The Barstool Sports Golf Manifesto
I urge each Barstool reader to post this column in the pro shop, the barroom, and above the urinal in every golf course in Massachusetts.
I’m quickly hitting that age where the only sports I’ll take part in will be the cup holder sports: bowling, fishing and golf (the ones you do while drinking beer). I seldom bowl and I don’t fish. That leaves me with just golf. So pardon me then if I’m a little persnickety when it comes to this one last avenue of pleasure. Forgive me for going on a one-man crusade to take back the golf courses from the arrogant, stupid, self-righteous, inconsiderate, self-absorbed jag offs that constitute most of the golfing world these days. I hereby do ordain and establish these basic rights on behalf of hackers everywhere (and to entertain the non-golfer, I’ve added an “Applicable ‘Caddyshack’ Quote” for each item):
Article I: You have the inalienable right to be a lousy golfer.
You paid the same money as everyone else, you have every right to get out there and stink up the place (a right which I exercise regularly). But if you’re in the rough lying 9 you must follow this tip: Widen your stance. Extend your right arm. Open your hand slightly. Bend at the waist until the ball is between your fingers. Now squeeze your hand shut, pick up the ball, put in your pocket, head for the next tee and wait for your group. And if I catch you plumb-bobbing a 40-footer for octuple-bogey, there‘s gonna be trouble.
(Applicable “Caddyshack” Quote: “Don’t put yourself down, Al. You’re not…you’re not good. You stink.”)
Article II: Keep it moving.
Section A) Simple: when it’s your turn to hit, have your club picked out and be ready to swing. When you reach the green, just put your bag where you’re headed next. If you leave it on the opposite side of the green and have to go retrieve it more than once, or if you choose to stand on there filling out your scorecard while my group is waiting to hit, prepare for “Shock & Awe,” as I promise we will rain a bombardment of Titleists down upon you.
Section B) Hit it already. I know some guys that have a pre-swing routine so long and involved that I can do the entire “USS Indianapolis speech” from “Jaws” in my head before they take their cut. You’re on notice: from now on, if you’re not finished before I get to the part where Herbie Robinson gets bitten in two below the waist, to hell with you; I’m walking to my ball.
(A.C.Q: “Let’s go, while we’re young!!!”)
Article III: If you don’t keep your score right, keep your score to yourself.
If you want to roll the ball over every shot to give yourself a good lie, or use your “91/2 FootJoy Wedge” to kick your ball out from behind a tree, be my guest. If we’re not playing for money, how you cheat is between you and your God. But don’t you dare sit in the bar afterwards telling us about the 81 you shot. Bragging about your score is an honor reserved for those who play by the rules. The rest of you are no more playing real golf than if you call it a basket when you hit the rim.
(A.C.Q: “Don’t count that…I was interfered with.”)
Article IV: If you hit into my group, you will suffer the consequences.
Drive it into my foursome, and I promise that when you reach the green you won’t be able to find the flagstick with Jack Bauer by your side and Chloe and Audrey rerouting satellites to help your search. That’s if I’m being kind. My alternative is to do what my buddy Duke once did. When our friend Nellie drove into me, Duke, Cliffy and Brink, Duke discreetly peed on Nellie’s ball. Then we spent the rest of the day laughing ourselves senseless watching Nellie picking the ball up and putting it in his pocket. And when he sank a long putt, pulled his ball out of the cup and kissed it, it was the closest I’ve ever come to taking a heart attack. Consider yourself warned.
(A.C.Q: “FORE! Oooh…I shoulda yelled ’Two’!”)
Article V: If you talk a good game, make sure you have one.
If you’re a great golfer, you have my admiration. Talk away, I’ll listen. But I once hit the links with a friend and his dad. The dad talked a great game; he went on and on about the two-piece ball, rates of spin, club head speed…like he was regurgitating a copy of “Golf Digest.“ When I finally go to see him hit, I found out the guy had a swing like Uma Thurman fighting off the Crazy 88s.
(A.C.Q: “That would work, and I’m gonna call you if I ever need that help.”)
Article VI: Enough with the ass kissing.
I’ve played with a lot of really good golfers, and I’m not shy about telling them “Nice shot,” “Well done,” “Nice read,” or whatever…they’ve earned it. But what I’ve discovered is that for every good golfer, there’s a bad golfer who spends the entire round sycophantically groveling at the feet of Mr. Low-handicapper. I’ve got news for you, Mr. Smithers, these guys don’t need to be told they’re good, it’s written on their scorecards. So put a sock in it.
(A.C.Q: “Nice shot, Bishop. You musta made a deal with the devil.”)
Article VII: You are not required to hit the ball straight.
Some people buy houses on golf courses. Golfers hit many, many shots that miss the fairway, and land in these peoples’ yards. Why is it these people act so shocked whenever it happens? My brother Jim once duck-hooked one into a guy’s yard and he came out screaming at us. His property line is three feet from the cart path, but he acted as if finding a Maxfli was equivalent to finding a manatee in his backyard. Jimbo actually tried to apologize, but the guy ranted on about how his kids play back there, like my brother had shot up Michael Corleone’s bedroom. Take my advice, if you’re going to let your kids play in an area where bad golfers tee off every seven minutes, consider Kevlar play clothes.
(A.C.Q: “Was that your ball I heard rattling through here?”)
Article VIII: You have the right to remain silent.
If you want to socialize, go nuts. In 51/2 hours of golf plus 61/2 hours of drinking afterward, there’s plenty of time to chat, but how about not during my backswing? And if you’re on the 6th green, and I’m on the 7th tee, but I can hear every word you’re saying, is it too much to ask that you tone it down? Where did you learn how to whisper, in a saw mill?
(A.C.Q: “Now what the devil? The man’s a menace! CUT THAT OFF!!!”)
Go forth now my minions, and do my bidding. (A.C.Q: “And that’s all she wrote.”)