Just like ten years ago, I’ll be watching The Masters this weekend. I still remember the first time — my dad sat me down in front of the TV and made me watch it. I was seven years old and completely uninterested. Golf seemed slow, quiet and foreign. My dad didn’t give me much of a choice — he told me to sit, watch and be patient. At the time, I didn’t know it, but that moment would quietly shape the way I saw the world.
We didn’t speak English at home, and none of us understood the commentary. The announcers' voices were just background sounds to us — soft, technical and almost hypnotic. But despite the language gap, I found myself drawn in. There was something mesmerizing about the rhythm of the game: the precise movement of the players, the hushed crowd, the way the camera followed the arc of a ball through the sky with reverence.
I didn’t know what a birdie was. I couldn’t pronounce half the names on the leaderboard. But somehow, I began to care.
That’s how it starts sometimes. Not with understanding, but with feeling. And that feeling — the sense of being part of something bigger — was something I recognized even then.
Growing up in China, golf wasn’t something I saw often. It wasn’t taught in schools or played in the parks. It wasn’t broadcast like soccer or basketball. To most people around me, it felt like a distant sport reserved for a different world. And yet, there I was, every April, watching The Masters in my living room with my parents, slowly becoming part of that world without even realizing it.
At first, I watched because my dad told me to. But later, I watched because I wanted to. I wanted to see who could handle the pressure on the 12th at Augusta. I wanted to feel the suspense of a final putt on the 18th. I wanted to see grace under pressure, perseverance in silence and the kind of resilience that exists without boasting.
I couldn’t explain this love to most of my classmates. To them, golf seemed strange: too slow, too quiet. But for me, it was something else entirely. It was a sanctuary. A space where the noise of the world faded and only one thing mattered: the game.
Looking back, I realize that sports are their own kind of language. You don’t need subtitles to understand the joy on a player’s face after a birdie. You don’t need translation to feel the heartbreak of a missed putt. Sports speak to something primal in all of us — something that transcends accent, passport and time zone.
That’s what I mean when I say sports are an intangible language — one that people around the world understand without ever needing to be taught. A kind of emotional fluency that lets strangers become allies, competitors become brothers and fans become family. Watching The Masters taught me that long before I ever learned to speak English fluently.
I think about that a lot — how I fell in love with something I couldn’t understand; not in words, but in meaning. How I learned to feel first, and later, to analyze. How that experience shaped the way I now approach all kinds of barriers: linguistic, cultural, emotional. With patience. With curiosity. With trust that understanding can come, even if it doesn’t arrive right away.
When I came to the U.S. for high school, that belief was tested. Everything felt unfamiliar: new language, new routines, new faces. I worried that I wouldn’t be able to connect with anyone. That I would always feel like an outsider looking in.
But then I picked up a golf club.
Joining my school’s varsity golf team gave me more than a sport — it gave me a sense of place. It gave me something to share when every other possible connection was made difficult. On the course, I didn’t have to explain who I was or where I was from. All I had to do was play. The game spoke for me.
We walked together in silence during practice rounds. We gave each other quiet nods after a good shot. We grumbled together when our drives sliced into the trees. In those moments, it didn’t matter what country we came from, what language we spoke at home or what grade we were in. What mattered was the shared pursuit of improvement. Of challenge. Of excellence.
Through golf, I formed friendships that ran deeper than I expected. I wasn’t just “the international kid” — I was a teammate, a competitor, a fellow golfer. I learned about American culture not through lectures or textbooks but through casual conversations on the driving range and post-tournament team dinners. And my friends learned about me the same way.
The course became a classroom — not just for sports, but for empathy.
Golf is a game of patience. It rewards humility. It demands quiet focus, and it teaches you that sometimes, the biggest challenges are the ones happening inside your own head. I found that the values I had grown up with — discipline, respect and calm under pressure — translated perfectly into the game. And in learning how to navigate the course, I also learned how to navigate life in a new country.
I came to understand that cultural diversity isn’t something you study — it’s something you live. And sports, especially golf, give you a chance to live it fully. To stand beside someone very different from you and still find something in common. To compete fiercely and still respect deeply. To learn without judgment.
Golf showed me that connection doesn’t always start with words. Sometimes, it starts with a handshake on the first tee.
That’s why, every April, The Masters still feels like a homecoming. Not just to the tournament but to a version of myself I sometimes forget — the quiet kid sitting on the couch, watching a game she didn’t yet understand but already loved. The one who learned that passion doesn’t need translation. The one who learned that sports could be both personal and universal.
As I watch The Masters this year, I’ll be cheering for the players, of course. But more than that, I’ll be reflecting on the path that brought me here. From a child watching through a language barrier to a teenager finding connection through sport to someone who now sees golf not just as a hobby, but as a bridge between worlds.
In a time when so much can feel divided, golf reminds me of what can bring us together: shared silence, mutual respect, a deep love for something greater than ourselves.
Because, in the end, golf isn’t about the green jacket or the leaderboard. It’s about grace, discipline and the pursuit of excellence. It’s about the quiet thrill of trying to get better, even when no one is watching. And it’s about the way that pursuit unites people, regardless of where they come from or what language they speak.
That’s what keeps me coming back to The Masters. Not just the beauty of Augusta but the beauty of shared passion.
Golf taught me that you don’t need to speak the same language to understand each other. You just need to care about the same things. You just need to show up, take the swing and play the game. And that, I’ve come to believe, is enough to build a world.
Molly Wu is a sophomore studying political science and economics. While she was originally from Beijing, China, she went to a boarding school in New Jersey since high school. Growing in an envionrment that stresses the importance of diversity, she enjoys absorbing and sharing different perspectives. You can contact her at lwu5@nd.edu.
