Rory’s Bucket List Reveals What We’ve All Been Missing

Look, I’ve spent 35 years watching the best golfers in the world play the best courses in the world, and I can tell you something they won’t admit: even with all their access, all their invitations, all their membership cards—they’re still chasing.

That’s the thing that struck me hardest about Rory McIlroy’s recent bucket list interview with The Fried Egg. Here’s a guy who won the Masters just last year, who belongs to more elite clubs than most of us will ever set foot in, who can call Seminole home whenever his dad—a member there—can spare a tee time. And yet, McIlroy is still looking at the course map thinking, “I haven’t been there yet.”

The Privilege Paradox

In my experience covering the Tour, this is actually more revealing than it might seem on the surface. I caddied for Tom Lehman back in the ’90s, and I watched him navigate that same dynamic—incredible access meets finite time. The professional golfer’s calendar is a cruel mistress. You’ve got 50 weeks of tournaments, sponsor obligations, family time you’re desperately trying to protect. So paradoxically, the guys with the most access to play these legendary courses often have the least freedom to actually explore them.

McIlroy himself laid it out pretty plainly: “When his schedule allows him to play golf for fun more often, McIlroy plans to start ticking some of them off.” That caveat—”when his schedule allows”—says everything. The man is at the mercy of a professional calendar, even though he’s essentially won the golf lottery.

What strikes me is how universal that feeling actually is. I think McIlroy’s bucket list is less about his privilege and more about his honesty. He’s admitting that access isn’t the same as experience. You can have your name on the membership roll at five different clubs and still have blind spots.

Australia, America, and the Gaps We Don’t Talk About

Let’s look at what he mentioned specifically. New South Wales Golf Club in Australia—an Alister MacKenzie design that recently jumped 18 spots on Golf’s Top 100 list thanks to a MacKenzie & Ebert renovation. Fishers Island Club on Long Island, that Seth Raynor masterpiece where the ocean views are almost unfair. Pasatiempo in California. Chicago Golf Club. And—this one really got me—he’s never played Waterville back home in Ireland.

That last one is almost comical. The man grew up in Northern Ireland, and one of the most storied courses in the Republic is still on his to-do list. It tells you something about how compartmentalized professional golf has become. You’re either on the Tour schedule, or you’re fitting in personal rounds between commitments. There’s rarely a sweet spot where you can just go play.

What I found most interesting is his admission about American courses: “There are so many in the States that I haven’t.” He’s been living here for years. But between the PGA Tour schedule, his business interests, and the circuit of venues where he plays tournament golf, there are entire swaths of America’s golden age architecture he hasn’t experienced. The irony is sharp—a four-time major champion with more course access than 99.9% of golfers on Earth, and he’s still got homework.

Bandon Dunes: Even Bucket Lists Have Bucket Lists

But here’s the kicker that tells you everything: “I’d love to go to Bandon and do that.” Bandon Dunes. The place that doesn’t need a tour professional to validate it, that’s already overrun with pilgrims chasing that golf experience. And McIlroy—Rory McIlroy—is still outside looking in.

Now, the article took a light jab at the end—”Let’s hope he doesn’t rush. The place is busy enough without him jumping the line”—and I get the sentiment. But I actually think McIlroy heading to Bandon would be something to celebrate. Not because he’s a celebrity, but because it proves that even at the apex of professional golf, there’s still magic in the game that money and status can’t automatically deliver.

Bandon is a pilgrimage. It’s golf for golf’s sake. You book a week, you play multiple courses, you stay in an inn, you eat with strangers who share your obsession. It’s one of the few places in the game where a world-ranked player isn’t special because of his ranking—he’s just another golfer who showed up.

What This Really Means

In my three decades covering the tour, I’ve learned that the best stories about professional golfers aren’t about their wins. They’re about their humanity. McIlroy’s bucket list is refreshingly human. It reminds us that no matter how far you climb, there’s always another mountain. No matter how many invitations you get, there’s always a course you haven’t walked.

And maybe that’s healthy for the game. The moment McIlroy or any top player thinks they’ve played everything worth playing, that they’ve seen all the golf that matters—that’s when you lose something essential about why we all fell in love with this game in the first place.

I hope he makes it to Bandon. I hope he plays Waterville. And I hope he keeps that list close, because the day a champion stops looking for the next great course is the day he stops being a champion in any real sense of the word.