Aso Resort Grandviro Hotel Golf Course

Golfers might fear many things—bunkers, three-putts, slow play, and sudden downpours. But at one golf course I worked at, there was a much stealthier menace lurking in the trees. A feathered outlaw. A black-winged bandit with a mischievous eye for Titleists and Callaways. Yes, dear readers, I am talking about a crow. Not just any crow—the crow, bird with ambition, true golf ball cleptoman. The one who turned an otherwise peaceful par 5 into the setting of a Hitchcock-meets-Heist-Comedy golf special.

Let me set the scene.

It was a crisp, golden morning—dew glistening on the fairways, birds chirping, mowers humming, and I, your humble greenkeeper, knee-deep in a bunker, trying to pretend I had any control over how sand behaves. You know, standard turf life. Somewhere in the distance, a group of early risers teed off from the white markers on a deceptively tricky par 5.

A lovely drive. Right down the middle. You’d think the player would be proud. But that’s when things got weird.

As the ball rolled to a perfect resting spot, there was a sudden black blur from the pines. A crow—sleek, silent, and suspiciously well-timed—swooped down, casually picked up the golf ball like it was his own, and flew off with it as if he’d just nailed a hole-in-one. No hesitation. No fear. Straight-up daylight robbery.

And thus began my introduction to the winged menace of the course.

Now, this wouldn’t have been a big deal if it happened once. Nature is wild, right? Animals do strange things. But no. This crow had a system. A method. A schedule. He was always there—waiting on a particular tree near that tee box, blending in like a seasoned sniper. He didn’t care about balls in the rough. Oh no—he had taste. Only center-cut fairway shots were good enough for his collection.

And here’s where it gets even better: the golfers had no idea.

From their point of view, they’d hit a perfect drive, stroll up to the fairway… and boom—no ball. Nothing. Gone. You could almost hear the internal panic: “Did it plug? Did I mis-hit? Did I hallucinate that entire drive?”

And then—suspicion.

You see, on most of these days, I’d be somewhere nearby. Maybe trimming the edge of a bunker. Maybe fixing divots. Maybe looking like I was fixing something just to get a break from the strimmer. Regardless, I was there. A solitary greenkeeper. Standing not too far from the scene of the crime. Which, in golf logic, made me the prime suspect.

You’d be amazed how quickly a friendly nod from a golfer turns into a look of deep distrust when their ball vanishes mysteriously. I swear, I could feel the silent accusations burning holes in my high-vis jacket. One guy even muttered, “Where’s my ball, huh?” like I was hiding it under my rake.

All I could do was grin. Because from my vantage point, I saw it all.

The crow would literally wait. He’d tilt his head, watch the tee box, calculate the ball’s landing zone, and—within seconds of impact—he was in the air. And it wasn’t just random grabbing, either. I swear he had preferences. Titleists? Always taken. Cheap range balls? Left untouched like peas on a child’s dinner plate. It was borderline snobbish behavior.

At one point, I started trying to follow him with my eyes after the heist. Where was he taking the balls? Was he building a golf-themed nest? Creating an underground crow driving range? Saving up to open a secondhand pro shop?

I never found the stash. But part of me hopes there’s a hidden cave somewhere filled with stolen balls, neatly organized by brand and color, like a shiny museum of shame.

Of course, I eventually tried to warn players. But let’s be honest—walking up to a stranger mid-round and saying, “Hey, your ball didn’t vanish, a crow stole it” sounds… unhinged. Especially when you’re holding a rake and covered in sand. One guy actually laughed and said, “Yeah right,” then gave me the look again when his second shot disappeared the same way.

At a certain point, I just leaned into it. I’d watch from a distance, arms folded, smirking to myself as the crow made his move and the players squinted into the sun like confused detectives. I was in on the joke. The crow was in on the joke. The golfers? Not so much.

Now, you might be wondering—did the crow ever get caught?

Not really. I mean, what’s the punishment for bird theft? A stern warning? A suspension from the local wildlife association? He was too smart, too fast, too cool. The crow was a legend. A mystery. A master of mischief. He turned that hole into his own private prank show, and I was just the accidental audience.

Eventually, word started to spread. Players began to whisper about the “Ball Thief Crow.” Some tried hitting decoys. One guy threw a nut to distract him (it didn’t work—this crow wanted golf). But the legend only grew. It became part of the course lore. And me? I gotI got fewer dirty looks. Maybe even a little respect.  After all, I wasn’t the saboteur—I was the whistleblower.

In the end, golf is full of surprises. Some days you birdie a hole. Some days you get robbed by one.

So the next time you hit a beautiful drive down the middle and find nothing waiting for you but confusion and disbelief, don’t be too quick to blame the greenkeeper. Look up. Listen for a rustle in the trees. And if you see a shadow pass overhead, just know: he’s still out there.

Watching. Waiting. Thieving.