The Golf Junk Drawer
There’s a saying that goes something like this: one person’s junk is another person’s treasure. If that’s true, then I have many treasures. And I picked them up for free.
Look in anyone’s kitchen and there’s bound to be a junk drawer. Look in any golfer’s garage, or basement, or dresser, and you’re bound to find pencils, ball markers, golf balls, and a couple scorecards from past rounds. Our pockets empty everywhere, and those tributaries collect into a drawer known for holding the most disconsonant of objects. We all have junk drawers, even if the contents are somewhat different.
Trying to explain an esoteric collection to the uninitiated—whether it’s baseball cards, stamps, those decorative spoons people hang on their walls, or dolls—is a complete fool’s errand. You humbly try to contain your uncanny enthusiasm for the inanimate objects that fit your eye, while hearing yourself from the perspective of your listeners. It can be a lot for everyone.
And yet, like any hobby of collecting, it’s an opportunity to meet others who share your obsessions. Talking about that obsession with others who share it makes you feel seen and heard and understood. It makes you feel grounded, like you found another kind of home. That home, so to speak, is increasingly found online, especially on social media.
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As with any semi-unhealthy obsession, it might be a good time to take a moment to see how I got to this point, if not reassess my life priorities.
About ten years ago, there was very little golf junk littering my house. I was a normal golfer who took only a few tees—just as much as I thought I needed that day—and maybe a ball marker if I didn’t already have a quarter in my pocket. If I kept score on the course, I’d probably throw the scorecard away after the post-round beer, after reviewing what I shot and reliving those three-putts down the stretch. The pencil probably went in the trash as well. Then I started playing a few very memorable golf courses: Pebble Beach, Royal County Down, Sleepy Hollow. I started keep mementos, tokens to help recall those rounds I thought would be the greatest of my life. Then in 2017, I got on Instagram. I thought I was the last person to join it, and I was skeptical of the image-heavy platform where clearly few take advantage of the written word in posts, much less read the words of others. And a day or two later, I discovered what’s now called “Golf Instagram”: in what was then experiencing a renaissance not unlike barn weddings of the early 2010s. My jaw dropped looking at the photos of many golf courses, many I had never heard of, and all of them I’ve never played. I started chatting with fellow golf degenerates and started to learn there was so much more to the game than I knew. I learned about golf course architecture and golf history, and that there were people like me who collected golf swag and merch and trinkets wherever they went.
It’s on Golf Instagram where I have met many great people, many of whom I’ve met in real life for a round or two, and many I count as good friends today. The one that pops into my head right now is my friend Howard Riefs, a fellow Chicagoan at the time who would line up some golf pencils on his desk and snap a photo of them to tell the story of a great year of golf with friends. It was so simple and unadorned and unpretentious: a post that always resonated with me—telling a story with a pencil, but not using it to write the story.
Howard ended up being one of the nicest people I have ever met. We’d DM and then text about golf on a regular basis, trading stories and introducing each other to courses and people we didn’t know, but should. He also sent me countless photos for my other account (@golfclubhouses), and he was a huge supporter of this mutual interest. I took Howard to play Knollwood Club, and then he took me to Kingsley Club, and when he moved to San Francisco, I took him to Olympic Club. He helped me see a number of other places, and he introduced me to many great people. We kept in touch ever since, asking about each other’s rounds, giving advice about cocktail bars or barbecue. It’s an example of a friendship borne out of social media, where we’re told people are the meanest and most angry, jealous, selfish, and shallow versions of themselves. I learned that Howard couldn’t be any of those things anyway. All of it started with a pile of free junk.
There was also an account on Instagram which became popular for the like-minded: @golfjunkdrawer. The account was started by Mike P., a NYC-based golfer who seemed to know everyone and play everywhere. He loyally posted photos that strangers submitted of their golf junk collections, helping this small, somewhat private embarrassment and bad habit become art. Mike got too busy to continue running the account, so he deleted it. Many people missed having it in their feeds, so after taking my annual photo of golf pencils from courses I played around Christmas 2018—my annual homage to Howard—I asked Mike if I could resurrect the @golfjunkdrawer account. He said I’d have to start all over with followers, but I didn’t care. I wanted to help people like Howard and me connect.
I also wanted to find something to share with my friend Steve H., who lives 1,000 miles away from me in Boston. Steve thought it was a great idea to start it up again together. And so we did. We took turns making posts, sharing the art of our followers made out of their golf junk. Fast forward to today, and 650 posts later, we hope we’ve connected many people who share a love of golf, while offering a respite from Instagram’s constant onslaught of golf models and influencers, trick shot videos, expensive golf clubs, Tiger highlights, and dumb golf memes. There’s more than enough of that already.
Whenever I go somewhere, I pick up a few extra pencils and ball markers, not only for my collection, but for others who I know will get a kick out of them. Sometimes we’ll trade stuff, trying to find junk from far-away courses we played before we started our collections. And I made a pencil display case, using an IKEA frame, showing about 140 places I’ve been. Luckily for me, I have a girlfriend that loves the look of it, and it sits in a pride of place above our bar.
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I never thought I’d write about such an embarrassing—and yet common—hobby, mostly because people already either get it or they don’t. But I’ve been thinking about what golf junk means to me lately, because that person who got me into it—Howard—is now gone. He died in May, two months after I’m writing this. He was only in his 50s. Though I haven’t seen him in two years—mostly due to the pandemic and because we lived 2,000 miles apart—I can feel his absence.
This December, when the snow covers the ground outside, I’ll take the time to go through the spoils of this year’s golf trips—the ones I spent with close friends, the ones at courses I never thought would let me play, and yes: the ones I three-putted several greens down the stretch. I’ll gather the pencils from those courses, line them up on my desk, and snap a photo. I’ll probably submit it to my friend Steve, who has run @golfjunkdrawer now for years, and with whom I just finished an epic trip: 10 courses in 6 days all over New Jersey and Philadelphia. We’ll realize how lucky we are to do these trips, lucky to be a part of this community, lucky to be alive.
When I line up those pencils at the end of every year, I know I’ll remember Howard, as I continue his tradition. I know I’ll miss those times and talks I had with him. I’ll lament the future rounds I won’t get to play with him, too, but I’ll be grateful for the junk that brought us together. The update isn’t about showing off what courses your conquered, it’s about the memories and friendships you started and developed over the past year. One person’s junk is another’s treasure.
