Well, another Ryder Cup is in the books. And while the scoreboard didn’t exactly sing a sweet American victory tune, the fans… oh, the fans. They certainly hit a high note, even if it was occasionally a little off-key and yelled with a thick Long Island accent.

For those of you who spent the weekend blissfully unaware of the happenings near the big city, let me set the scene. The ultimate transatlantic golf showdown landed in our backyard—specifically, on Long Island, New York. And when you put a major sporting event in a place known for a certain… enthusiasm (and perhaps a few loud opinions about how to drive on the LIE), things are bound to get interesting.

Now, before the entire Tri-State area cancels my membership (if I even had one), let me clarify. Golf fans, by and large, are the best. They appreciate a great shot, know when to clap, and generally understand that “Hole in One!” is not, in fact, an acceptable battle cry on the tee box.

But then there’s the Ryder Cup. It’s like a regular golf tournament went to a party, had too many energy drinks, and decided to wear a very loud, oversized foam Statue of Liberty hat.

The Long Island Effect

Let’s be honest. Long Island has a reputation. We’re talking about people who love their sports, are fiercely loyal, and occasionally view volume control as a suggestion, not a rule. They’re the kind of fans who make you feel like you should be ordering a hot dog with “the works” and shouting “Yankees!” even if it’s a golf tournament.

This weekend, that famed Long Island swagger was on full display. We saw a few… vocal individuals who clearly believed that the European players needed to be personally informed of every single American’s opinion regarding their putting stroke. Were there chants? You bet. Were there questionable fashion choices in red, white, and blue? Oh, absolutely. I’m pretty sure I saw one guy wearing a Captain America cape and trying to do a chest bump with a security guard.

My advice to those particular patrons? Learn a thing or two from the Zen of the fairway. As I always say, “Nirvana is not as far as you think.” Or, in this case, “Maybe just applaud the guy’s bogey and move on.”

The Quiet Majority

Here’s the thing that often gets lost in the hullabaloo, especially when a broadcast camera zeroes in on the three loudest guys in the grandstands: Most American golf fans were fantastic.

For every chap heckling a European player (which, by the way, is not what golf is about, fellas), there were a hundred others politely murmuring their appreciation, setting a fine example, and genuinely enjoying the world-class golf being played. They’re the silent, appreciative backbone of the gallery—the ones who understand that the real drama is between the golfer and the ball, not between the spectator and his blood alcohol level.

The U.S. is a big place, and our golf culture is deep and respectful. We don’t all act like we’re waiting for the Islanders to score a game-winner. In fact, most of us look at those over-the-top antics and shake our heads with a wry smile, thinking, “Oh, those guys. They must be from the Island.”

A Lesson in Chill

So, to my fellow Americans who might have earned us a reputation for being the loudest kids in the sandbox this weekend: Take a breath. Take a page out of my book. Be the ball. Let the good vibrations flow.

Next time, maybe we could exchange the constant cheering for the serene sound of a well-struck iron. And perhaps trade in that enormous foam finger for a nice, understated pair of sunglasses.

We love the passion, we love the patriotism, but let’s remember that golf is a gentleman’s game. Even when it’s played by guys who might still think a nine-iron is something you use to fight off traffic on the Southern State Parkway.

Keep it classy, America. And maybe next time, let’s win the Cup quietly—or at least, with a little less yelling and a lot more accurate putts.

There’s something about Bethpage that makes the heart beat a little faster. Maybe it’s the sign—the infamous warning at the first tee: “The Black Course is an extremely difficult course which we recommend only for highly skilled golfers.” Or maybe it’s the ghosts of past Opens—Phil’s near-miss in 2002, Tiger’s steely win that same year, or the soaked chaos of 2009. Whatever it is, the return of the U.S. Open to Bethpage Black promises a test of grit, patience, and pure golf artistry.

As we count down the weeks, the buzz is building. The New York crowd—famously rowdy, proudly loyal, and brutally honest—is ready. And so are the players, many of whom call a win at Bethpage one of the greatest badges of honor in the game.

This isn’t your average Open venue. Bethpage, a public course with a working-class soul, doesn’t rely on country club prestige. It relies on its teeth—towering rough, penal bunkers, narrow fairways, and greens that demand nerves of steel. This is where champions are forged under pressure, where shot-making and strategy take center stage, and where mistakes are punished with merciless efficiency.

For golf fans, it’s also a spectacle. The energy at Bethpage is electric. It hums with the passion of true golf lovers who’ve stood in line at 4 a.m. just to play it. It’s a place where pros walk the same fairways as weekend warriors, and where every shot is met with a roar—or a groan—that echoes through the Long Island air.

What makes the U.S. Open at Bethpage special isn’t just the course. It’s the drama. The weather. The unpredictability. It’s the way the leaderboard tightens on Saturday and explodes on Sunday. It’s the way golf feels here—gritty, real, and raw.

As the best in the world prepare to battle one of the toughest tracks in America, fans everywhere should be ready for a tournament that will be talked about for years to come. Bethpage doesn’t just host Opens—it defines them.

They say golf is a gentleman’s game, a test of skill and character, played on manicured greens under the benevolent gaze of the sun. And while all that may be true, for me, Ty Webb, the true essence of golf, its very soul, lies not on the fairways or the greens, but in the hallowed halls of the 19th hole. It is here, amidst the clinking of glasses and the murmur of exaggerated tales, that the real game begins.

The 19th hole is more than just a bar; it’s a sanctuary, a confessional, a crucible where the triumphs and tragedies of the day are replayed, dissected, and, more often than not, embellished beyond all recognition. It’s where a triple bogey becomes a heroic struggle against impossible odds, where a shank becomes a strategic maneuver, and where a lost ball becomes a philosophical inquiry into the nature of existence.

Here, the masks come off. The stoic golfer, who maintained an air of unflappable composure throughout 18 holes of torment, suddenly transforms into a garrulous storyteller, eager to recount every missed putt, every lucky bounce, every near-death experience with a rogue golf cart. The quiet observer becomes a boisterous critic, offering unsolicited advice on swings they barely witnessed. And the perpetually frustrated hacker, who spent the entire round cursing the heavens, finds solace in the shared misery of his equally inept companions.

There’s a certain ritual to the 19th hole, a sacred dance of drinks and declarations. The first round is for commiseration, for the collective sigh of relief that another round has been survived. The second is for exaggeration, for the weaving of fantastical narratives that bear only a passing resemblance to reality. And the third, well, the third is for profound philosophical insights, for the sudden realization that the meaning of life can be found in the perfect arc of a well-struck drive, or the subtle nuances of a perfectly poured scotch.

So, the next time you finish a round, don’t rush home. Don’t let the mundane realities of life intrude upon the sacred space of the 19th hole. Instead, pull up a chair, order a drink, and immerse yourself in the glorious debauchery that awaits. For in the laughter, the camaraderie, and the increasingly improbable tales, you will find not only a fitting end to your golfing day, but a deeper, more profound understanding of the human condition. Or at least, a really good buzz.