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.

Hey there, sun-soaked swingers of the sticks. Ty Webb here, and today we’re talking about summer golf — you know, that magical time of year when your golf ball flies farther, your shirt clings tighter, and your sunscreen budget could bankrupt a small country.

Playing golf in extreme heat isn’t for the faint of heart… or the faint of hydration. Once the temperature climbs above 90°F, the fairway turns into a frying pan, your putter grip feels like it’s been left in the oven, and you start questioning whether that hazy mirage in the distance is the green or just your sanity evaporating.

The key to summer golf survival? Hydration, shade, and pacing yourself like you’re in a pro-am with a three-hour lunch break. Don’t just drink water — drown in it. Wear light, moisture-wicking clothes (unless you enjoy the sensation of golfing in a wet wool sweater). And for the love of Arnie, apply SPF like you’re frosting a cake.

Now, I know what you’re thinking — “But Ty, won’t all this caution kill my competitive edge?” Not at all. Summer heat golf is all about strategy. Tee off early to beat the worst of the sun, embrace a slower swing to conserve energy, and always, always pick the cart with the best cup holder-to-seat ratio.

And when the last putt drops and you’re peeling yourself off your shirt like a human fruit roll-up, remember: every blister, every sunburn, every suspicious tan line is just proof that you survived the ultimate challenge — golf in summer heat.

So, keep your cool, keep your game sharp, and I’ll see you out there… probably hiding in the cart’s shadow between shots.