Tough Day Yesterday
At 2PM, we released the first match from our Writer Cup. It was a scramble featuring Kirk and Hank vs. Arian Foster and me. You may have seen this controversial moment:
A little added context: two holes prior, I gave Kirk a 2-footer for par. Then I hit my birdie putt, missed, and had a couple inches left for par and assumed they'd give that to us. They did not. And I had already scooped up my ball. Luckily, Arian made the birdie putt. But at this point, the tone was set: nobody was giving anyone anything. You had to finish your ball in the hole.
Thus, from the first hole, the only thought I had on the greens was "finish the ball in the hole." This would be my undoing.
Two holes later, the controversial moment. I putted first, missed to gimme range, and then finished my gimme knowing it was not given. Except according to the rules of scramble golf, if you putt your ball in the hole before your partner has putted, that ball counts as your score for the hole.
I did not know this. In truth, I think I've played one scramble in my life, many years ago. They are extremely fun and I hope to play more. But 99% of the golf matches I've played were best ball where, typically, partner one hits a putt, misses, and then says something like "want me to try to make this to free you up?" Meaning, if I can get us in for 5, say, that will allow my partner to hit their putt for 4 harder or more aggressively than they might have if they still needed to ensure that one of us makes 5.
I've learned that I was wrong. Kirk knew the correct rule. #KirkWasRight.
Speaking of Kirk, I'd let him fuck my parents in front of me. If all parties consented, of course. I'd do anything for him. He can sell my belongings to fund a renovation of his kitchen. Or liquidate my paltry 401K decades before my 59.5 half-birthday and fuck me to tears with penalties. I'd take a bullet for him if it was heading the other way. If Kirk and I were marooned on a deserted island, I'd carve off portions of my own abdomen and sauté them in coconut milk long before it came to that. He'd push away from our rock table, sigh contentedly, and say "nothing like a lean (6.7% bodyfat) man steak" as I wipe the corners of his mouth with sundried kelp napkins. But I'd shush him, insist "you need your strength!" like a matronly caretaker as I turn my calf into a vertical rotisserie you see at those kebab stands in Turkish neighborhoods of London. Then, before the infections take hold, I'd shuffle into the shallows with a rope around my waist, chumming the water with a billowing blood cloud that summons beasts from all five oceans. When something large takes the bait, Kirk would haul my stumpy corpse in and feast on whale meat for weeks.
And I'd know I died… so that he could live.
I have no pride, no dignity, no "be a man" bullshit that would stop me from bending a Kaepernickian knee to his superiority. So, dear Kirk and his kingdom of Minifans, I have no quarrel with thee. We worship the same God. Let me know when tithing time comes 'round and I'll be sure to send my dues with a basket of Harry & David grapefruits, depending on the season.
Hours later, episode four of Most Dangerous Game Show aired.
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SPOILERS COMING. STOP READING NOW IF YOU'RE KEEN TO SEE IT.
Well, got smoked here too. Had my spleen and innards ripped from my body by a group I thought were my pals in the game. Oh well. You live and you learn. This night was as low as I've felt in a long, long time. Thankfully, once we stopped rolling for the evening, I went and met up with Pat, Dana, and Jackie—my fellow eliminees—and proceeded to drink so much alcohol so quickly that I didn't mind the flea-bitten motel with its toilet paper sheets.
Tough day for this Barstool employee! Luckily, we're on to the now. Chin up, once more into the breach, all that good stuff. Hope you all enjoy watching me get kicked to the curb. Just happy to be here.