The Great Divide Between the Players and the Workers (and the Rest of Us Degenerates)

Fellas, let’s not pretend we’re all the same species. We’ve got a split straight down the middle in this league:

1. The Guys Who Actually Play All the Time.

   
   

   These dudes are basically part-time tour pros. They somehow log 36 holes a week, still kiss their wives goodnight, and show up with tans that say, “I live on a beach, not in a cubicle.” They roll up with range-hardened swings, talk about “working on my tempo,” and drop words like “apex” and “launch angle” as if we give a damn.

2. The Guys Who Work for a Living.

   
   

   These are the ones clocking 60 hours, showing up in boots, and praying the ibuprofen kicks in before the first tee. They swing like rusty gate hinges, haven’t touched a putting green since Obama was president, and treat every bunker like it’s the beaches of Normandy.

And then there’s the rest of us degenerates, staggering somewhere in between — enough golf to believe we’ve “still got it,” enough life responsibility to know we never really did.

Our Game Plan for Improvement

Now, the obvious way to improve is practice. Lessons, range time, maybe a putting mat in the living room. But that ain’t Dad Bods Golf. We’re not here to get better — we’re here to drag down the guys who are better than us.

Step One: Alcohol Equalizer

The guys who play all the time? We’re feeding them transfusions, Coors Lights, and Tito’s until their backswing looks like a man trying to swat hornets. By the back nine, their “pro-level tempo” is gone, replaced by wobbly knees and 30-yard chili dips.

Foss, you’re Exhibit A here. Sober, you stripe it like a man possessed. Six beers deep, you’re putting for triple and arguing with squirrels.

Step Two: Equipment Sabotage

• Slip lead weights into Jimmy B’s bag. By hole 12, his calves will cramp, and he’ll be playing 3-wood bump-and-runs the rest of the round.

• Swap Austin’s Pro V1s with Top Flites. Watch his soul leave his body the first time one of those rocks rattles off the cart path.

• Replace Riggsby’s 2-iron with a butter knife. Nobody will notice until the divots start looking like excavation projects.

Step Three: Psychological Warfare

• Tell Adam the hole is playing “downhill, downwind, 140” when it’s really 190 uphill into the breeze. Nothing funnier than watching a man hit 7-iron and barely reach the ladies’ tees.

• Whisper “OB left” into Foss’s ear. The man can’t resist a slice.

• Yell “fore” during Jimmy B’s backswing — just to remind him where he belongs.

The Working Man’s Survival Guide

For those of us grinding jobs and not range reps, here’s how we stay competitive:

• Master the breakfast ball. One off the first tee is mandatory. Hell, two if it’s windy.

• Develop a gimmick. We’re not good enough to be “well-rounded,” so lean into chaos:

  
  

  • Be the guy who never misses inside 3 feet.

  • Be the guy who can’t hit a fairway but somehow scores with chip-ins.

  • Or be the guy who smokes cigars so big the bugs avoid you.

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• Play to the gallery. Who cares if you’re +25 if you had the best one-liners? Quote of the week gets you more respect than a birdie.

Roasts from the Tee Box

• Foss: You’re like a golf robot until alcohol turns you into Happy Gilmore’s drunk caddie. Keep drinking, buddy — we need the handicap.

• Jimmy B: If balls lost in the woods counted as strokes gained, you’d be on the Ryder Cup team.

• Austin: You’ve got more practice swings than Tiger Woods and still make contact like Charles Barkley.

• Adam: Stop flexing that you can hit 300 yards when only 80 of it is straight. Long drive contests don’t hand out participation ribbons, brother.

• Riggsby: Your short game looks like a drunk man trying to land a helicopter on a trampoline. And yet somehow, you’ll still claim you’re “dialing it in for next season.”

Closing Sermon

The Dad Bods aren’t here to dominate. We’re here to laugh, roast, and figure out how to make our golf league less about scorecards and more about storytelling. Because in the end, golf isn’t a test of skill. It’s a test of friendship, liver tolerance, and whether or not your cart makes it back without a citation from the course marshal.

So yeah — the guys who play too much? Keep your polished swings. We’ll keep our sabotage, our beer coolers, and our one-liners. Because come Saturday morning, when the tee sheet is full and the cooler is loaded, the score doesn’t matter.

What matters is who survives 18 holes, who buys the first round, and who gets roasted hardest in the next blog post.

See you degenerates out there.