My early days when I was still much less skilled in these golf matters – if that’s even possible – are memories of a window from which one could see a renowned golf course, and where I would stand mesmerised, longing to be able to make the ball fly like any of the privileged amateurs who paraded there during hours when the rest of humanity was busy building the country, or at least trying to.
I must confess, attentive and patient reader, that back then, my profound ignorance of the fundamentals of the swing, despite the famous book by Ben Hogan resting condescendingly on my shelf, and of the correct way to square the clubface, that absolute and universal commandment, led me to think that any ball impact would surely surpass mine, even if it went straight to the rough. The unpredictability of its result was enough to keep me firmly convinced of it. In nine out of ten attempts, I wouldn’t lift the ball, and when I did, I would gaze wide-eyed at the miracle of seeing it take off, despite having a swing much less conventional than the real one of Eamonn Darcy or the fictional one of Happy Gilmore, with a grip of force eight, an ascending attack angle (with a seven iron), and a visibly out-in plane. Instructors of the world, I encourage you to join in a hearty laugh at such a prodigy.
In any case, I kept peering out of that window with the idea that it was enough to watch anyone, with the devotion of a diligent apprentice, to absorb the swing by osmosis or, failing that, by spontaneous kinesiology. What can you do, sometimes even Erin Sand is naive, like the character from the film Tin Cup: pure enthusiasm, but without touching the ground.
On one of those occasions, I was surprised by the fact that the course had transformed and was adorned with special signage for the Santander Tour. For a moment, I thought that day would surely be the big spectacle with hordes of spectators included. After all, the professionals were playing, and the setting had been adorned with the care reserved for truly important occasions.
And yet, what I saw from that window bore no resemblance to what I had anticipated. It wasn’t the kind of scene I had been exposed to when, in those unbeatable moments of post-holiday meal laziness, you find yourself battling Morpheus with the background noise of sports news summarising the highlights of a major. What started as an ordinary scene ended up being a new way of looking…
I don’t know if I was more struck by the perfect and rounded swing of each and every one of them – light-years ahead of my usual amateurs – or the fact that most of them were pushing their own trolleys and those sublime shots weren’t accompanied by the applause and roars of a crowd (non-existent that day).
I remember wondering why there wasn’t a friend, brother, or boyfriend who had offered to carry their bag, but I soon understood that they too were likely part of that other sector of humanity that, on any given Thursday, carries their own professional obligations and faces too high an opportunity cost to simply give away a few poorly paid or directly unpaid hours. Because wanting to be there is one thing, and being able to afford it is quite another.
Still, there I was, standing behind the glass, convinced that at any moment a huge grandstand, a VIP tent, an army of volunteers, television towers, or, of course, a loyal and dedicated audience would appear. In short, something that legitimised that they were there playing their tournament (even if it was one of the so-called minor ones), and despite the fact that no one, except them, seemed too eager to experience it as such.
Then I understood that perhaps the time had come to look where for too long few had wanted to stop. Over the years, female golfers competed and won without an audience, without front pages, without cameras (or, like Margarett Abbott, won the Olympic Games without realising it, making it such an invisible tournament that not even the gold dared to shine). Because, although the coverage of women’s sports grew by an average of 15% in 2020 and is expected to reach 20% by 2025, golf barely represents 3% of women’s sports consumption, while, needless to say, men’s sports monopolise prime time.
Inbee Park, the successful golfer who impressed with the calm of someone who doesn’t need to prove anything, completed her Grand Slam in 2015. She was 27 years old and with it sealed her seventh major. Seven feats for seven living golfers at that time who shared that number — or surpassed it —: Jack Nicklaus (18), Tiger Woods (up to that date 14), Gary Player (9), Tom Watson (8), Arnold Palmer (7), Annika Sörenstam (10), and Karrie Webb (7). History had admitted her. The spotlight, not yet.
They were invisible even when they won. But something is starting to move. The AIG Women’s Open of 2025 has shattered digital metrics
Inbee did it with precision, composure, and that impeccable swing that even Adam Scott — Masters champion, praised for his technique, and with a movement reminiscent of Tiger himself — acknowledged that when he needs to find his rhythm, he thinks of hers. The South Korean golfer also came from a unique lineage, that of the girls who saw Se Ri Park win two majors in ’98 and decided they too wanted to make history. Blessed “Se Ri” effect.
Ten years later, my dear Rory McIlroy won the Masters and finally completed his own Grand Slam Career. He achieved it at 35, after more than a decade under the spotlight, cameras, and media pressure. He has been on the cover for many years. She was a headline for a week.
Someone once said that what isn’t counted is just a story, and the figures for women’s golf didn’t add up, neither in share, nor in broadcast minutes, nor in media attention. They were invisible even when they won. But something is starting to move. The AIG Women’s Open of 2025 has shattered digital metrics: +144% on YouTube, +316% on Instagram, and a growing community that no longer just watches, but also follows, comments, gets excited, and gets involved.
And the best is yet to come. Because the future of women’s golf is no longer written in silence; it is heard in the names starting to resonate from the amateur world. Paula Martín Sampedro, Carla Bernat, Andrea Revuelta, Carolina Lopez-Chacarra are among the top 25 in the world, they along with emerging professionals like Julia López or Carla Tejedo tell us that the brightest stretch of current Spanish women’s golf is in the youth ranks, where a new generation pushes with strength and talent. Every youth triumph, every birdie in international championships or development circuits must compel us to look even at second-tier tournaments as Erin does through that window. And the interest is no longer condescending: it is real. It is much more than deserved.
When our young promises were barely ten years old, the standout was Carlota, and although the ‘Ciganda effect’ didn’t receive the deserved media coverage and was only news and not front-page when in her rookie year she won the order of merit, I trust that exclusive moment will come when she wins her first major (and with this desideratum Erin ceases to be naive to support more solid and well-founded opinions). In the meantime, perhaps they will no longer dance entirely alone. But, sadly, there are still those who don’t know it’s worth looking, and that “can’t be you,” dear reader.
