With the Masters ending this weekend, Patrick Reed came out on top, winning his first major tournament despite doubts from so many. Golf’s newest bad boy shocked many; his past is littered with underage drinking and alcohol- related incidents, which got him kicked off the University of Georgia golf team and nearly voted off his Augusta State team. This feels familiar to me, an example of the all too familiar culture surrounding golf tournaments and reminds me of the time I braved a course, ready to experience it all myself.
It’s 85 degrees outside and these Vineyard Vines trust fund babies are chugging their Michelob Ultras and dragging their high-priced shoes across the golf course. If there was ever a time in my life when I wish I had a personal cameraman follow me around (believe me, I’ve wished this more than once), this would’ve been the day.
Nowadays, when someone spots a black and white obnoxiously striped shirt, a referee is the first thing that comes to mind. That is, for MOST people. Try parading in a referee dress through crowds of tanked J. Crew wannabe models and the ridiculous comments are endless.
I’ll start off with the tamer comments of the bunch. Such as the classic, “Personal Foul!” accompanied with a pathetic attempt to throw an imaginary flag which actually just looks like a frenzied effort to swat away a fly. Or how about the “Off Sides!” chant? Yeah buddy, you’re so intoxicated you’re about to fall “off-side” of the bleachers. And finally, my personal favorite, “There’s no referees in golf!” Look at that, at least he’s sober enough to understand the basic rules.
What really got to me is the fact that I had several of these champagne snobs ask me when I got out of jail. Excuse me? Has all the beer replaced your brain matter? Prisoners wore black and white stripes in the 1800s; I think we’ve advanced in prison attire since then. And did they really think I escaped jail just to come out to a golf tournament? Yup, they let me out just in time for some golf and I rushed here so fast I didn’t even have time to change. Nothing gets past you Mr. Sweater Vest.
So between escaping the penitentiary and throwing imaginary flags like I’m re-seeding a patch of dead grass, my time as a golf fanatic was very eventful. However, my all-time favorite moment of the day was with these particularly plastered group of guys. They spot me and my fellow Hurricane Hottie and proceed to wave us over and yell, “Oh no I fumbled, I’m gonna need you to come measure it.” What in the world!? Okay sir yes, let me walk over to you and measure “it.” These guys must’ve taken notes from the playboy chronicles of the old Tiger Woods but I sure as heck was not going to measure anything. Keep your balls to yourself my friends.
Just living life and loving every moment. Just Jordyn.