Roast Rocky's Golf Game

Rocky,

Someone just paid actual money — their hard-earned dollar — specifically so we'd tell you the truth about your golf game. Think about that. They saw a button that said "roast Rocky's golf" and didn't hesitate.

We've seen your swing. Calling it a "swing" is generous. It's more like you're fighting off a wasp while having a seizure. The ball doesn't know whether to go left, right, or just sit there out of pity. Most of the time it chooses pity.

Your handicap isn't a number, it's a cry for help. You line up a putt like you're solving a crime — all that focus, all that intensity — then you still miss by four feet. The hole literally cannot move, Rocky. It's right there.

You lose more balls per round than most people own. The woods aren't a hazard for you, they're a second home. Fish in the pond have named a wing of their castle after you. "The Rocky Collection" — seven Titleists and a range ball you definitely stole.

Your driver? You should just leave it in the car. Actually, leave it at the store. But no — you step up, waggle like you're about to bomb one 280, then top it 40 yards into the ladies' tee markers.

The worst part? You still show up. Every week. Same delusion. "I'm hitting them good on the range." No you're not, Rocky. The range balls are just too depressed to fly properly and you've mistaken that for progress.

See you on the course (or in the trees looking for your ball).