But first!

Joel’s tagline for his book beings, “Rediscovering golf’s soul …” and there are much worse places for that than Erin Hills, which is presenting today’s newsletter.

Erin Hills will host this year’s U.S. Women’s Open presented by Ally on May 29-June 1, and I’m all fired up about it. About the tournament, about the golf course, about how all of it is going to look on TV. If you’re in the area, you should absolutely get tickets.

If you’re not, here are a few things you should know.

1. This is Erin Hills’ fifth USGA national championship. The other four were won by … well, I will send a copy of Joel’s book to the first two people who respond with who won and who finished second at those four events.

2. Additionally, this is Wisconsin’s 18th USGA championship with 12 forthcoming in the next several years. Underrated golf state.

3. This year’s U.S. Women’s Open had the second most qualifier entries (1,904) in the history of the event.

OK, onto the Q&A.

But don’t miss that trivia giveaway above!

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Q&A: Joel Beall

KP: You are such a good reporter, and I have a lot of professional jealousy around that. I am curious how you develop sources and how often you talk to them? You seem to know … everyone.

Beall: It’s a combination of professional necessity with a strategic advantage I noticed early on. While covering other sports, I'd learned that although you need the obligatory quote from stars, coaches, or GMs, the real insights and color come from bench warmers, assistant scouts, and trainers who've been around for decades. Yet golf media disproportionately flocks to top players while overlooking the rest of the field.

Ed. note: [raises both hands as high as physically possible]

There are two scenes that remain vivid in my mind from my first tournament for Golf Digest, which was the 2015 PGA Championship at Whistling Straits. The first was staying at a house that had a mounted deer head on a Jay Cutler cardboard cutout. The other second was watching Tiger, Rory, and Spieth being swarmed during practice rounds while virtually everyone else worked undisturbed. Found out real quick Wisconsin wasn’t an anomaly. (the media part, not Cutler.)

One-on-one conversations are infinitely more productive than being part of a media scrum, and the rank-and-file players, genuinely appreciative that someone's taken interest in them, speak with remarkable candor.

Even now, after 11 seasons at GD, this approach remains invaluable—at the Players Championship this year, I counted a dozen writers inside the ropes with Rory during early week practice, most just observing rather than engaging. For me, that's a competitive advantage: while the crowd surrounds McIlroy, I have Ale Tosti all to myself, learning about his empanada recipes.

Besides, stars are constantly surrounded by opportunists, which makes them justifiably wary and reluctant to offer genuine insights during interviews. This approach extends to tour and tournament officials, agents, club members, and equipment representatives as well. Our sport tends to attract "jock sniffers," and I've never quite understood the obsession with celebrity and fame. It reminds me of that quote from "Swingers" – "This is the guy behind the guy behind the guy."

Find that person – that's where the valuable insights lie.

What's also strengthened my reporting has been producing several features, investigations, and in-depth reports. Once you demonstrate your credibility — proving you understand the subject matter and can be precisely critical rather than hot-take inflammatory — you establish a foundation of trust within golf's tight-knit community, which naturally generates more opportunities for meaningful stories.

In this regard, I owe tremendous gratitude to my editors Sam Weinman and Ryan Herrington. They instilled the understanding that while anyone can write an opinion piece, what truly distinguishes quality journalism is the reporting that allows you to seamlessly blend "Here's what's happening" with "Here's why it matters."

KP: What was the scariest part about writing Playing Dirty? (Take "scariest" however you want).

Beall: Let me speak from experience on both sides of this equation. Gregg Popovich instills the concept of "appropriate fear" in his teams—a principle that resonates with my approach to writing. Without becoming sentimental, this fear manifests as ensuring the final product stands as something I'm genuinely proud of, work that maintains its integrity whether read today or a decade from now.

Throughout the creative journey—from talking to agents and publishers, conceptualization and planning through reporting and writing—you're essentially navigating uncharted territory, guided only by self-belief, uncertain if you're heading in the right direction until you arrive at your destination. Which I know sounds like a terrible high school yearbook quote, yet it’s true, and it can be unsettling … if only because I care and know this is a rare opportunity to do something that lasts.  

Paradoxically, despite this healthy tension, I never felt genuinely afraid. The entire process was purely a labor of love. I'm likely undermining my position in future contract negotiations by admitting this, but I consider myself a lucky S.O.B to cover this beautifully stupid game of ours. I believe this shared appreciation forms one foundation of our friendship—the mutual recognition of how privileged we are to do this work, and our refusal to take it for granted.

Ed. note: Yes.

This sentiment only intensified throughout this project. At the risk of appearing self-congratulatory, I believe that passion, love, and joy permeate the writing, ultimately elevating the quality of the book.

KP: You have won every award there is to win, so I'm curious … what about writing — either books or articles — brings you the most joy?

Beall: For the first decade of my career, I approached our profession with misplaced dedication—arriving at courses before dawn, departing after dusk, plotting each subsequent day as if orchestrating military maneuvers. Someone convinced me that quantity of hours directly translated to quality of work.

I suppose this obsession stemmed from profound impostor syndrome. Walking into media centers alongside Jaime Diaz, Michael Bamberger, Kevin Van Valkenburg, Shane Ryan, and Eamon Lynch— guys who perform neurosurgery with a keyboard—I understood the gulf between them and me, and the only way to bridge the gap was through relentlessness.

This self-imposed grind decimated my personal life, accelerated my burnout and undermined the quality of my work. I now find my early writings almost unbearable to revisit, glimpses of potential buried beneath anxiety and overcompensation. Like watching a video of yourself dancing at a wedding after four shots of tequila.

Two developments altered my trajectory: First, a constellation of writers—yourself included, alongside Porath, SMartin, Bacon, Shane Ryan, and LKD—extracted and brought me into post-work socializing, gradually revealing there existed life beyond tournament grounds.

Then there was a harrowing brush with mortality in 2022 that fundamentally recalibrated my priorities; after watching a priest pray with my wife through a team of doctors in the emergency room, you tend to want to make the most of what time you have. For my professional life, this means doing my best during working hours while genuinely cultivating and treasuring relationships with fellow journalists. Those tournament weeks spent among colleagues now constitute the brightest moments of my calendar—a testament to our friendships amid professional pursuits. Not coincidentally, this shift has corresponded with (I think) my strongest writing to date.

The writing process itself varies.

Uncovering and illuminating previously untold stories delivers a good deal of satisfaction, even when confronting uncomfortable subject matter. Currently, we're excavating the journey of Ryan Peake—the golfer who endured five years of incarceration yet will compete in this summer's Open Championship.

While casual fans might recognize the headline, our examination of his complex past will deliver a pretty significant emotional impact. Tournament coverage presents its own magnificent challenge—simultaneously un-tameable yet tantalizing in its possibilities. One assignment might document heartache; the next celebrates career-defining triumph. Articulating why these moments transcend sport and touch our collective humanity? That remains a rush.

KP: Where is the biggest gap between how much you enjoyed a specific event vs. consensus about that event? (i.e. nobody liked the 2016 PGA, but maybe you loved it, or everyone loved the 2019 Masters, but maybe you hated it).

Beall: Ryan Lavner and I revisit this with a frequency neither of us are proud of: the 2020 Masters. Augusta’s magic has always emanated from its galleries—those gasps and roars are more than a soundtrack; it’s why there are other majors that come and go, but the Masters is forever (shoutout KVV and NLU for their sound project this year).

The absence of patrons diminished the tournament's grandeur, and that feeling was palpable. Not helping was Dustin Johnson, who eliminated virtually all competitive drama. And yet, there we were, a handful of journalists, players, officials, and members, wandering freely through golf's Eden. We'd somehow slipped through a cosmic loophole, experiencing Augusta National in its purest form—as if the universe had accidentally granted us membership for one magical week. There was like an hour span on Tuesday where I was the only person at Amen Corner. The Matrix indeed glitched, and we were the fortunate witnesses to its most beautiful error.

KP: Name a random golfer from your childhood.

Beall: Carlos Franco. 

When I was a kid, I would write fake major gamers about vanquishing Tiger, Ernie, Phil, Vijay in triumphant fashion. (I guess I wanted to be Peter Thomson? Speaking of which, how remarkable that one of golf's premier links specialists doubled as one of our best chroniclers—imagine Xander finishing Royal Troon, then posting up next to Shackelford to bang out a deadline piece for the San Diego Union-Tribune.)

Anyway, I was going through some of my old notebooks and discovered that I “won” a Masters over Carlos Franco. I probably was taken by his lettuce and electric mustache. A 1970s album cover come to life. If memory serves correctly, I once witnessed his caddie discreetly slip a hotel room number to an admiring fan during the Memorial Tournament, but that’s a story for another time.

KP: If you could pick any decade to have the job you currently have, which would you pick?

Beall: It's tempting to idealize journalism's past eras—when reporters traveled alongside players, sharing drinks and confidences, or when covering a major championship required only a single weekly dispatch of 800 words. I deeply admire Tom Callahan (the brilliant sportswriter, not the Sandusky auto parts magnate) and find myself occasionally envious when exploring his work from the '70s and '80s, when newspaper columnists wielded genuine cultural influence.

But were those truly better days? We exist in an extraordinary moment for sports journalism. Conversations with vets from older generations reveal they rarely experienced the camaraderie and cross-publication friendships that we have. While we may lack the unfettered access of our predecessors, we enjoy unprecedented creative freedom and distribution capabilities. You transformed a clever Twitter concept into a thriving business with devoted followers—something Rick Reilly couldn't accomplish with his dental analogies, regardless of how many Sports Illustrated back pages he commanded. (Also, it’s become fashionable to dunk on The Rickster. Go back and read his stuff from the ‘80s and ‘90s. Still holds up.)

Ed. note: One of the greats. This one is a banger.

The digital revolution has democratized our ability to reach audiences and effect tangible change. I rarely look back at my own stuff, but the story I'm proudest of involves Misha, this Ukrainian amateur golfer trapped in a war zone when war broke out. We published his story on a Thursday evening, and by weekend, the golf community had mobilized a rescue operation. Days later, I greeted Misha at Orlando International Airport and the PGA Tour had him up the next day to the Players Championship. David Leadbetter provided accommodation at his academy and Augusta National welcomed him to the Masters. He now competes for the University of North Carolina golf team—all because people took time to read about his story on a phone that’s in their pocket.

KP: What about Playing Dirty are you most proud of?

Beall: Each chapter of the book employs a deliberate structural duality—juxtaposing one issue plaguing professional golf against its philosophical counterpoint. It could have been gimmicky, but the approach was not so much a literary device as it was an analytical lens, illuminating the dysfunction permeating elite golf while simultaneously offering a redemptive path forward. Let's acknowledge the obvious: readers don't need another exhaustive chronology of the LIV-PGA Tour schism—such an accounting would only serve as quicksand. The most gratifying feedback over the past month has been how readers approached the book bracing for further disillusionment about golf's fractured state, only to emerge unexpectedly revitalized and hopeful.

Also … I tread lightly, because there has been so much incredible work about Scottish golf, and I want to give it the appropriate reverence. However, there was a pretty obvious throughline to most of these books: the author finds themselves or has a personal transformation through encounters with links golf.

I didn’t want to do that.

Instead, the book reveals the soul of Scottish golf through its communities, characters, and lesser-known courses that embody the country's golfing essence yet remain largely undiscovered by the typical golf pilgrim. These are the people and places that make Scotland not just the home of golf, but Scotland itself. Contributing a fresh perspective to this rich tradition while introducing readers to these overlooked treasures represents, I hope, is additive to the Scottish golf canon.  

KP: What is one change you hope your book brings about, no matter how small or silly it may seem?

Beall: That it’s time for the Range Goats to bring Talor Gooch home.

I hope decision-makers across all factions finally confront the devastating collateral damage they've inflicted on the game. One of the most jarring revelations confirmed during my book research—something many of us had heard but dismissed as too outlandish—was that PGA Tour leadership and PIF executives genuinely expected universal acclaim following their June 6 framework agreement, leaving them stunned by the fierce backlash from both players and fans.

While the #FanForward initiative offers something, the endless focus on capital sources, financial structures, and self-interested maneuvering has created a breach that faster play and fewer commercial breaks cannot repair.

Jaime and I recently discussed how, for generations, "Golf" represented our entire ecosystem—from major championships to your regular Thursday foursome at the local muny. Today, we there is a meaningful bifurcation between "Golf" and "professional golf," a distinction I fear the power brokers still fail to grasp. The sport desperately needs authentic accountability—a sincere acknowledgment of failure followed by unwavering commitment to restoration.

To me, this is also what explains Rory's resonance with the golf community. Here stands a superstar unafraid to display genuine vulnerability and human frailty. He’s authentic, warts and all, the real deal. His position as the sport's most beloved figure is no coincidence.

KP: Who is one person you hope reads it?

Beall: Lee Westwood. I believe he bragged he's never read a book. What better way to start.