There are certain courses that make no sense on paper or even when you're standing on the first tee but feel just right when you're actually playing in them. Lodi Golf Club, though colloquially we've taken to calling it Lodi National, is exactly that kind of place. It's a nine-hole cut into a driftless hillside that asks little but gives plenty. From the tips it is a par 35 at 3,048 yards. No, it is not the kind of place a glossy brochure brags about, but the kind that matters. Where small wins last longer than your perfect drive that rolled down the slope again, and a $20 bill and a bit of time somehow deliver more than money ever should.
Walk past the sheds full of member golf carts, step into the little clubhouse, and you'll find yourself offered a frozen Snickers, some used golf balls that yes, tumbled down the hill, and the chance to buy a hat with the town mascot, Susie the Duck, on it. Look out the window and you'll see the 9th green and catch something rarer: the sound of folks who play for the sake of it. Not networking, not prestige--just the pure, slightly crooked joy of seeing a golf ball tumble across land that has seen more deer than FootJoys.
The course itself? Well, "National" isn't that much of a stretch. IT IS HARD. The night before a tee time, I'll catch myself thinking about that opening hole, trying to will myself not to screw it up in the morning. No. 1 does not lull you into anything. It is tough, a 294-yard par-4 that ends in an elevated green where, if you miss, your ball lands in tall grass or rolls down the slope never to be seen again. Each hole has its quirks, and quirks, I'd argue, are better than pedigree. No. 2 is a sharp 90-degree dogleg right, framed by hickory trees waiting in the rough. The 434-yard No. 5 doglegs just enough to dare you into a mistake. Your approach shot there then must carry or avoid the "lake" that the entire course slopes to. No. 7 feels uphill even when it's not. You can hit a beautiful drive and still never find your ball, which somehow flew over the berm and disappeared even though you swore it landed in the middle of the fairway.
Marie on Lodi's 7th fairway
Then comes the pièce de résistance: the 8th hole, a 305-yard par 4. Go for the drive and you'll likely greet the old-growth oaks, sending your ball into some rabbit territory. Play it safe and lay up short of the trees, only to have it roll down the slope anyway. The best I've ever managed here? A 19-degree 3-hybrid striped straight, then some imitation Lee Trevino 9-iron chip to get onto the green but not too much speed that it rolls off the backside. All while the beauty of the Wisconsin River stretches out below and a red-tailed hawk stares through you from above.
And when you've survived that, you're nearly home! No. 9, with the clubhouse staring you down, you remember this isn't Pinehurst—it's Lodi, and par carries its own kind of nobility that comes with a Miller Lite.
There are fancier courses, yes. Straighter fairways, faster greens, locker rooms with cold, fragrant towels. But none of them give you what Lodi National does: a front-row seat to the small, essential theater of people simply trying--sometimes failing, often laughing--to get the ball in the hole.
And that's why it's a nine-hole kingdom. Not because it's perfect, but because it's not.