A legend in the making

Yesterday, under a blinding New England sun hot enough to cook a Costco hot dog on the cart path and melt half the sunscreen off a grown man’s neck, I witnessed something I honestly did not believe possible.

Our own Corey Fillion shot a personal best 79.

And somehow the golf gods allowed ME to witness it firsthand.

Now let me explain something to y’all that have never played with Corey.

The man does not LOOK like someone about to dismantle a golf course.

He’s quiet. Calm. Humble. Soft spoken. Like if you met him at a cookout you’d assume he probably helps old ladies load mulch into their cars and apologizes when other people bump into HIM.

Meanwhile underneath all that is a stone cold golf assassin.

The man moves around a golf course like an old Appalachian spirit carrying a 7 iron.

No wasted words.

No dramatics.

No “I watched a YouTube swing video last night” speeches.

Just step up.

Waggle.

Pure contact.

Walk off like he’s late for a dentist appointment.

Now if you’ve played with Corey at all, you know they call him Iron Man for a reason.

The man TRUSTS his irons.

I’ve seen him pull an iron in situations where normal men would be considering therapy.

Par 5?

Iron.

Long carry over water?

Iron.

Wind in the face?

More iron.

I honestly believe if society collapsed tomorrow, Corey could survive six months with a 6 iron, beef jerky, and quiet determination.

And the driver?

Brother…the driver is practically folklore.

I MAY have seen him pull it out one other time in my life.

People talk about it the way old fishermen talk about giant catfish.

“I heard he hit it on 12 once…”

“No that was his hybrid…”

“I saw the headcover move but thought I was hallucinating from dehydration…”

BUT YESTERDAY…

The Big Dawg came out.

And brothers…

THE BIG DAWG ATE.

Absolute frozen ropes.

Missiles.

At one point the sound off the clubface made every middle aged man within 200 yards stop and reconsider his equipment choices.

Meanwhile the rest of us Dad Bods were out there sweating through our polos, searching for balls in light rough, making old man noises getting in and out of carts, and discussing cholesterol numbers between holes.

Corey though?

Cool as a cucumber.

Fairway.

Green.

Par.

Occasional birdie.

Quiet confidence.

Like some kind of suburban golf hitman.

And the wildest part was he never acted like anything special was happening.

No fist pumps.

No screaming.

No “this game is finally slowing down for me” TED Talk.

Just a little grin every now and then like:

“Yeah…hit a couple decent ones today.”

DEcent?!

Brother you shot a damn 79.

The rest of us were one triple bogey away from filing emotional paperwork.

Honestly though, couldn’t happen to a better dude.

Proud of you brother. Seriously.

Here’s to many more PBs coming your way.

Although I did wanna say something nice publicly before you start charging appearance fees and requiring gallery ropes for people to play with you.

And if that driver keeps behaving like that?

We may need to have it tested by NASA.