I hate(d) golf.
My father never played, my brother isn’t athletically inclined (at all. Like, walking and talking is considered a sport for him) and none of my boyfriends has ever parred anything outside of Tiger Woods’ video game.
And it’s boring…right?
Little white ball, lots of nature, grown men playing with sticks. And Tiger always wins, so what’s the point? But then I watched a tournament (by accident). I watched Phil Mickelson and his awesome pin-striped pants making a run for the lead. I watched Rickie Fowler being gorgeous with his Justin Bieber hair and orange shoes. I watched Jordan Spieth being a southern sweetie and Jason Dufner cracking jokes without cracking a smile.
I actually watched the pressure and the precision and the crazy 40-foot putts that shouldn’t go in BUT THEN THEY DO and I understood why they advertised heart medication during the commercials. It’s riveting. Stressful. Addicting.
Now, I can’t seem to pull myself away from the Golf Channel. I have a subscription to Golf Digest. I have golf apps on my phone. I KNOW WHO JOHN DALY IS (and not just because of the drink. Or the pants. Maybe the pants).
The men are gorgeous (mostly. More on that later). The ladies are badasses. The courses are beautiful. The fashion is…something. And the sport itself can be played by anyone, and odds are the foursome behind you is making just as many excuses for their slices as you are.
[Images on this blog are copyright to their respective owners; this blog claims no credit. If there is an image appearing on this blog that belongs to you and you do not wish for it appear on this site, please notify me and it will be promptly removed.]