Having grown up working at a private golf club, sneaking out to play on Mondays or after work when the head pro allowed, I learned a side of the game that I would later hate.

The men and women who comprised the membership of the now-defunct Joliet Country Club spanned the “private club membership” spectrum. There were the older members who were just there to enjoy a round of golf or a few hours at the pool with their grandchildren. A smaller collection of female twilight-golf players hung around to socialize and drink wine on the patios after a quick nine. The majority of the membership, however, included middle-aged white men chasing dreams of yesteryear or the inevitable DUI after too much celebration following the Club Championship.

Don’t get me wrong: those 10 years working in the bag room — and later the pro shop — were the best of my life. I learned a great deal about hard work, service, loyalty, friendship, drugs and alcohol. In terms of my golf game, I cut my teeth playing holes that were oddly laid out and featured small greens, mountainous hills and conditions that rivaled any “big boy course” in the Midwest. It was my Augusta, my nirvana, and my temptress.

But it was also a version of golf completely opposite of my lower-class upbringing. It was an opportunity to see how the wealthy lived and how they spent their casual time, all while getting paid to make their lives enjoyable. Sure, there were plenty of perks that came along with my role in this performance, but once I clocked out at the end of my shift, things changed.

Public golf has always held a special place in my heart because I knew that’s where I truly belong. Stepping onto a golf course that didn’t have manicured greens and a tee-sheet loaded to the gills slowly became commonplace for me. Watching handicaps that ranged from scratch to “You Should Take Up Bowling” was the norm, and with it came a different sense of community.

Of course, public golf is not without its negatives. Rounds often surpass five hours on a good day, and greens fees fluctuate more than the stock market. You’re always at risk to run into golfers you’d rather not play in front of, or behind. I’m not the biggest fan of being paired with random strangers, but this is almost guaranteed should you venture out as a single on a weekend. Private clubs, conversely, allow familiar faces to be paired together.

The unfamiliarity of clientele can also be public golf’s biggest benefit. I’ve met many great people completely due to chance on a public course, and sometimes have been lucky enough to play more than one round with them. I can count on one hand the number of instances I regretted being paired with random strangers, and it’s usually due to pace of play than attitude or personalities. At the end of the day, playing bad golf together is a great equalizer.

At the business level, public golf screams “community” to me more than anything we did at the private club. You meet all walks of life at a park district scramble or moonlight nine, and the stories told among a foursome after “so where are you from?” are highly entertaining. I’ve shot some of my best scores on public courses with people I’ve never met, leaving me with a feeling that I’d just pulled off the world’s greatest con.

The flavors of public golf courses are plenty, and while most are developed by architects you’ll never read about, a select few leave lasting impressions on you. I’ve yet to find a golf course that I find nothing enjoyable about, and the most ridiculous hole designs haunt me every season. In some weird way, however, those monsters keep me coming back for more.

The allure of public golf is more than just the people, or just the course designs, or just the discount hotdogs at the turn. It’s the combination of all these parts working perfectly together in spite of their imperfections. It’s the game in its purest form, curated by taxpayers and superintendents, setting the stage for future generations to experience something we’ve left behind.