Golf, The Real Redneck Sport

Folks that don’t play golf tend to perceive it as a game for uppity people. After all, playing golf takes money. You either pay a membership fee, often hefty, or you pay every time you want to play a round.

Golf courses have clubhouses. Clubhouses can be very nice buildings with private locker rooms, fine dining and lots of rather expensive equipment. There are entire communities of rather fine homes built on golf courses, world-wide. The occupants of such opulent abodes surely have money.

Indeed, in many cases, they do have money. Lots of money. Which makes them… rich rednecks.

Reality check: the reason you don’t find many pool halls anymore? All those people are now on the golf course.

Golfers are crude, foul-mouthed, and loud. They show up at the golf course driving their pick-ups with coolers full of beer. They drink, they chew, and they spit. They spit even if they don’t chew. Recall that Tiger Woods was once fined for spitting on a green in the Dubai Open. He openly apologized. 

And that’s my point.

It’s not just the local, good ol’ boys we’re talking about here. John Daley has been seen playing shirtless. Ricky Fowler, who prowls the golf tour courses in colorful Puma garb recently admitted to playing shirtless if the course allows it.

Bubba Watson and some of his fellow pro golfer buddies have done a series of videos, calling themselves the “Golf Boys”. They are available for viewing on youtube. Watson appears shirtless, wearing overalls in them.

These are highly successful professionals. Likely, all are millionaires if not multi-millionaires. Sure, they’re allowed to have some fun. But in each case, we see them for what they are. Having money simply means that when we see them smile, they have a full mouth of teeth.

Why then, do we present events like The Masters in such hushed tones with announces in suits and ties and golfers dressed like GQ models? The event itself is played at a high-brow venue you have to be a jillionaire to even join. But a game for aristocrats, it is not. 

So I propose that we lose the façade. The next time Bubba rolls one in from 40 feet to clinch a major, let us not applaud politely and present him with a crystal vase. Let us instead shake up a can of Pabst Blue Ribbon, open ‘er up and spew it everywhere. Let’s rip off our shirts and chest bump and let Jim Nance scream, “Hot damn! Did y’all see that?!”

I, for one, am tired of playing the part of a gentleman.

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