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The Bogey Man’s Guide to Accidental Course Exploration: Or, How I Found My Ball (Eventually) in the Rough of Life

Published

3 weeks ago

May 27, 2025

Ah, golf. The gentle game of precision, patience, and occasionally, profound personal humiliation. You know, the kind that makes you question all your life choices, particularly the one where you decided to spend your Saturday morning chasing a tiny white ball around 18 acres of manicured torture.

Boo here, reporting live from the depths of a particularly thorny patch of “rough” that I’m fairly certain wasn’t on the course map. My mission? To recount a tale of a golf shot so spectacularly off-target, it became less about breaking par and more about breaking new ground. Literally.

It was a glorious Tuesday. The sun was shining, the birds were chirping, and my swing felt… well, it felt like something. I was on the par-4 7th, a hole notorious for its deceptive dogleg and a bunker that swallows balls faster than a hungry teenager devours pizza. My plan was simple: a nice, controlled fade, landing gently just short of the green. A textbook approach, really.

What actually happened was less “textbook” and more “abstract expressionism.” My driver, bless its misguided heart, decided that “fade” was merely a suggestion, and “controlled” was a concept best left to professional pilots. The ball, a brand-new, gleaming Titleist Pro V1 (because, you know, optimism), launched with the trajectory of a startled pheasant and veered sharply right. So sharply, in fact, it cleared the cart path, hopped over the maintenance shed, and disappeared into what I can only describe as a dense, untamed jungle previously known as “the woods bordering the 7th fairway.”

Now, a lesser golfer, a more sensible golfer, might have declared it lost, taken a drop, and moved on with their dignity mostly intact. But I, dear readers, am Mr. Bogey Man. And the Bogey Man doesn’t abandon his children, especially when they cost $5 a pop.

So, armed with a 7-iron (optimism again, clearly), a profound sense of misplaced determination, and a faint hope that perhaps a deer had picked it up and was using it as a chew toy, I plunged into the abyss.

The first five minutes were a blur of tangled vines, unseen roots, and the distinct feeling that I was being watched by small, judgmental woodland creatures. My pristine golf shoes quickly became mud-caked relics. My carefully tucked-in shirt became a casualty of low-hanging branches. I swear, I heard a squirrel snicker.

Then, a glimmer! A flash of white amidst the green. “Aha!” I cried, startling a family of robins. I pushed through a particularly stubborn bush, only to find… a discarded plastic water bottle. My heart sank faster than my last putt from 3 feet.

I pressed on, muttering to myself about the unfairness of golf, the existential dread of lost balls, and whether it was too late to take up competitive napping. Just as I was about to give up and declare the ball a permanent resident of the arboreal underworld, I saw it. Nestled perfectly at the base of an ancient oak, gleaming defiantly, was my Pro V1.

The triumph! The sheer, unadulterated joy! It was like finding the Holy Grail, if the Holy Grail was spherical and prone to slicing. I carefully extracted it, brushed off a few leaves, and held it aloft.

Then I looked around. I had no idea where I was. The fairway was a distant, hazy memory. The cart path? A myth. I was utterly, gloriously lost.

It took another fifteen minutes of bushwhacking, a brief but intense wrestling match with a particularly aggressive thistle, and the accidental discovery of what I’m pretty sure was a very old, very moldy sandwich, but I eventually stumbled back onto the course. My playing partners, who had long since finished the hole and were contemplating sending out a search party (or at least ordering another round of drinks), looked at me with a mixture of pity and amusement.

My score on the 7th? Let’s just say it involved a number that would make a mathematician weep. But the story? The adventure? The sheer ridiculousness of it all? Priceless.

So, the next time your ball decides to take an unscheduled tour of the local flora and fauna, don’t despair. Embrace it. See it as an opportunity for accidental exploration. You might not break 80, but you’ll definitely have a story. And isn’t that what golf is really about? (Besides the frustration, the lost balls, and the occasional snickering squirrel, of course.)

Until next time, keep those swings (mostly) in bounds, and remember: even a bogey can be an adventure.

Boo

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One of the Greatest Putts in U.S. Open History?

JJ Spaun’s 64-Foot Walk-Off

Published

2 days ago

June 16, 2025

James Fairway

When JJ Spaun stood over a 64-foot birdie putt on the 72nd hole of the 2025 U.S. Open at Oakmont, few could have predicted what would come next. The ball meandered across the slick green, trickling over every contour, picking up speed at the crest, and then—like it had GPS—dropped center cup. Spaun dropped his putter, raised his arms, and the crowd erupted. With that single stroke, he claimed his first major title in one of the most dramatic finishes in U.S. Open history.

But how does Spaun’s putt stack up against other legendary finishes in the tournament’s storied past? Let’s break down some of the most iconic moments and see where this one lands.

1. Payne Stewart – 1999 U.S. Open at Pinehurst

Perhaps the most iconic putt in U.S. Open history came from Payne Stewart, who nailed a 15-footer for par on the 18th to win by one over Phil Mickelson. The pose—fist pump and outstretched leg—has since been immortalized in a statue at Pinehurst. What made it legendary wasn’t just the putt—it was the context: Stewart’s final major before his tragic death just months later.

Verdict: Iconic and emotional. Spaun’s putt was longer, but Stewart’s was more poetic.

2. Tiger Woods – 2008 U.S. Open at Torrey Pines

Woods drained a 12-foot birdie on the 72nd hole to force a playoff with Rocco Mediate—while basically playing on one leg. That tournament went to sudden death after an 18-hole playoff, and Tiger prevailed. This was peak Tiger drama, pain and all.

Verdict: Spaun’s putt was longer, but Tiger’s win was sheer willpower and mystique.

3. Jack Nicklaus – 1972 U.S. Open at Pebble Beach

With a 1-iron shot that hit the flagstick on 17 and a crucial birdie putt on 18, Jack sealed a dominant win. His precision and timing under pressure showed why he’s the GOAT.

Verdict: Not a putt for the win, but a signature finishing statement from Jack. Spaun’s was more electric in terms of pure putter drama.

4. Ben Hogan – 1950 U.S. Open at Merion

Hogan’s 1-iron into the 18th fairway and the par to force a playoff—just 16 months after a near-fatal car crash—remain legendary. He won the playoff and completed one of golf’s great comeback stories.

Verdict: Larger-than-life comeback. Spaun’s putt had more flair, but Hogan’s win was heroic.

5. JJ Spaun – 2025 U.S. Open at Oakmont

Let’s not underestimate what Spaun accomplished. The pressure was immense. He wasn’t the favorite. And on the most treacherous greens in golf, he buried a 64-foot bomb—a putt most players would be happy to lag to within 5 feet—to win the U.S. Open outright.

Verdict: For distance, surprise, and drama, Spaun’s putt may be the most shocking winning stroke in U.S. Open history.

Final Thoughts

JJ Spaun may not have the résumé of a Nicklaus or Woods, but for one Sunday afternoon in June 2025, he created a moment that will live in golf lore forever. Spaun’s putt was longer than Stewart’s, more unexpected than Tiger’s, and more dramatic than any final-hole finish in recent memory.

In terms of pure clutch putting? It might just be the greatest walk-off in U.S. Open history.

Blog

The Zen of the Shank: Finding Inner Peace in Your Worst Shots

Find your inner peace even when you aren’t playing well.

Published

2 days ago

June 16, 2025

Ty Webb

Ah, the shank. That glorious, unpredictable misfire that sends your pristine golf ball screaming sideways, often directly into the unsuspecting shins of your playing partner, or perhaps, with a touch of poetic irony, into the very lake you’ve been trying to avoid all day. Most golfers, bless their earnest little hearts, view the shank as a catastrophic failure, a blight upon their scorecard, a testament to their inherent lack of coordination. They curse, they throw clubs, they contemplate a career in competitive thumb-wrestling. But not I. No, my friends, for I, Ty Webb, have found enlightenment in the humble shank.

You see, the shank is not a mistake; it’s a revelation. It’s the universe’s way of reminding you that control is an illusion, that perfection is a myth, and that sometimes, the most direct path to your goal is, in fact, a wildly indirect one. Think of it as a philosophical detour, a sudden, unexpected journey into the unknown. One moment, you’re aiming for the green, a paragon of precision and intent. The next, your ball is ricocheting off a tree, narrowly missing a squirrel, and landing, by some divine comedic intervention, closer to the hole than your perfectly struck drive ever would have. Is that not a miracle? Is that not a sign that the golf gods, much like life itself, have a wicked sense of humor?

The key, my dear apprentices of the links, is acceptance. Embrace the shank. Welcome it with open arms, like a long-lost, slightly inebriated relative. When that familiar, sickening thwack echoes through the air, do not despair. Instead, take a deep breath. Close your eyes. Feel the gentle breeze on your face. And then, with a knowing smile, open them and observe the chaos you have wrought. Is it not beautiful in its own chaotic way? Is there not a certain freedom in relinquishing control, in allowing the ball to choose its own destiny, however bizarre that destiny may be?

Some say the shank is a sign of poor technique. I say it’s a sign of a vibrant, untamed spirit. A golfer who never shanks is a golfer who has never truly lived, never truly explored the outer limits of their own golfing absurdity. They are content with mediocrity, with predictable trajectories and mundane outcomes. But you, my enlightened few, you understand that the true joy of golf lies not in the score, but in the story. And what a story a good shank can tell.

So, the next time you feel that familiar tremor of a shank brewing, don’t fight it. Let it flow. Let it be. For in the heart of every shank lies a lesson, a laugh, and perhaps, just perhaps, a path to a lower score you never saw coming. After all, as the great philosopher Basho once said, “A flute with no holes, is not a flute. A donut with no hole, is a Danish.” And a golf game without a shank? Well, that’s just not golf, is it?