We’ve reached that particularly reflective time of year, looking back at all that’s happened, thinking about what might be to come—you know the deal. The USGA pays for a good reminder, with the GHIN App Rewind, showing us how many scores we’ve recorded, how many courses we’ve played, how our handicap went up or down. (My index dropped 0.2 strokes, wow-wee.)
As I tried to make a serious index of my 2025 golf season, I found myself thinking much less about the courses I played or even the memorable rounds, and much more about the special afternoon of May 26th. It was Memorial Day and I was driving through rural Wisconsin, from the northern reaches of the state to Erin Hillswhich was about to host the US Women’s Open.
After a stop at Culver’s halfway through, Google suggested two routes to complete the trip, and on one of them I spotted a town I hadn’t considered in years: Winneconne.
The town of less than 2,500 is your classic Wisconsin community, fitting with a quirky name (pronounced Win-uh-cah-NEE). But it was always one of the few Winneconne Highway exits my grandfather used to get to Lake Breeze Golf Club, where I first fell in love with golf. I figured it was worth the extra seven minutes to drive around Winneconne and see what I could find.
Grandpa Zak was a hardworking man who loved to see the work ethic in others. He was a traditionalist about how golf courses should be run—customers showing up early for the first time, playing at pace, wearing the right shoes and taking care of the greens. He probably wouldn’t have enjoyed the fraternity behavior to be found at the public courses on Saturday afternoons, where the property becomes a place to drink beers, swing hard and jam to the music. But we don’t know for sure because Grandpa Zak passed away in 2015, years before golf. Covid boom in popularity.
What Grandpa Zak understood about golf courses was that they are sanctuaries for character. The golf course is a place that tests your physical weaknesses, of course, but it also strains your mental weaknesses. He places a premium on patience, self-forgiveness, and honesty, while he cares about the daily, attractive examination of How good can I get? It’s all a big reason why he brought me so often to Lake Breeze, where he worked as a busy bodyguard. During each eight-hour shift he did all the jobs of a rookie, a ranger or even an outfielder, adjusting golf carts, choosing driving distances, washing golf balls and crunching slower sets.
Those are the memories I carry, at least, of being in his orbit for some of those days. My week-long summer visits to stay with my dad’s parents were basically golf camp, where I had free runs at Lake Breeze. Grandpa and I would show up for his morning shift, and I could hit balls with unlimited range—often pointing them at him as he picked out the range—squeeze nine holes through the gaps in the game, practice putting, and drink an endless supply of lemonade from the clubhouse bar.
What I wondered as I drove down Highway 45, on the edge of Winneconne, was whether Lake Breeze was anything like its former self, now 20 years later. I made a phone call to the pro shop, asking about appointment times, even for a single. I had free time—it was noon—but the answer surprised me.
Sorry mate, not a single opening on the magazine sheet.
That was it NO The lake breeze I knew. Which is definitely a good thing. Lake Breeze I knew was not the most popular track in the area. It was modest and serviceable, but never overcrowded. HAD always room for my grandfather and I – and even my cousins who lived nearby – to sneak away whenever we wanted, weekend or weekday. But now it was buzzing. The man on the phone was not surprised.
Sean Zak
A few minutes later, as I pulled into the parking lot, I was pleased to see that Lake Breeze’s popularity seemed to be the only thing that had changed. It was an artifact of my golf history that was left almost as I left it. The signage was the same. The large, black, wooden box on the side of the club – which holds the same yellow balls – was still there and in use. First hole green still held OTHER USEFUL of its original form – the outline of Wisconsin, a point of pride of Lake Breeze.
The clubhouse was seemingly intact, as was the structure of its small golf shop, which you pass through to get to the bar. Two men stood behind the counter – one whose voice matched the one from my time’s investigation – and the other looking at the contents of a binder. I introduced myself and asked if any of them knew Tom Zak.
One man told another, “Well, he was his boss.”
Dave Petrack’s face lit up when he heard my grandfather’s name. He really was Tom Zak’s boss in the mid-2000s, serving as General Manager and Director of Golf since 2003. We swapped stories about how attached Grandpa was to course management and shared a laugh about how, mysteriously, a few sets of rental clubs disappeared from the bag room for me one season … because they disappeared from the bag room for me one season…
Petrack, like many humble people in the golf industry, is the lifeblood of a place like Lake Breeze. It’s not the most glamorous job managing a public course, certainly not with Wisconsin’s six-month golf season. And certainly not in the state where everyone travels for public golf now. The making of Erin Hills and Valley of sand have only pushed places like Lake Breeze down a notch on the public golf food chain. But it doesn’t take long to see the golf lifer that is Petrack and the love he has for the country. His place. A modest public course bordered by cornfields that requires $30 greens fees.
Sean Zak
This impromptu meeting with Petrak filled my golfing spirit, partly because of where we were, but mostly because it’s always nice to know someone who knows YOUR someone. I could talk about my father’s father and Petrack knew exactly what I meant. He could joke about my grandfather’s blind spots and that was okay! It felt good to picture the man who taught me the game in such close proximity to where he actually did it. His grave is 20 minutes away in Oshkosh, but his golfing essence lives on at Lake Breeze.
Instead of sitting around and hoping for a no-show time, I paid $6 for a small bucket and retired to the driving range, the same fairway I used to grind as a pre-teen, frustrated by how cut my 3-wood was. The Lake Breeze range will forever hold a special place in my heart, for reasons that should be obvious. But I was generally warmed by its aesthetics. The grass was loose and could use a trim. To her right was a handful of trees and, beyond them, the first hole, with no clear boundary between. On its left side the property boundary and a front road that runs along the highway. Everything about this range would offend anyone with a private club membership, but that’s exactly what I adore: a place meant for hitting balls, swinging hard, wearing jeans, laughing with your friend, working that part into a cut and aiming for the picker 200 yards away.
That’s exactly what I did this Memorial Day, chasing and (capturing!) some feelings from my youth. As my little bucket of balls dwindled, I pulled out the 3-wood and let loose a few, so hooked I watched it bounce like a rocket off that fairway. After a decade of missing on the right, I now occasionally drop one on the left. Grandpa would have scoffed at the idea, I thought. He would also be thrilled by this jam-packed sheet, knowing he had some golf work to do that day.
;)
;)
