The downfall of Stevinson Ranch golf course is told in wrenching terms. Per golf writer Josh Sens’ (2015) account, the course was built in 1995 by George Kelley and his brothers, Bob and Kevin, in California’s Central Valley. It thrived for a number of years, however, hard times eventually befell the course for economic and environmental reasons. Sens (2015) documents Stevinson Ranch’s closure and the toll this was taking on proprietors and customers alike. Says George Kelley: “I’ve been stressed out, sleeping badly and drinking to drown my sorrows . . . It’s been like having a loved one on life support” (quoted in Sens, 2015). Sens (2015) uses funereal language as well: “dust to dust.”
Metaphors of death and dying in golf are not hard to find. The industry has dealt with persistent decline in recent years, at least in some parts of the world. For example, the National Golf Foundation notes that, in the United States, more courses have closed than opened every year since 2006 (Beditz, 2022). As said on the website GolfPass: “Every demographic has been impacted by this trend. High-end private clubs, public courses, nine-holers, par 3s, driving ranges and municipal courses in almost every state have been shuttered” (GolfPass, n.d.). To be sure, the golf industry has periodically “boomed” over the years, including toward the end of the 20th century (e.g., see Napton & Laingen, 2008). From an optimistic view (i.e., for golf industry proponents), the recent downturn is perhaps a case of supply and demand finding equilibrium. There have also been reports of increased participation in the wake of the COVID-19 pandemic, since golf is an outdoor sport conducive to social distancing (e.g., Matuszewski, 2022). Yet the trend of golf course closures is prolonged, and reasonable questions have been raised about whether golf lacks appeal—for example, due to the time and resource commitments required to play the game at a moment when leisure options abound and attention spans are seemingly shortening (Olmsted, 2014).
More central to this paper, however, are golf’s environmental implications and the salience of the environment to golf course closures. First, there are long-standing concerns over golf’s environmental impacts, stemming from practices such as pesticide spraying and the use of water in course irrigation (Millington & Wilson, 2016). Second, in the context of the climate crisis, the environment is impacting and will continue to have an impact on golf. Stevinson Ranch is a case in point: drought conditions reportedly contributed to financial hardship (Sens, 2015). In general, environmental conditions, such as drought and downpour can lead to course maintenance challenges and impact playing conditions for golfer-consumers. Third, golf typically has substantial land-use demands, which also contribute to course operating expenses and raise questions as to whether golf course terrain might be put to other uses. From a more pessimistic perspective, golf is at risk due to some of its defining features.
What the golf industry is facing is the prospect of loss: lost facilities, lost revenue, lost jobs, and lost occupation of land. Against this backdrop, this article makes a conceptual contribution to existing research by introducing and discussing a loss framing in considering sport’s relationship with the environment. To do so, we introduce Elliott’s (2018) interpretation of the sociology of climate change as a sociology of loss to the literature on sport. The environment is often seen through the lens of sustainability, including in sport, and so the focus lies with conservation—for example, by turning unsustainable practices into sustainable ones. Elliott (2018) asks a different question: “what is lost so that other things can be sustained?” (p. 304). We reference this in the title of this paper and use it as a guiding question in our analysis. We also draw from specific elements of Elliott’s (2018) conceptualization, such as the notion of “practices of loss,” where environmentally damaging practices are “surrendered rather than sustained” (p. 324). As we demonstrate, there are differing perspectives on what should be lost in golf and on the environmental futures that might arise as a result.
More specifically, in the analysis below, we draw from a range of resources, including social sciences literature on golf and the environment, news reports on golf course closures, and golf industry documents (e.g., outlining sustainability measures) to outline what we term “outlooks” on the future of the golf industry. All three outlooks place loss front and centre: (1) strategic and gradual loss, where we contend micropractices of loss have been adopted to serve a golf industry-friendly conception of sustainability; (2) permanent loss, where golf courses “die,” potentially to make way for sites aimed at addressing the climate crisis, such as solar farms; and (3) transformational loss, comprising scenarios where golf remains but is substantially changed, either in material terms or in the very way golf is imagined. Our aim is not to supplant sustainability as a concept. Nor do we take lightly the prospect of a golf course closing. Rather, following Elliott (2018), in describing these outlooks, we aim instead to encourage thinking about what might be lost in pursuit of better environmental futures. As noted, our main contribution is conceptual, though our focus on the case of golf also allows insight into real-world trends and perspectives and the plight of sport in the context of the climate crisis.
In the following sections, we outline Elliott’s (2018) conception of the sociology of loss and then describe existing literature that effectively characterizes sites for sport as sites of loss. We then turn to a detailed assessment of our three outlooks on loss and golf. We conclude with reflections on the significance of these outlooks and their relevance to the study of sport in general, and not just golf.1
Literature Review
The Sociology of Loss
This article is informed first by Elliott’s (2018) interpretation of the sociology of climate change as a sociology of loss. What is loss? It is “the transformation of presence to absence” (Elliott, 2018, pp. 304–305). Something was there and now it is gone, and possibly has been replaced. Elliott (2018) suggests loss can be destabilizing from a personal perspective, referring to the “unmooring interior experience” that can be associated with loss-related forms of grief and trauma (Elliott, 2018, p. 305). But loss is also a social phenomenon. It can be discomfiting from a social perspective as well. Elliott (2018) specifically outlines four interrelated dimensions of loss that climate change ushers forward: the materiality of loss, the politics of loss, knowledge of loss, and practices of loss.
The materiality of loss involves the fundamental transformation of Earth in the context of the Anthropocene—and the consequences that follow. Coastlines are overwhelmed, forests are uprooted or set ablaze, permafrost melts. Impacts are felt by plants and (nonhuman) animals. They are, of course, felt by people too. This can be deeply personal, most of all as the changing climate causes loss of life. Yet climate loss is social as well—due, for example, to loss of place. People leave their homes and their communities as gradual environmental changes manifest. They do the same as natural disasters sweep through. Per the United Nations Refugee Agency, more than 20 million people are now leaving their homes annually due to disaster displacement (United Nations High Commissioner for Refugees, n.d.).
This leads us to the politics of loss. Whose interests are considered, or even known, as the climate crisis unfolds? “Material losses necessarily intersect with a stratified world” (Elliott, 2018, p. 309). Climate change typically leads to internal displacement in the first instance, though there is the prospect of movement across borders as well. In such cases, people “run into the thorny politics of borders, race, national security, and welfare provision—politics that sociologists have long been studying” (p. 317). Indeed, the politics of loss in the climate crisis arise everywhere from government legislation aimed at slowing emissions in hopes of mitigating loss to efforts from climate activists and community groups to redress climate loss, and far beyond.
Knowledge of loss involves our understanding of loss, including the attribution of its causes. To understand the climate crisis as anthropogenic is a first step in fomenting change in how we organize and (literally) power our lives. Importantly, knowledge of loss can inspire practices of loss. For Elliott (2018), practices of loss, “pertain to how environmentally destructive ways of producing, living, and consuming are broken and dispensed with” (p. 324). They are about “defection” from that which is eventually deemed unsustainable. In our own analysis of golf, the concept of practices of loss is especially significant, as our three outlooks for golf identify differing practices for reimagining golf in the context of the climate crisis—some of which are more radical than others.
What important conceptual purpose does Elliott’s sociological perspective on loss serve? And might this perspective have practical relevance at a time when the need to transition toward an environmentally friendly future is as pressing as ever? In Elliott’s (2018) account, loss is in conversation with sustainability, a concept that has been highly influential in both literature and practice, including in sport. As per the Brundtland Commission’s oft-cited definition of sustainable development—meeting the needs of present generations without compromising the ability of future generations to meet their own needs (World Commission on Environment and Development, 1987)—sustainability is forward looking and inclined toward conservation. Loss, by contrast, “adjusts the analytical focus, asking about what does, will, or must disappear rather than about what can or should be sustained” (Elliott, 2018, p. 303). The specter of losing what was once taken for granted—coral, ice caps, and rain forests—is part of what makes climate change so frightening. But loss is ambivalent; it might not be entirely negative. “Loss can highlight contradiction: what is lost so that other things can be sustained? And it can imagine more deeply transformative visions: what might take the place of what is lost?” (p. 304). Loss might be a step toward preferred environmental futures.
Sport Facilities as Sites of Loss
The lifecycle of sport infrastructure is not typically told as a story of loss. But we contend that sports facilities are inherently sites of loss. There was a “there” there before a sports facility was ever erected—even if this was seen, in anthropocentric terms, as “open space.”
Golf’s environmental history offers a case in point. As Bale (2003) recounts, in the early days of British golf, the sport was played on the “natural terrain” (p. 139) of grass-covered sand dunes on the Scottish coastline. This was the foundation for links-style golf. “Undulating landscapes, natural bunkers, smooth turf, and well-drained soil provided the ideal environment out of which golf could grow” (Bale, 2003, p. 139). As the 1900s drew near, inland landscapes of heather, bracken, and sandy heath were reimagined and manufactured into sites for golf. The next step was to convert arable land. This was driven, Bale (2003) notes, by the tremendous demand for golf. Designing a course became a matter for golf course architects.
The story of golf’s arrival in Canada and the United States picks up on Bale’s (2003) point that golf course design “gradually became a sophisticated science” (p. 140). In the early 1900s, golf industry figures in North America spoke explicitly about “modernizing” course construction and upkeep. A fundamental idea was that technical insight (e.g., turfgrass science) and increasingly sophisticated resources and equipment (e.g., pesticides) could be mobilized for the sake of progress—which is to say, to make golf more playable so as to meet the demands of the game’s paying customers (Millington & Wilson, 2013, 2015, 2016). Newer and ever more potent ways of manipulating the environment were embraced over time. To cite one example of this near the end of the century, an article from 1986 in an industry publication recounted the radical conversion of swampland for a golf course in Canada. In building the course, a beaver dam was reportedly “blown to bits” and an “armada” of equipment was brought in for hauling earth (Witteveen, 1986, p. 36; cited in Millington & Wilson, 2016). In one sense, this is a story of technological innovation. But it is also one of material loss as the beaver dam meets its demise.
Literature on ski facilities can be interpreted from a loss perspective as well. With a focus on the Alps, Denning (2014) describes the manipulation of mountain terrain to make way for downhill skiing. “Before the late 1920s,” Denning (2014) writes, “innovators focused on getting skiers to the mountain and improving their equipment and technique so that they could experience what they considered to be nature in its purest form: the sublime winter wasteland of the Alps” (p. 84). But soon, cable lifts were installed to move skiers toward the mountaintop. This demarcated space for human uses in explicit terms—not unlike the separation of a golf course from the rest of its surroundings. Denning (2014) continues: “No longer was the Alpine landscape a passive, fully formed environment to be accepted by Alpine skiers as is. Rather, it became a cultivated environment engineered to suit the specific needs of Alpine skiers for speed, ease of access, and safety” (p. 84).
Reshaping mountain landscapes into ski runs and resorts became easier over time. In turn, there have been high-profile instances of environmental degradation. A headline in The New York Times called the 1992 Albertville Winter Olympics “World-Class Destruction” (May, 1992). The bobsleigh track, ski jump facility, Nordic skiing and biathlon venue, and downhill course were identified as environmentally damaging in particular. Demonstrators marched before the opening ceremonies carrying coffins—an ideal signifier of loss—“as a representation of the pollution and environmental injury caused by the Games” (Cantelon & Letters, 2000, p. 300; also see Christie, 1992). This can be interpreted as a way of promoting knowledge of loss. Likewise, Yoon (2020) recounts the case of Mount Gariwang and the 2018 Winter Olympic and Paralympic Games in PyeongChang, where a 500-year-old forest was redeveloped—or, from another perspective, “destroyed” (e.g., see McCurry & Howard, 2015)—so a ski course could be built for downhill competitions.
Sports facilities are already sites of loss, but of course they can be lost themselves. Barry, Mason, and Heise (2022) define “shadow stadiums” as “vacated sites or venues such as arenas and stadiums once occupied by major professional or amateur sports franchises” (p. 1). Their analysis identified 283 shadow stadiums spanning 22 countries. The redevelopment plans outlined by Barry et al. (2022) include new land uses, such as mixed-use plans comprising “a combination of residential, retail, entertainment, and community recreation/green space” (p. 3). But there is also the prospect of vacant sites and boarded up facilities. In such cases, “vacant shadow stadia illustrate poor planning that may have negative social, economic, and environmental impacts on the nearby community” (p. 4).
The specter of lost use value helps explain the common emphasis on venue “legacies” in event management and facility planning. New venues for national or international events become recreational facilities for community use. Professional franchises move into venues built for the Olympic and Paralympic Games (e.g., see Leopkey & Parent, 2012; Preuss & Plambeck, 2021; Sant & Mason, 2015). Or, facilities are intentionally designed for temporary existence, as in the case of Ras Abu Aboud, a stadium made from shipping containers for the 2022 men’s World Cup so that it could be disassembled in the host country, Qatar, and reassembled elsewhere to continue its “life” after the event concluded (Al-Hamrani et al., 2021). In cases of this kind, loss is deferred. From a circular economy perspective, the point is to ensure a sufficiently extended life cycle for the facility by considering how this can be accomplished at the stadium’s design stage. The specter of death hangs over its birth.
Outlooks on Loss and the Future of Golf
As said at the outset, loss has been front and center for the golf industry in recent years due to trends in golf course closures. In the sections that follow, we consider loss in this context in greater depth. Our aim is not to apply all four dimensions of Elliott’s (2018) analysis. As noted above, we draw especially from the notion of practices of loss to conceptualize loss in sport as the climate crisis unfolds. Loss, we contend, is central even to efforts to sustain the golf industry in economic terms. We specifically present three outlooks on loss in golf: (1) strategic and gradual loss, where loss is seemingly embraced incrementally to help golf’s “triple bottom line,” and in a way that avoids some of the discomfort of other forms of loss, but while possibly mitigating environmental gains as well; (2) permanent loss, where golf courses “die,” potentially to serve “greener” outcomes; and (3) transformational loss, whereby golf “survives” but is substantially changed, either in material terms or in the fundamental way golf is imagined.
We use the term “outlook” to capture our assessment of how specific trends and perspectives on loss come together to serve different views on the future of golf—even though the various stakeholders identified in each of the sections below might not necessarily agree on all matters pertaining to the golf industry’s future. For example, “rewilding” golf courses and turning golf landscapes into solar farms (Outlook 2) are different trends; someone advocating the former might not necessarily appreciate the latter. But the outlook for golf in both cases is that the golf course is permanently lost.
Outlook 1: Strategic and Gradual Loss
The golf industry has adopted an ethic of sustainability in recent decades. At a glance, it seems loss is relevant to sustainability only in the sense of preventing loss—for example, preventing golf course closures and/or declining participation numbers. But we contend that loss-related practices have been adopted as well. What we term strategic and gradual loss has meant identifying and dispensing with environmentally damaging practices as a way of addressing the “triple bottom line” of economic, social, and environmental incentives. Here, change is achieved, but we argue it is through an industry-friendly view of loss, since the economic bottom line still holds an important place alongside its environmental analog. In this sense, our analysis is informed by Elliott’s (2018) writing on loss, however, it also extends beyond Elliott’s conceptualization by considering loss as an element of corporate social responsibility.
As noted above, golf course construction and maintenance in the postwar years often involved substantial disruption to the natural environment. For instance, in the early postwar years, industry trade publications discussed the use of the potent wartime chemical DDT as a way of eradicating unwanted insects from golf course landscapes (Millington & Wilson, 2016). The environmental movement was afoot at roughly this same moment in time, and there is evidence suggesting the golf industry initially took a confrontational tact in response. For example, in a 1971 opinion article entitled “Reason over Emotion,” Golf Course Superintendents Association of America President Richard C. Blake took issue with “overzealous or self-stylized crusaders” who propagate “myths and half-truths” about the environment (Blake 1971, p. 7; cited in Millington & Wilson, 2016). A year earlier, another author wrote in the same publication that, “Our ears ring with radio messages telling us that birds are becoming extinct because of DDT poisoning.” This was called “sensationalistic reporting” (Alexander, 1970, p. 20; cited in Millington & Wilson, 2016).
But we contend this gave way to “strategic environmentalism” in golf as the environmental movement grew increasingly influential. Per Hoffman’s (2001) account, strategic environmentalism means a shift away from denialism toward “proactive management” (p. 12) of environmental issues. By the 1980s, trade publications reported on the golf industry’s environmental leadership. As said by one course superintendent in 1997: “Everything we do now has a greater impact than just making grass healthy. It has an environmental impact. That’s why those in the golf course management industry believe they are the true environmentalists” (Clark, 1997, p. 105; cited in Millington & Wilson, 2013).
What has this leadership entailed? In resource use, it has meant an emphasis on selective spraying of chemicals instead of their broad-based application. It has also meant using water more judiciously—for instance, with help from computerized irrigation systems. Research is relevant to both of these pursuits. For instance, the United States Golf Association (USGA)’s Turfgrass and Environmental Research Program is “aimed at enhancing golf course sustainability” (USGA, 2020). Notable recent achievements for the USGA include decreasing golf’s water usage by 19% since 2005, “in part due to research-based irrigation methods” (USGA, 2020; also see Thompson et al., 2022).
Land is often perceived as a resource as well. In recent years, the golf industry has reduced its environmental footprint by reducing “maintained” turf—meaning terrain allocated to fairways, putting greens, and other playable surfaces. A 2017 golf industry survey in the United States found that maintained turf acreage had, over a decade, “decreased significantly from 99 acres (66% of total facility acreage) to 95 acres (63% of total facility acreage) per 18-hole facility” (Golf Course Superintendents Association of America [GCSAA], 2017, p. 6). Part of this is attributable to a decrease in facilities, but 45% of the reduction is said to be a function of voluntary reductions.
These are sustainability initiatives. Indeed, the concept of sustainability is at times defined by golf stakeholders in explicit terms. For example, the GCSAA outlines two common definitions of sustainability: the “triple bottom line” that comprises economic, social, and environmental sustainability; and the Brundtland Commission definition of meeting current needs without affecting the capacity of future generations to meet needs of their own (GCSAA, n.d.). Per the USGA, a sustainable game positively impacts the environment, is accessible and welcoming to golfers, and is financially viable for golf courses (see USGA, n.d.).
Thus, the point seems to be to attend to the environment while protecting against economic decline. But even here, there are practices of loss. Take, for example, well-known golf architect Mike Hurdzan’s view of the transition away from highly potent chemicals in golf course maintenance: “Back in the mid-’50s we were using cadmium, lead, arsenic, mercury; we were using all these heavy metals. We were using farm-grade fertilizers. Well, those things are gone. We didn’t know any better back then. Science has showed us a better way to do things” (Barton, 2008; cited in Millington & Wilson, 2016, p. 15). Here, unsustainable practices are described as lost to time.
The practice of increasing “naturalized” areas on golf courses is another case in point. This can accompany the trend of reducing “maintained” (i.e., playable) golf course terrain: space that was once curated for golf can be devoted instead to plant and animal life. For example, the GEO Foundation for Sustainable Golf recounts the story of Albarella Golf Links in Italy, where General Manager Stefano Boni and his team have added “rich biodiversity” to the area by creating, from previously maintained parts of the course, 2.5 hectares of wild grassland areas, “installing bird boxes and feeders, and floating rafts for aquatic birds” (GEO Foundation for Sustainable Golf, 2022). This reportedly helped save 602 kg of CO2 in 2021 (e.g., also see Graham, 2021; Piller, 2022).
With these kinds of initiatives in mind, we contend the golf industry has embraced strategic and gradual loss as part of an agenda of strategic environmentalism. Elliott asks, “what is lost so that other things can be sustained?” (p. 304). We do not doubt that there is genuine concern for the environment in the golf industry’s sustainability efforts. However, we contend the strategic aspect of strategic loss is its industry friendliness. A golf course might be naturalized at the margins—literally at the margins—but the course itself remains. The highly potent chemicals of the past are lost, but the practice of pesticide spraying remains, just with ostensibly better products. Per Hurdzan, science has shown “a better way”—and this better way has been adopted in a highly strategic, gradual, and selective manner.
It is unsurprising that an industry would vie for its economic well-being by embracing strategic environmentalism and strategic, gradual loss. Still, this is different from perspectives on golf futures explored below, where permanent or more transformative forms of loss are prioritized.
Outlook 2: Permanent Loss
The prospect of a golf course closing is not simply an academic consideration. Course closures are stories of material loss, potentially with personal and social ramifications. A second outlook involves permanent loss, meaning the “death” of golf courses as they shutter their doors to golfers.
Death and morosity abound in stories of golf course closures. First, there are “aging” courses in need of repair, as in golf writer Jason Scott Deegan’s (2019a) account of how century-old and 19th-century courses are closing, or at least facing the threat thereof, in the United States. Writes Deegan (2019a): “Many ‘old’ courses with deep ties to their communities, sometimes more than a century, are on the verge of closing. In one sense, it’s a tragedy, but on the other hand, maybe it’s time to let them go.” With their future uncertain, golf courses can be on “life support,” as per the headline from a report on the Olympic golf course built for the 2016 Games in Rio de Janeiro (Ballengee, 2016). When golf courses “die,” it can be cause for macabre rituals. Deegan’s (2018) “obituaries” of golf courses from 2018 are described as part of “morbid annual holiday tradition” of compiling end-of-year stories of this kind.
From there, people “mourn” (e.g., see Sens, 2021); loss is felt by members of the golf community. As said at the outset, George Kelley, cobuilder of Stevinson Ranch golf course in California, described feelings of stress, poor sleeping, and “drinking to drown my sorrows” ahead of Stevinson Ranch’s closure (Sens, 2015). To be sure, a “dead” golf course could return—this complicates the framing of permanent loss. For example, Matuszewski (n.d.) writes under the headline, “5 resurrected golf courses getting new life.” Deegan (2019b) makes a similar contribution in an article headlined, “Resurrection: The most miraculous golf course comebacks.” Yet, in these cases at least, the language suggests an exception to permanent loss, and even divine intervention.
The term “permanent loss” also helps convey that golf course closures are not simply the result of financial problems. The challenge facing the golf industry is environmental as well. Flooding, drought, and extreme weather events threaten golf’s future, both in the sense of making golf courses literally unplayable (e.g., if submerged) or rendering maintenance costs too much to bear (e.g., to keep grass from browning to meet industry standards). Per Sens’ (2015) account, Stevinson Ranch flourished before the financial crisis of the late 2000s. But then it faced the twin perils of economic downturn and drought. Sens (2015) contends Stevinson Ranch was not sui generis in the United States, as courses across the American West faced water shortages, and thus restrictions in water use on the heels of the financial crisis of the late 2000s.
Likewise, a report from the U.K.-based organization, The Climate Coalition (2018), outlines the growing need for climate change adaptation in golf. Whereas the sustainability initiatives described with Outlook 1 largely deal with mitigating golf’s environmental impacts, environmental changes can also force adaptive measures. The Climate Coalition report offers a stark assessment of golf’s vulnerabilities. Sea-level rise is described as the greatest risk, including to famed courses such as the Old Course at St. Andrews on the Scottish coastline. The risk to course conditions and playability from other factors, such as increased autumn and winter rainfall, and summer drought is noted as well. Chris Curnin, Director at Montrose Golf Links in Scotland, one of the oldest golf courses in the world, explains the urgency of the situation: “As the sea rises and the coast falls away, we’re left with nowhere to go. Climate change is often seen as tomorrow’s problem, but it’s already eating away at our course” (quoted in The Climate Coalition, 2018, p. 10). This is a description of material loss.
What becomes of lost golf courses, whatever their reason for closing? One possibility is that they might be “rewilded.” This is not unlike the trend of “naturalization” described above, only it applies to the golf course in its entirety.
In a rural California valley framed by redwood- and oak-covered hills, hawks circle above a meadow of native grasses where golf carts once trundled over acres of manicured, well-watered turf. Fairways are nothing but flowers now, and the remnant of a sand trap is a pop-up playground. Here and there, small stone obelisks inscribed with the words “San Geronimo Par 5” poke through a riot of yellow-and-white petals like signposts from a lost civilization.
This is not just a case of letting a golf course “grow over” like an untended lawn. First, San Geronimo Commons is designed in part for human uses, such as hiking. And second, the golf course has evidently been strategically undone. Golf course infrastructure such as pipes and electrical conduits has reportedly been removed—for example, to allow creeks and streams to resume a “natural” path (Woody, 2022). While Woody’s characterization of a “lost civilization” suggests a golf course that is indeed lost for good, our point of emphasis here—aligned with Elliott’s (2018) perspective on loss—is that golf is lost so that something else might be sustained (e.g., also see Barkham, 2022; Ellwood, 2022; Usborne, 2020). The loss of the golf course in this case contributes to a broader attempt to “build resilience to climate change and revive endangered salmon” (Woody, 2022).
The conversion of golf courses to solar farms offers another “afterlife” scenario for golf. As in the United States, Japan experienced a golf course boom in the late twentieth century. But times have changed. One report put golf participation in Japan down 40% since the 1990s (Schwartz, 2015). Solar farms might give abandoned golf courses new purpose. As one example in Japan, the Ako Mega Solar Power Plant has been built on a site formerly devoted to golf in Kamigori, Hyogo Prefecture. The renovated site reportedly comprises 260,000 solar panels across at least 76 hectares. It generates, “an estimated 125 gigawatt hours, enough to meet the annual needs of 29,000 households” (Kamo, 2021; also see Bolton, 2015). From one perspective, the solar industry is responding to golf course closures. But from another perspective, it is a driving force in this trend. Under the headline, “Solar industry putting golf courses in the dark,” Deegan (2021) writes of a pair of golf courses in the United States that are “the two latest dominoes to fall in the solar industry’s expansion into golf’s outdoor acreage.”
If the solar industry has eyes for golf, it is with good reason. Golf courses occupy vast swathes of land. Renewable energy, including solar, has the same need. The Princeton University Net-Zero America study outlines five plausible energy system pathways for the United States to reach net-zero emissions by the year 2050. In different scenarios, solar farms would require land ranging from the equivalent of the area of the state of Connecticut to that of West Virginia—to say nothing of land required for other energy sources, such as wind (Larson et al., 2021). Golf and solar make a suitable pairing as well in that golf is (arguably) on the decline while solar is clearly on the rise. The price of solar power has reportedly dropped by 80% since the year 2010 (Armstrong, 2021).
There are other possibilities for vacated golf courses. Upon its death, a golf course might become commercial or residential real estate (e.g., see Artuso, 2023; Thomas & Repko, 2021; Wittenberg, 2021). Golf “boomed” in the past as an amenity in affluent new subdivisions (Napton & Laingen, 2008). Yet a question has arisen more recently as to whether golf course land might be more valuable, in economic terms, as housing or commercial real estate. A Bloomberg headline from 2018 described “dead golf courses” as “the new NIMBY battlefield” (Gray, 2018). Developers see economic potential in land once devoted to golf, however they are evidently confronted at times by existing homeowners motivated by a “not in my backyard” spirit—for example, a preference to convert golf courses into sites such as parks or wetlands, as opposed to development ventures that would increase neighborhood density.
The question arises again: what is lost so that other things can be sustained? The death of a golf course does not guarantee better environmental outcomes. More housing likely means less green space—though, conversely, greater density in existing neighborhoods might help limit the need to redevelop sites such as woodlands elsewhere. Moreover, the above scenarios show that even intentionally “green” initiatives can be substantially different. “Rewilded” golf courses attempt a “return” to nature, at least in part; solar farms are a technological and anthropocentric solution to our growing energy demands. At the very least, however, the latter two scenarios put the environment front and center. For golfers and the golf industry, permanent loss can clearly be painful—from a course’s decline, to its death, to a period of mourning. Yet there is the possibility that spaces for sport, once lost, might serve the cause of confronting the climate crisis.
Outlook 3: Transformational Loss
A third outlook entails what we term transformational loss. In the below scenarios, golf remains, unlike in Outlook 2. But we contend there are more substantial changes at play than those outlined in Outlook 1, either in material terms or in how the very idea of golf is imagined.
A settlement was reached in 2016 between the homeowners and the developers where some of the former course can now be repurposed for residential development while a portion of the golf course is now leased to the homeowners’ association for $1 a year so members could continue to play nine holes; another section has been converted to parkland.
There have been debates in recent years in Vancouver, Canada as well over what to do with the city’s three 18-hole, publicly owned golf courses. For now, they remain in use for golf. But Vancouver is one of the least affordable cities in the world, and so there are advocates for converting at least one of the three courses into residential property, public parks, and/or more accessible facilities. Some envision a lingering footprint for golf as part of this, albeit on a reduced scale—for example, as a much shorter “pitch-and-putt” option on the site of what was once a full-length course (Condon & Hein, 2019; see Couture et al., 2023).
Cases of this kind abound and are often contentious. But the partial loss of golf course space might also be embraced by the golf industry. Deegan’s (2019b) aforementioned review of “miraculous” golf course comebacks includes a description of Moreno Valley Ranch, a 27-hole course in California that had been closed since 2015. Under new ownership, 18 holes were revived; the other nine were reportedly transformed into “community space,” including amenities such as a walking and jogging path, a combined Footgolf/disc golf course, and outdoor exercise equipment. Deegan (2019b) notes plans to build an apartment complex nearby. He also quotes Danuel Stanger, vice chairman of the investment group that purchased Moreno Valley Ranch, invoking the notion of loss: “My belief is there are more courses that need to go to the golf graveyard or be repurposed into what we’ve done here” (Deegan, 2019b).
We fertilize fairways using composted turkey manure. We fertilize our greens with a compost tea that’s a blend of bone meal, blood meal, kelp, and humate, a refined carbon to encourage root growth. We brew the tea, supplied from a firm in New Brunswick, for 24 hr, then mix in the organics and apply it in liquid form (quoted in Whitten, 2008; also see Banks, 2018).
It needs be said that organic inputs are not necessarily good for the environment, depending on what or how much is used. The dearth of organic courses raises questions about their financial viability. What is more, the existence of commercial organic products means one could maintain an organic course without breaking ties with the chemical industry. Recall, however, per Outlook 1, that strategic environmentalism in golf has involved the more responsible use of pesticides in course maintenance, among other measures. We contend organic golf is more transformational in this regard, as synthetic products are lost entirely.
In another sense, transformational loss can be notional—which is to say, it can mean changing the very idea of what a golf course is or should be. First, there have been efforts in recent years to introduce other sports to golf course landscapes. FootGolf—referenced in the case of Moreno Valley Ranch—offers one case in point. FootGolf is a soccer-golf hybrid: the footgolfer kicks a soccer ball over golf course terrain such as fairways and greens. Said one golf industry representative embracing this trend in a story in the publication Maclean’s: “We’ve got to put more people on this course. I don’t care if they’re flying kites or riding bikes. We have to get more people because golf is golf and there are only so many golfers out there” (quoted in Sorensen, 2014). From a loss perspective, golf remains, but what is lost is the idea of a golf course as the exclusive preserve of golfers. FlingGolf, which essentially combines lacrosse and golf with the help of specialized equipment (e.g., see Dojc, 2021), and disc/frisbee golf might serve a similar purpose.
Second, and even more notable in the vein of notional change, are golf architect Edwin Roald’s efforts at reconsidering the 18-hole principle in golf. Roald (n.d.) begins by noting golf’s land-use demands. These present concerns in terms of sustainability and, given rising land prices, affordability. In this context, Roald asks, “How can we ensure the game’s future?”
Free from constraints, we are able to reach new heights in the way we mix golf with other landuses, mostly path networks for other outdoor recreation, as well as wildlife habitats, archaeological sites and other environmentally sensitive areas that should be protected and worked around.
This way, the golf course may find a new future as a catalyst for the transformation of damaged land into havens for wildlife and public recreation, even in cities, opening new opportunities to better access and greater affordability through shared cost between stakeholders, government support, etc. (Roald, n.d.)
Unlike Outlook 2, Roald’s vision for golf’s future retains a place for golf. But it seems a more transformative change than the quest for sustainability outlined with Outlook 1. The 18-hole principle is firmly engrained; Roald contends we should dispense with it.
To be sure, the transformations described above are varied. Moreno Valley Ranch lost nine of 27 holes to “community space,” but other courses might go further in this regard. This is a difference of degree. Maintaining a golf course to an organic standard is different from arguing that the 18-hole principle should be altogether abandoned. This is a difference in kind.
Even so, we suggest the above scenarios are distinct from those outlined in previous sections. Unlike Outlook 2, these are visions of golf futures that retain a place for golf, as opposed to witnessing and, perhaps, welcoming its death. And unlike Outlook 1, where change might be minimal, we see transformational loss as requiring substantial alterations, either to how golf course landscapes are used or maintained or how the very game of golf is imagined in the first place. We consider Roald’s vision most notable in this regard. What is lost so that other things can be sustained? In abandoning the 18-hole principle, golf would lose a defining characteristic—its inherent expansiveness—but the golf course would not be lost altogether.
Conclusion
The three outlooks outlined above offer differing visions for the future of golf that, in some instances and ways, might also be seen as differing visions for how a greener future might be attained. The first outlook features strategic and gradual practices of loss aligned with tenets of a sustainability approach. The second outlook involves the “afterlife” of a golf course. What takes its place once it is gone? Real estate is one option, though there have been attempts in recent years to address climate concerns by “rewilding” golf courses or building solar farms in their stead. The third outlook sees golf courses transformed in part, or, sees the standardized image of a golf course called into question. When it comes to environmental sustainability, we contend this third outlook goes further than the sustainability approach of Outlook 1, but still retains a place for golf, unlike Outlook 2.
Our aim herein has not been to advocate for any one position. For golf’s critics, the measures described in Outlook 1, and even Outlook 3, might not be sufficiently transformational. Indeed, in addition to the environmental concerns associated with the game, golf has an exclusionary history—for example, in the exclusion of women and people of color from golf courses or in golf’s economic exclusivity, which arises from the financial and leisure-time costs of playing the game (e.g., see Litchfield, 2022; Mitchell, Allen-Collinson & Evans, 2016; Rosselli & Singer, 2015, 2017; Skelton, 2022). These forms of exclusion interact with golf’s spatial exclusivity. For example, Cerón-Anaya (2019) describes “privilege at play” in golf in Mexico. This comprises internal spatial dynamics within golf courses—for example, when the waiting area for caddies (who carry golf bags as players navigate the course) is visually hidden from club members, or when women are banned from certain sites within golf clubs to permit men to socialize. But spatial exclusivity also involves separating golf and golfers from their wider surroundings. Lessening golf’s spatial footprint and reimaging golf courses as multipurpose spaces can be regarded as modest steps in addressing golf’s spatial exclusivity. But we would not contend this is a panacea to golf’s problems.
By contrast, golf’s advocates would likely highlight concerns associated with Outlook 2. A “dead” golf course will not necessarily lead to better environmental outcomes. The industry often points to golf’s economic impacts (e.g., see Golf Canada, 2020). And there are cases where golf’s exclusivity is being challenged in a way where the golf industry might still thrive. For instance, a recent article in the Toronto Star news publication describes First Nations-owned golf courses as sites for transcending what Six Nations golfer Jesse Smith calls golf’s “sordid past with elitism” (quoted in Gillespie, 2021).
Instead, our main intention has been to outline differing, and, at times, competing perspectives on the future of golf in order to introduce the notion of loss to the sociology of sport. This can help challenge the hegemony of sustainability in the pursuit of sport-related climate solutions. In adopting this stance, we are guided especially by the question underlying Elliott’s (2018) position on loss and conventional sustainability narratives: what is lost so that other things can be sustained? Sport has too often had this question precisely backward as even leaders in what we have termed the “sport management environmentalist” movement have been shown to take for granted triple-bottom-line approaches to sustainability that align nicely with status quo forms of sport delivery, despite well-known concerns that the environment tends to receive short shrift in comparison to economic concerns when this approach is espoused and implemented unreflexively (Wilson & Millington, 2015). In these all-too-common instances, the natural environment is damaged or “lost” so that a modern conception of sport, replete with standardized and predictable playing fields spread over vast swathes of land, can thrive.
And so, Elliott’s question could be asked more often of sport. Here, the outlooks on golf outlined above might be seen as instructive for other sports and sports events too. There may indeed be cause at times for practices of loss that are mindful of the triple bottom line, per Outlook 1. And, for “deceased” facilities such as the “shadow stadiums” identified by Barry et al. (2022), a more common outcome should be to put environmental considerations front and center, as per some of the perspectives outlined in Outlook 2. With transformational change in mind, we might take steps not to just reconsider sport’s land uses, but reimagine sport’s fundamental underlying ideas, as Roald does in questioning golf’s 18-hole principle. At the very least, the possible death of a sport facility such as a golf course—what will happen when it closes—should be considered while it is still alive, ideally from its birth.
Whether and the extent to which these outlooks are embraced is a question about the politics of loss. Whose voices, in sport and beyond, will be heard and taken into account? A loss framing can help in considering how sites of sport, in life or death, can help in achieving desired climate futures. What, in sport, should be lost so that other things can be sustained?
Notes
Our analysis in this article reflects the focus in our own research to date on golf in Canada and the United States (Millington & Wilson, 2016), though we do consider some examples from other contexts. Moreover, our focus herein is confined to English-language publications. As noted, our primary aim is conceptual; we do not claim here to have provided an exhaustive assessment of trends and perspectives in golf.
Acknowledgment
This article draws on research supported by the Social Sciences and Humanities Research Council.
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