another.

Apparently, I had discovered the place where golf balls go when their owners decide, quite reasonably, that crossing a river in 105-degree heat is not worth it.

By the time I got near my own ball, I must have picked up ten or fifteen others. My pockets were getting heavier by the minute. I was no longer just a golfer. I was becoming a one-man salvage operation.

Then, lo and behold, I found my ball.

Even better, I had a pretty clear shot back to the fairway.

So I took my club, made a good swing, and hit a great recovery shot back into play.

Now, at this point, the eagle dream was likely gone. But birdie was still very much alive.

And when birdie is still alive, dignity becomes negotiable.

Instead of walking all the way back to the spot where I had originally crossed onto the peninsula, which was now more than 250 yards away, I decided to find a new crossing point closer to where my playing partners were waiting.

This was the second bad decision.

I walked over toward the edge of the river and started surveying the situation. My friends were on the other side, probably wondering what kind of expedition I had joined. I stood on the bank, looking for rocks, shallow water, a narrow crossing, or any sign that this plan was not completely ridiculous.

Then the ground gave way.

Not slowly.

Not politely.

Not with a small warning crack that allowed me to reconsider my choices.

It just disappeared.

Apparently, the fast-moving water had eroded the dirt underneath the ledge I was standing on, and I had unknowingly stepped onto the golf course equivalent of a trap door.

One moment I was standing on dry land.

The next moment I was in the river.

Not up to my ankles.

Not up to my knees.

Not up to my waist.

Up to the top of my chest.

I was standing in five feet of moving water, holding an eight iron, with a pocket full of golf balls, watching my golf hat float away downstream at an alarming rate.

There are moments in life when time slows down.

This was one of them.

I looked at my hat.

I looked at the river.

I looked at my eight iron.

I looked at my friends.

They were not concerned.

They were not rushing to help.

They were not forming a rescue team.

They were lying on the fairway laughing.

And honestly, if I had been them, I would have been laughing too.

Because from their point of view, I had just walked into the wilderness to retrieve a sliced drive, returned with half the golf balls in Durham Region, successfully played a recovery shot, and then suddenly disappeared into a river like a man auditioning for a low-budget fishing show.

After the initial shock wore off, I realized something.

This water felt fantastic.

I had gone from feeling like my body was being slowly roasted over a campfire to standing chest-deep in nature’s own cooling system. The river was moving, the water was cool, and for the first time in several hours, I did not feel like I was golfing inside a pizza oven.

So I stood there for a moment.

Eight iron in hand.

Pockets full of golf balls.

Hat gone.

Shoes full of water.

Possibly fish.

Possibly crawdads.

Possibly something that did not appreciate suddenly sharing a shoe with a golf professional.

At that point, there was no longer any need to look for rocks, a bridge, or a sensible crossing point. I was already in the middle of the river. The decision had been made for me.

So I just walked across.

I climbed up the bank on the other side, soaked from chest to toe, carrying my eight iron and what felt like fifteen pounds of golf balls in my pockets.

My playing partners were still on the ground laughing.

My next job was not to hit my next shot.

My next job was to pick them up off the fairway.

With whatever dignity I had left, I walked over to the cart, put my eight iron back in the bag, took off my shoes and socks, poured half a river out of them, dried my feet as best I could, and carried on playing.

And here is the crazy part.

By the time we were going down the 18th fairway, I was completely dry.

That is how hot it was.

My clothes dried almost as quickly as they had gotten wet. The river had briefly won the battle, but the heat won the war.

And the best news of all?

I still birdied the par five.

Which just goes to show you, golf is a strange game.

Some days you hit the fairway and make bogey.

Some days you slice it onto a peninsula, collect a dozen golf balls, fall chest-deep into a river, lose your hat, nearly turn your shoes into an aquarium, and still walk away with a birdie.

I am not saying this is a recommended strategy.

But on that particular day, it worked.

Most issues contain at least one thing intended to improve your golf swing.

Below is this week’s version, which should be of particular interest to landscapers and facial-mask companies.

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I was standing on the tee deck for an afternoon lesson on an overcast day.

My client had already warmed up for five minutes before I arrived, and when I walked over, he said he was ready to begin. The weather was reasonable enough. It was about 20 degrees Celsius, with a slight breeze, but it had rained for three or four hours earlier that morning. There were no puddles anywhere, but the grass was still reasonably wet.

Which, as it turns out, would become important.

As usual, we started the lesson with a nine iron. That is my club of choice for most students at the beginning of a lesson. Not too long, not too short, not too intimidating. Just enough club to give us useful information without anybody feeling the need to summon the spirit of Arnold Palmer.

My student took a couple of practice swings.

They looked pretty good.

So I put a ball down and asked him to show me what he had.

He made what looked like a reasonable backswing. His downswing might have been good too, but I cannot confirm that because somewhere between “transition” and “impact,” a combination of dirt, sand, mud, water, and enough loose turf to start a small sod farm flew directly into my face.

It was more than a divot, it was a keeper ready to mount above the fireplace.

My eyes immediately closed.

At that point, I lost all visual contact with the golf swing, the golf ball, the golf club, and possibly my will to continue standing that close to the hitting area.

A generous portion of the golf course had relocated itself onto my face, my glasses, and my shirt. The mud splattered across me like I had just come from a tie-dye convention.

For a brief moment, I was no longer a golf professional.

I was an accident report.

What I do know, with absolute certainty, is that he struck the ground about twelve inches behind the golf ball.

Not one inch.

Not three inches.

Twelve.

He hit the ground as if he had just received municipal approval to start digging the foundation for an addition on his house.

A trench of mud launched upward, my face became part of the golf course, and whatever happened to the ball after that became less important than the fact that I was now blinking through a thin layer of topsoil.

And there it was.

The lowly divot.

Most golfers barely notice it unless it is enormous, embarrassing, or has just relocated itself onto their instructor’s face. But the divot is one of the most honest pieces of feedback in golf.

It does not care what the swing felt like.

It does not care what the golfer hoped happened.

It does not care that the practice swings looked nice.

The divot simply says, “Here is where the club hit the ground.”

And in golf, that information matters a lot.

With an iron, we are not trying to scoop the ball into the air. We are trying to strike the ball first and the ground second. A good iron shot usually has the club reaching the bottom of the swing slightly after the golf ball. That means the ball gets compressed first, and then the club continues down and forward into the turf.

That is why good players often take divots after the ball.

Not before it.

After it.

When the divot starts behind the ball, the club has reached the ground too early. The swing has bottomed out before it got to the ball, and from there the golfer is usually hoping for a miracle, a friendly bounce, or divine intervention from the golf gods.

Occasionally, the club will skid into the ball and the shot will still go somewhere useful. Golf does allow the occasional ridiculous result just to keep us all confused.

But most of the time, a divot behind the ball means one of three things happened.

The golfer either shifted too much weight onto the trail side and stayed there, released the club too early, or changed their body position enough that the bottom of the swing moved behind the ball.

In simple terms, the club arrived too soon.

That is why the divot is so valuable.

It shows you where the bottom of your swing is.

If the bottom of the swing is behind the ball, contact becomes a guessing game. If the bottom of the swing is in front of the ball, contact starts to become something you can build a golf game around.

This is one of the reasons I use my Brush the Grass Drill so often. Before we worry about perfect ball flight, club path, face angle, speed, or anything else, we need to know if the club can brush the ground in the right place.

Because if you cannot control where the club contacts the ground, the golf ball is basically just an innocent bystander.

The goal is not to take a giant divot.

The goal is not to destroy the tee deck.

The goal is not to create a trench deep enough to require orange safety cones.

The goal is simply to have the club contact the ball first, then the ground, with the low point of the swing happening slightly ahead of the ball.

That is it.

Simple to understand.

Not always simple to do.

But incredibly important.

The lowly divot may not be glamorous. It will never be the star of a golf commercial. Nobody buys a new driver because the company promises “better divots.” Nobody stands on the range and says, “I really hope I leave a beautiful scar in the grass today.”

But the divot tells the truth.

And in golf, the truth is often hiding in the ground.

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Closing

If you've made it this far...

you may speak the language of golf.

This week we've learned three important things:

And please...

If you know of other interesting golf jargon, let’s hear it.

If you found this useful (or at least mildly entertaining), feel free to share it with:

And if you're looking to take your game a step further...

👉 I'd be happy to help — in person or online.

David Govan
PGA of Canada Professional

Golf Excellence Academy
Modern Golf Instruction

Creator of the 5C Golf Performance System
👉 GolfExcellence.ca

P.S. Next issue we’ll take you back to Mississippi, explain why parking your car beside the 17th green is generally frowned upon, and ask around to find out if you are groovy.

Beyond that, the editorial strategy remains remarkably similar to my golf game:

We have a general direction, but the exact landing area is still unknown.