a place called springfield.

Where the tee markers are welded, the greens are sand, and nobody gives a damn about your TrackMan numbers.

Springfield Golf Course sits near the Kansas line, where five bucks gets you eighteen holes, nine sand greens, and a lesson in why some of the best golf on earth doesn’t need a clubhouse cocktail or anyone telling you what to wear.

When I pulled in, the steel sign told me it was a golf course—though it looked like no one had played it in years. No greens in sight, no signs of life. I figured it was abandoned—until I spotted the tip of a flag flickering over the rise. Down one hill, up the next, and there it was. Still alive. Still kicking. No cart girls. No chilled towels. Just 18 holes that don’t care how many Instagram followers you have.

Springfield has fairways wide enough to land a crop duster and greens made of—you guessed it—plain ol’ sand. Raked out from the center like a Zen garden built by a guy with a tractor and no interest in enlightenment. You make your putt by dragging a smooth rake from your ball to the hole. Lift the flag. Stroke it. No excuses, no greenskeeper to blame. Just you and the wind.

The cart paths? They’re not paved. They’re just dirt routes folks have been using long enough to make ‘em official. Every green gets used twice. Each tee box gives you a different look, a different miss, and a slightly different reason to mutter something under your breath. It’s golf without the fluff. You play it, you don’t post about it.

The fairways are mowed enough to know someone cares, but not enough to make you soft. A couple dry creek beds cross the layout and will absolutely ruin your day if you forget them.

And the wind? It’s always there. Like a caddie with attitude. You drop five bucks in the honor box, tee it up, and get eighteen holes plus a lesson in patience, wind management, and how not to overthink a six-footer on sand.

A weathered flag from the Rattlesnake Open—Springfield’s annual tournament, now approaching its 45th year— flutters under stormy skies, a quiet testament to the course’s enduring spirit and the players who keep its traditions alive.

The greens at Springfield? You’ve seen one you’ve seen them all. Perfectly flat, ten-yard-wide circles—each one raked by hand from the center out, leaving behind a simple spiral of drag marks that tell you everything and nothing at once.

Once the ball reaches the green, a second, smoother rake is used to create a straight path from ball to hole. The flag—and the inner cup that holds it—is gently lifted, the putt is struck, and the sand is reset for whoever comes next.

Bret and Brittany Wilson, stuck in a Springfield traffic jam—meaning someone was actually ahead of them on the first tee. A rare occurrence, no doubt caused by me asking too many questions and gumming up the works like a city boy who’d never seen a sand green.

Springfield doesn’t have yardage plaques sunk into fancy stone. It doesn’t have a “signature hole.” What it has is soul. A kind of quiet toughness you can’t fake. It’s not a course that asks you to be impressed. It asks you to play, rake your green, and leave it better than you found it.

And in a golf world gone high-tech, high-priced, and high-maintenance, that’s enough to make you tip your cap.

Sometimes the best rounds are the ones nobody sees, on a course nobody talks about, where five bucks and a decent attitude still get you eighteen holes and a little peace to take home.