Muslims go to Mecca; Catholics go to Rome; New York golfers go to Farmingdale, Long Island, home to Bethpage Black, which in 2002 became the first public links ever to host a U.S. Open Championship. Over the years I must have braved the Long Island Expressway and made the pilgrimage 30 or 40 times, only to trudge off the 18th green exhausted, humiliated, and mentally frazzled. At 7,400 yards from the tips — about four and a half miles — with many forced carries, the Black is an unnerving beast. It has bunkers bigger than swimming pools; thick, club-snagging rough; tightly guarded greens; and putting surfaces so large that even decent-looking approach shots often yield putts of 40 or 50 feet.

One afternoon earlier this fall, however, I walked to the first tee — no carts are allowed — feeling unusually serene about the challenge ahead. I had popped a propranolol that morning, a beta blocker originally designed for heart patients with hypertension but now widely used by actors, musicians, and other victims of performance anxiety. This July, the Professional Golf Association Tour will place propranolol, along with anabolic steroids and human growth hormone, on its list of proscribed drugs: The PGA Tour feared that top tour players might be using beta blockers to calm their nerves and steady their putting strokes. On hearing the news, I decided to find out what I had been missing. My own doctor refused to prescribe the drug, or any other beta blocker, to me on the grounds that these little blue pills can be dangerous — possible side effects include abdominal cramps, nightmares, and impotence — but I managed to obtain some from a friend.

Averting my eyes from a sign by the first tee that says THE BLACK COURSE IS AN EXTREMELY DIFFICULT COURSE WHICH IS ONLY RECOMMENDED FOR HIGHLY SKILLED GOLFERS, I took out my driver and whacked my Titleist 40 yards left into ankle-deep fescue. After finding the ball, I took out a wedge and shanked one across the fairway into a strategically positioned copse of trees. From there, I hit a low four iron, but the ball caught a branch and dropped down behind a large acorn tree some 130 yards from the pin.

I was laying three with no shot. Under normal circumstances, my palms would have been sweating, blood would have been pounding through my head, and I would have attempted an impossible hook around the trees, which would surely have led to a seven or an eight. Like most recreational golfers, I am my own worst enemy, frequently making mental blunders that decimate my scorecard. Now, though, despite my woeful start, I felt strangely calm — oblivious, even. Beta blockers suppress parts of the central nervous system and slow the heart rate, reducing symptoms of anxiety, such as tremors and sweating — and the yips. I hit a sand iron to the front of the green, chipped up, and holed a 10-foot putt for a semi-respectable six. Then I parred the second, an awkward dogleg, and holed a 20-foot putt to birdie the third. As I walked up the fourth fairway at one over par, I felt like recommending beta blockers to one of my playing partners, Gary, who was cursing loudly after airmailing the previous green and driving into the trees.