People always say golfers don't smile. But there is so much

Hear the words of Lee Westwood: “People always say golfers don’t smile. But there is so much psychology in golf so we have to be a bit robotic.” In this reflection lies the truth of discipline and restraint, the acknowledgment that sometimes the spirit must be harnessed, emotion tempered, joy hidden, in order to triumph. The smile, though natural to the heart, can betray a flicker of distraction, and in the field of contest where precision is everything, even a breath of loosened focus can lead to downfall. Thus, Westwood speaks not of coldness but of necessity: the mind must become like a machine, steady, unshaken, resistant to the winds of passion.

The ancients knew this art of discipline well. In the schools of Stoicism, the wise were taught to master their impulses, to stand like pillars unmoved by fortune’s storms. Marcus Aurelius, emperor and philosopher, reminded himself daily to act without anger, without vain joy, without fear. In this, he was like the golfer Westwood describes: outwardly calm, inwardly vigilant. For in both life and sport, the smallest crack in composure can become the door through which defeat enters.

Consider the tale of the legendary samurai Miyamoto Musashi. In his duels, he did not grin nor boast, nor show the turmoil within his heart. He walked onto the field of combat with the face of still water, his movements precise, his spirit honed to a single point. His foes, often overwhelmed by their own passions, fell before his discipline. So too in golf, though no blood is spilled, the battle is just as fierce—against the course, against rivals, against the mind’s own betrayals. To appear robotic is not weakness but strength, the armor of those who must hold steady in silence.

Yet the wisdom here is layered. Westwood admits that golfers do not often smile, but this is not because joy is absent; it is because joy is held in check, saved for the moment of completion. The contest is too delicate for indulgence. Like the archer who must hold his breath before the arrow flies, the golfer restrains even the flicker of a grin until the task is done. This is the sacrifice of mastery: one must sometimes set aside the natural impulses of humanity in order to achieve what few can.

But beware, for there is also danger in becoming too robotic. A heart closed forever to joy loses its vitality, just as a blade without care grows brittle. The athlete who forgets how to smile may win victories yet lose the greater prize of a life well lived. Thus, balance is the teaching here: to be disciplined in the contest, yet joyful in the moments between. To master the psychology of the game without abandoning the soul’s need for lightness.

The lesson for us all is clear: when faced with tasks that demand precision—whether in sport, in work, or in life—we must learn to quiet our emotions, to become steady as stone. But let us also remember that life is more than discipline; it is also celebration. Hold your smile in the moments of strain, but let it return when the trial is past. For strength lies not only in mastery, but in the wisdom to know when to be still and when to rejoice.

So let this wisdom endure: in the struggles of life, we may at times need to be as robotic, shielding ourselves with focus, silencing the voice of distraction. Yet when the trial is over, let us cast off restraint, let us laugh, let us shine with joy. For in this balance—discipline and delight—lies the secret of a life both victorious and fulfilled.