The U.S. Open has always prided itself on being the most democratic of golf’s majors, a tournament where anyone—from amateurs to seasoned pros—could earn their spot through grueling qualifiers. But lately, I can’t help but feel it’s drifting away from that identity. What was once a celebration of openness and meritocracy is increasingly becoming a curated field of exemptions and pre-selected elites. And that, in my opinion, is a shame.
Take this year’s field at Shinnecock Hills, for example. Only 62 players earned their way in through qualifiers—a far cry from the 80 who did so just a decade ago. Personally, I think this shift undermines what made the U.S. Open unique. It’s not just about the numbers; it’s about the stories. Players like Vaughn Harber, an Ohio State sophomore who birdied his last five holes to secure a spot, embody the spirit of the tournament. These are the moments that make the U.S. Open special, not the guaranteed entries for top-ranked players.
What makes this particularly fascinating is how the U.S. Open is trying to balance tradition with the evolving landscape of golf. The addition of exemptions for LIV Golf players, Korn Ferry Tour leaders, and even the U.S. Junior Amateur winner reflects a desire to stay relevant. But here’s the thing: relevance shouldn’t come at the expense of what makes the tournament great. The U.S. Open isn’t supposed to be just another major; it’s supposed to be the major where anyone can prove themselves over 36 holes of qualifying.
From my perspective, the problem isn’t that the exempted players don’t deserve to be there—they absolutely do. It’s that the tournament is losing its soul in the process. The U.S. Open has always been about earning your place, not being handed it. When David Fay, former USGA executive director, called it the “most democratic championship,” he wasn’t just talking about the field; he was talking about the ethos. And that ethos is fading.
One thing that immediately stands out is how the British Open has handled a similar dilemma. They introduced the “Open Qualifying Series” and a “Last Chance Qualifier,” which, while effective, feels more like a consolation prize. The U.S. Open, however, has always been different. It’s not about identifying the best field; it’s about giving anyone the chance to prove they belong. That’s why the shrinking number of qualifiers is so concerning.
If you take a step back and think about it, the U.S. Open’s identity crisis is part of a larger trend in sports. Everywhere you look, meritocracy is being replaced by exclusivity. But golf, more than any other sport, thrives on its underdog stories. Players like T.K. Kim, who honed his skills on mini-tours, or Miles Russell, a 17-year-old high schooler, are the heart of the game. They remind us why we fell in love with golf in the first place.
This raises a deeper question: What does the U.S. Open want to be? If it continues down this path, it risks becoming just another major—spectacular, yes, but no longer the most open. And that would be a loss for everyone. The tournament’s DNA is its openness, its unpredictability, its ability to surprise us. We need more moments like Vaughn Harber’s, not fewer.
In my opinion, the USGA needs to course-correct. There’s no shame in recognizing the best players in the world, but not at the expense of what makes the U.S. Open unique. A 50-50 split between exemptions and qualifiers used to be the sweet spot. Maybe it’s time to revisit that. Because if the U.S. Open loses its democratic spirit, it loses what sets it apart.
What this really suggests is that tradition and progress don’t have to be mutually exclusive. The U.S. Open can evolve without abandoning its roots. It just needs to remember why it became the toughest—and most beloved—test in golf in the first place. Personally, I hope it does. Because the game, and its fans, deserve it.
