As someone who has battled Bethpage Black for over three decades, I can tell you with absolute certainty: what the tournament organizers did to this course was nothing short of a betrayal.

I’ve walked these fairways in every condition imaginable. I’ve lost balls in that thick rough. I’ve stood on those par 3 tees with my hands sweating. I’ve watched pins tucked in impossible positions laugh at my best shots. That’s the Bethpage Black I know—the one that humbles you, teaches you, and makes you earn every single par.

The Anticipation Was Real

When we heard that the best players in the world would be competing in match play format at Bethpage Black, the excitement among us regulars was electric. Match play! At the Black! This was going to be something special.

We talked about it for months. In the parking lot before dawn tee times, in the clubhouse after brutal rounds, over beers rehashing our latest battles with the course—the conversation always came back to this event. Finally, the world would see what we experience every time we tee it up here. Finally, these tour pros would face the same terror, the same grinding difficulty, the same unforgiving conditions that have tested us for decades.

Match play at Bethpage Black made perfect sense. One-on-one competition on one of America’s best and toughest public courses—it should have been gladiatorial. We imagined matches swinging wildly as players battled not just each other, but the course itself. We pictured dramatic concessions after drives found that thick rough. We envisioned holes won and lost on those treacherous par 3s.

This was our course getting its moment. Public golf’s crown jewel hosting an event that would showcase exactly why Bethpage Black belongs in any conversation about America’s greatest courses.

We couldn’t wait.

They Stripped Away Our Identity

When they mowed down the rough, I felt it personally. That rough is what made us different. It’s what separated Bethpage Black from every country club course on Long Island. It didn’t matter if you were a 2-handicap or a tour pro—if you missed the fairway, you paid the price. That’s the social contract of this course. That’s what we signed up for when we put our names on the tee sheet.

For thirty years, I’ve watched golfers come off the 18th green with a mixture of exhaustion and respect. Some days you conquer the Black; most days it conquers you. And that’s exactly how it should be.

But what did the organizers show the world? A neutered version where professionals could bomb it anywhere and face no consequences. In match play, those rough penalties should have created dramatic momentum swings—one player in trouble, fighting to halve the hole while their opponent pressed the advantage. Instead, it became a driving range exhibition.

That’s not the course I love. That’s not the course that’s tested me for three decades. And it certainly wasn’t the gladiator pit we’d anticipated.

The Par 3s Were Perfect As They Were

Those par 3s—they shortened them! Do they have any idea how many times I’ve stood on those tees, knowing I needed to hit a perfect shot just to find the green? That pressure, that test—it’s part of what makes this course legendary.

The 17th hole late in your round, when you’re tired and your swing’s getting loose—that’s supposed to be terrifying. It’s supposed to make your knees shake a little. In a tight match, coming down the stretch, that hole should be where matches get decided. A player 1-up facing that beast with two holes to play—that’s the drama we came to see.

By shortening it, they removed the fear. And Bethpage Black without fear isn’t Bethpage Black at all. They robbed us of the nail-biting, momentum-shifting theater that match play on a brutal course should deliver.

Easy Pins? At Bethpage Black?

This one stings the most. I’ve played this course when the pins were tucked behind bunkers, on slopes where a ball three feet past meant a three-putt. I’ve had rounds ruined by pin positions that gave you no margin for error. And you know what? That’s golf at its highest level.

When I saw those tournament pins sitting in bowl positions, in the safe parts of the greens, I felt embarrassed for the course. This is Bethpage Black! This is where we’re supposed to show the world what a true test of golf looks like.

In match play, those diabolical pins could have been match-enders. Miss on the wrong side, face an impossible up-and-down, watch your opponent win the hole with a bogey. That’s the stuff of legend. That’s what creates water cooler conversations for years.

Instead, they made it comfortable. They made it accessible. They made it… easy.

The professionals should have left here talking about how brutal it was, not how “fair” the setup felt.

We Wanted to See Them Suffer (Like We Do)

Let’s be honest—part of the appeal was watching these guys, who make golf look effortless week after week, actually struggle. We wanted to see them in our rough, facing our pin positions, dealing with our course the way it really plays.

There’s a camaraderie among Bethpage Black regulars. We’ve all been humbled here. We’ve all had rounds where we questioned our life choices. We’ve all walked off 18 simultaneously defeated and exhilarated. When you survive the Black, you’ve earned something.

We wanted the tour pros to join that club. We wanted them to experience what we experience. We wanted commentators saying, “This is why Bethpage Black has that warning sign.”

Instead, the organizers protected them from it.

A Disservice to Every Golfer Who’s Suffered Here

Here’s what the organizers don’t understand: those of us who’ve played Bethpage Black for years, we wear our struggles as badges of honor. We tell stories about the rounds where we survived, where we ground out an 85 and felt like champions. We bring friends here to watch them get humbled.

This course has a reputation. It has a soul. And they sold it out for low scores and easy television.

My fellow Black regulars and I gathered to watch this event with the same anticipation we’d have for a heavyweight championship fight. We’d waited so long to see our course unleashed on the world stage in a format—match play—that should have amplified every dramatic element of its design.

What we got instead felt like showing up for a prize fight and watching a sparring session.

Every time some organizer decides to “make it fair” or “give the players a chance,” they’re telling us that everything we’ve experienced here doesn’t matter. They’re saying that the course we love is too hard, too mean, too unforgiving—that it needs to be fixed.

But Bethpage Black doesn’t need fixing. It never did.

What They Should Have Done

They should have let the rough grow to knee-high. They should have kept those par 3s at their full, terrifying distance. They should have put those pins on slopes and ridges where only perfect shots get rewarded.

They should have let match play be decided by the course as much as the players—with momentum swinging wildly, holes won with bogeys, matches ending on the 16th because someone couldn’t recover from the Black’s brutality.

They should have let the world see what we’ve known for thirty years: Bethpage Black is special precisely because it refuses to be tamed.

Instead, they apologized for it. They made it something it’s not. They turned a lion into a housecat.

As someone who’s loved this course since long before it hosted majors, who’s watched it evolve and improve, who knows every bunker and every break—watching them soften it for a tournament felt like watching someone vandalize a masterpiece.

We’d waited with such great anticipation to see the best players in the world battle each other AND our course in match play format. We’d imagined the drama, the tension, the pure theater of gladiatorial golf on one of America’s best and toughest public venues.

What we got was a betrayal of everything that makes this place special.

Bethpage Black deserves better. We deserve better. And those professionals? They deserved to face the real course, not this watered-down version.

That’s the disservice. That’s what they took from us.