The sun has dipped below the horizon on Long Island and the street lamps in the Bethpage State Park car lot blink to life. The clubhouse is quiet. The last golf carts have been hosed down and stored, the snack bar shuttered and the fairways emptied. Another summer day is in the books at New York’s busiest and perhaps most beloved muni.
In just a few short months, Bethpage’s Black Course will host the Ryder Cup, the ultimate team event in golf. Towering grandstands already loom over greens on this sultry night in mid-July. Temporary hospitality structures rise like scaffolding around the fairways. By late September, this patch of New York will be the thrumming center of the golf universe. But tonight, the only buzz is coming from a back corner of the parking lot. Nearby, the PGA of America’s “Ryder Cup Operations” trailers sit dark and locked, but not far away the real action is underway.
Thirty-plus cars are backed into the semicircular lot, each lined up behind a painted number. Campsite chairs, tents and coolers dot the blacktop. A man lies atop his SUV, gazing at the stars. Another strings a hammock between two lampposts, sipping a beer and laughing with a buddy seated close by on a tailgate.
Near the space marked No. 1 — a coveted spot in the overnight queue — six men lounge around a cooler as if it were a campfire. A pizza deliveryman arrives with a stack of pies in white square boxes. If it feels and looks a lot like a college football pregame hang, there’s one critical difference: These people are here to play;to pursue a tee time and tackle the Black Course, which draws golf diehards from across the country for a shot at one of the game’s toughest tests.
The Black’s tee sheet has, for years, been packed nearly every day, but, with the Ryder Cup’s imminent arrival, demand has reached an even more feverish pitch. Since early July, the course has accepted only walk-up tee times, meaning there’s just one way to secure a round: camp out overnight in the parking lot. Actually, it’s a ritual that dates back decades.
Steven Ji, a 73-year-old Korean American who lives not far from the park, first played the Black in the early ’80s. In the years since, he estimates he’s teed it up on the course over 600 times. Still, here he is, on a muggy New York night, bond- ing and blathering with the bros.
“U-S-A! U-S-A! U-S-A!” Ji chants, pumping his fists in the air as the conversation shifts to the Ryder Cup. “This is the culture,” he adds more quietly. “You come early, you camp out, you enjoy the time. It’s not just golf — it’s Bethpage.”
One of those pulled into Ji’s patriotic cheer is Brandon Johnston, the lucky occupant of spot No. 1. His small gray sedan anchors the queue and lands him the first shot at a tee time in the morning. The 29-year-old made the two-hour drive from central New Jersey, reached the lot at 9 a.m. and unloaded from the trunk of his car a makeshift workstation — folding table, laptop, monitor and all.
“I wanted to prove to work that I could still be productive,” he says with a grin. “I got a few things done. Most of my job is on my phone, so it’s manageable.”
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The youngest in the circle of jabberers is 18-year-old John Classen. He and his father, Peter, journeyed 10 hours from Virginia to bet on a Black tee time. Fresh out of high school, John is taking a gap year to check off as many bucket-list courses as he can. This one tops his list
“I’ve dreamed about it,” he says. “I’m just so happy right now, I don’t even think I’ll sleep.”
He puts his restlessness to use, bonding with a trio of 20-somethings from Philadelphia who’ll now complete his foursome. Their goal: the earliest available tee time, so John and his dad can make it all the way back to Virginia after the round.
But with hours still to go before sunrise, there’s time to kill. They grab their flatsticks and hit the practice green for a putting contest under the glow of a dozen street lamps.
“What parent wouldn’t want to support this kind of thing?” Peter says. He’s not playing the Black, but he plans to walk every hole with his son, documenting the experience as they go. “He’s not just playing golf, he’s making connections, building memories, doing something different. I’m proud to be part of it.”
On the other side of the clubhouse, the Black’s infamous warning sign is even more ominous in the moonlight. John won’t sneak a peek tonight. “I’m saving it,” he says. “I want to be on that first tee and just look around like, Wow.”
With their adrenaline waning and the late-night putt-off winding down, the group—one by one—retreats to their cars. A.W. Tillinghast’s 7,500-yard brute awaits, and they’ll need all the kip they can get. But sleep doesn’t come easy. Temps linger near 90 degrees; legs dangle from pickup truck beds; heads rest against cracked windows; and dreams drift toward birdies made in the footsteps of the pros who’ve competed here since 2002.
By 4 a.m., the wait is almost over. The lot begins to stir. Car doors creak open; silhouettes stretch and yawn; golfers emerge, blinking in the darkness. The lights of the Ryder Cup Operations trailers flicker on and a state park attendant unlocks the cart barn. Foursomes gather in front of their cars, waiting for the park ranger and her John Deere Gator to appear. She finally does and starts the roll call, handing Brandon Johnston and his group tickets labeled “1.” They jump into their car, start their engines and make a beeline for the clubhouse 150 yards away. The Classens are next, followed by the kids from Philly.
A line forms outside the clubhouse. A Bethpage employee stands at the door, calling out numbers one at a time and letting golfers in to book their dream round. Brandon emerges first, beaming. He and his foursome have sewn up a noon tee time and plan to head to a friend’s house nearby to catch a few hours of proper sleep. John and Peter appear next. They’re slotted for 8:40 a.m. They’ll hang around the parking lot, waiting for the course restaurant to open.
Soon, the sun begins to rise over Long Island, washing the course in pale orange light. A groundskeeper cuts a fresh hole on the 18th green while another guides a mower down the fair- way. Just beside the first tee, a group of sullen teens sits on a bench, watching the day unfold and the Ryder Cup build-out grow—as it will each day for the next few months.
“I can’t believe we got here at 3 a.m. and still didn’t get a tee time,” one of them groans.
But maybe their bum luck is dumb luck. The first cars for tomorrow’s line have already begun to arrive.
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