I think this is reasonable to ask: As orange is the new black or was, and 50 the new 40 (nodding at you, boss), is September, for those of us living in golfdom, the new July? Survey says yes, or this reporter does, anyway.
On Labor Day, at 5 p.m., my wife and I were on an ocean beach on my native Long Island. The season’s lifeguards all gathered ’round the stand, 15 or so, beaded necklaces ’round their necks, Mardi Gras-style. They blew their whistles collectively, a musical chorus and a distinct note the likes of which I had never heard before, and made a mad group dash into the gentle, warm surf on the modest waves of high tide. The rest of us beachside took a break from our books, castles, refreshments and lounging, stood and applauded in gratitude for these tanned and essential seasonal workers, Red Cross-certified and ready to do what AI cannot: pull a kid out of a riptide. They were calling it a day, a weekend — and a season.
An hour or more like two later, I caught some sun-warmed water in an outdoor shower on a deck in the vicinity of the lifeguard station, in the dunes, with a view of the ocean and the beach parking lot. The guards were gathered on the same deck, beers in hand, dusk and their school years coming. And that’s when I put my foot down. Had to do it, people.
No. Good vibes and intentions and all the rest, and with respect: This particular summer, this heated summer of ’26, cannot end with one semi-arbitrary group whistle.
This summer was way too hot, at least here in the Amtrak Northeast. So hot it killed a rite-of-summer, Joy o’ Golf. I have never played fewer 18-hole rounds in a summer in my life. But eventually I figured out something: September counts, the whole of it. Now’s a good time to blast Lou Reed’s “September Song” if you’re so inclined.
These golden days, I’d like to spend them with you.
The New Yorker, weekly mag with a 24-7 website, had a series this summer called Songs of Summer. Good times and tunes. Some nods in the series and I guess, by implication, YouTube, too: “Get Lucky” by Daft Punk, “Something to Love” by Jason Isbell, “I Gotta Feeling” by the Black Eyed Peas. From the last of these:
Fill up my cup!
Mazel tov!
The Beach Boys anthem, “All Summer Long,” which played over the final credits of “American Graffiti,” didn’t make the New Yorker list. Neither did the Sheryl Crow hit-of-hits, also set near the Pacific Coast Highway, “All I Wanna Do.” Well, you can’t have it all. No one list can have it all. Everybody hits is a phrase of the pastime, at least ’round these parts (Philadelphia), but not a literal truth. A third out is coming eventually. Who would want everything, and how boring would life be if you had it? The goal here is more modest. We’re looking for one more month of summer, really. That’s not asking too much, is it?
I don’t mean Sept. 21 or whatever the “Farmers’ Almanac” might tell you about when we shut the door officially on this summer of ’26. I mean just squeezing out a few more weeks here before the leaf rule moves in, frost delays hot on its feet. I realize this wee tribute to an extended season is a little easier once the kids are out of the house (but still on your cellphone plan, ’cause that’s forevah, best I can tell). When your kids are in school, your seasons are their seasons.
I should share with you when this ode to a stretched-out summer began for me. Was actually the day before the lifeguards at Sagg Main blew their call-it-a-season group whistle. The Walker Cup — dateline Lahinch, Ireland — was on TV. The second day, the Sunday of this two-day title fight, was spectacular. Then came the ladies, also in Europe but a sea or two away, playing a can’t-breathe Solheim Cup. Now, on deck here, comes the third hit in this stacked September call-up lineup, the Presidents Cup at old Medinah (with a new look), on the outskirts of Chicago. (If you need a hotel room, don’t stay downtown. It’s too far away. If you need a restaurant recommendation and you can find your way to Jean Van de Velde, ask him. The Frenchman learned more about Chicago restaurants in one long-ago week there than most Chicago visitors will learn in a dozen trips there. Jean’s teaching in Mexico, shoeless and bearded, BTW.) Chicago. As Fred (Couples) once said, “If Chicago had weather, it’d be scary.” Like, it’s that good. La Jolla Beach, Calif., good. Anyway, this Presidents Cup is likely to come down to one match on Sunday afternoon because that’s how these things are rolling in this extended-track summer of ’26.
I’m out. An afternoon tee time beckons, with a plan for a flurry of more games before we close out this summer of ’26 on our schedule. Course conditions right about now? You likely know the answer. Mint. Mint! Smooth greens, very green grass, cut rough and faster play (fewer practice swings, play-it-as-it-lies on the green, more while-we’re young as a golf-and-life philosophy). The best conditions of the year, here in the Northeast, anyway.
In the meantime, two songs of summer not on the list, and likely too on the nose for it.
First, the Beach Boys, as previously noted:
Miniature golf and Hondas in the hills.
When we rode that horse, we got some thrills.
Every now and then, we hear our song.
We’ve been having fun all summer long.
Second, Ms. Crow, from the top and from long ago, but, as a song of summer, one with legs that will last forevah:
Hit it.
This ain’t no disco.
This ain’t no country club either.
This is L.A.
