Riggsbys season recap

If the Dad Bods’ inaugural season was a comedy, my personal season was the punchline. What I put together over 18 holes was less “golf” and more “live-action blooper reel.”

Off the Tee

My driver didn’t just miss fairways — it filed restraining orders against them. The ball left the clubface with the precision of a drunk bottle rocket, sometimes slicing so hard it looked like it was trying to sneak back into the parking lot. Straight? Once. Maybe twice. But even a broken clock is right twice a day.

Iron Play

Let’s just say the course superintendent is still sending me invoices. My divots were deep enough to qualify as open-pit mines. On a par 4, I once hit an 8-iron fat enough that the ball barely moved, but the ground beneath it aged 10 million years.

Short Game

Golf is supposed to be about finesse. My short game had all the finesse of a dump truck backing up in the dark. Either I clipped it an inch and watched the ball crawl like a dying beetle, or I bladed it across the green at Mach 3. The “up and down” became the “up and back again.”

Putting

If you want to know despair, watch me with a putter in hand. Three-footers? Missed. Six-inch tap-ins? Nearly missed. The hole could’ve been the size of a swimming pool, and I’d still find a way to lip it out. My putter wasn’t a golf club — it was a torture device.

Temperament

I cursed, I sulked, I muttered like a man arguing with ghosts. At one point, I blamed a butterfly for distracting me on a missed swing. Another time, I nearly quit on Hole 5, only to announce two holes later that I was “back, baby.” My emotions swung harder than my driver.

Consistency

And the most consistent part of my game? Being inconsistent. Everyone else had flashes of brilliance. I had flashes of “is he okay?” My scorecards weren’t numbers — they were ransom notes.

But Here’s the Thing…

I’m not done. Winter’s coming, and while the snow piles up outside, I’ll be grinding away — working on the swing, grooving the putt, maybe even learning how to chip without endangering wildlife. Come spring, I’m showing up leaner, meaner, and ready to shock the world.

Will I actually be the champ next year? Probably not. But in my mind — oh, in my mind — I’ll be hoisting that Dad Bods trophy, smiling like I just won Augusta.

Because here’s the real win: this brotherhood. The laughs, the roasts, the cart rides, the bad shots followed by worse jokes. Golf didn’t give me birdies, but it gave me brothers — and that’s the championship that matters most.

Raise a glass, boys: to a season of disaster, a winter of work, and a spring where Riggsby might just surprise you.