Tonight brings the final TGL match – or matches – of the 2026 season, and, in words I never thought I’d write, I’m going to miss it.
Last year, after giving it until the third week, I wrote a rather scathing takedown of the league and it went semi-viral. The majority of those who commented were in agreement, but not all. Along with being simply told not to watch it – it’s my job – and not to write about it – again, my job – I was informed by ‘GButt’ that my “writing sounds like a mix between a verbose and gay Aaron Sorkin wannabe and a virgin in their 30’s. Unreadable and cringy.”
All I can say, ‘GButt’, is that I appreciate the compliment.
Aaron Sorkin – thanks Google – is an American screenwriter, playwright, and director, best known for writing genuine top-quality scripts such as A Few Good Men, Moneyball, The West Wing and The Social Network. Comparing me to an Oscar-winning writer was most kind, and knocking more than a decade off my age (I’m actually 42)? Well, what can I say? You do know how to flatter a girl!
Alas though, I hate to break it to you, but I’m not a virgin, and I’ve finally got proof. Maybe you’ll require a DNA test to be fully satisfied, but I’m now the father of a seven-week-old daughter, and in more than a roundabout way, she’s a big part of the reason I’m going to miss the TGL because, once recorded, it made for ideal viewing at 4 or 5 a.m.
Bottle made, arse planted on couch, remote in one hand and baby in the other, thanks to fast-forwarding capability, you could view an entire match in the time it took to get an infant fed, burped, changed, and coddled back to sleep.
Incidentally, that’s also around the same time it takes to watch an episode of The Sopranos. It’s probably my 20th rewatch of the series, but I’m limiting it to an episode a week in case, by osmosis, she starts to get a hankering for ‘gabagool’ or planning to whack one of her nearest and dearest.
Anyway, the roughly 30-40 seconds between each TGL shot and the ’10 second skip forward’ button were made for each other.
I still stand by many of the observations I made in the initial critique, but it wouldn’t be fair if I didn’t give credit where it’s due and there have been many improvements. Maybe it’s the ability I now have to skip that I didn’t while watching live, but sideline reporter Marty Smith doesn’t seem quite as punchable. He’s still punchable, don’t get me wrong, but less so. That’s a positive.
DJ Khaled, who was all over the coverage like the proverbial bad smell in the early weeks of season one, seems to have been locked out of the building. Again, major kudos for that.
And, for the most part, matches have been competitive, and the change in the way the ‘hammer’ works has been responsible for a lot of that. Last year, it was ‘The Hammer, brought to you by FedEx’, but the logistics and shipping company quickly recognised they got the bum end of the deal when there was no delivery on more than one occasion.
The switch to give each team three ‘hammers’ each – none of them sponsored, though I think Stanley missed a trick and a large, yellow, Timmy Mallett-style weapon employed instead of the orange rag used at present – means that even a six-point deficit with three holes to play is capable of going to overtime if the losing side has a full toolbelt of nail-driving devices remaining.
I’d wager that I’m in the minority – at least on these shores – in lamenting the impending loss, but at least it’s going out on a high. For each of Jupiter Links matches thus far, Tiger Woods has been like an awkward, goofy, 20-year-old kid hanging out with a bunch of 16-year-olds because he can buy them beer – they know his value, but they kinda wish he’d make himself scarce.
Well, no longer, for tonight, he finally gets to tilt one of those cans to his own lips.
Watching Tiger walk (awkwardly) and talk (even more awkwardly) is never all that fun, but watching him play golf will never be anything but. He’s still the greatest to ever lift a club in my book, and who knows, tomorrow morning at whatever time an infant decides to scream bloody murder, it could be the last time I ever get to watch him play.
In an ideal world, his final competitive shot is a birdie putt after crossing the Swilcan Bridge à la Jack Nicklaus in 2005, but with Tiger’s injury history, it could be hitting into a screen in the SoFi Centre in front of an audience of mostly corporate guests more interested in sipping cocktails and networking than watching the GOAT play golf.
TGL didn’t reinvent golf, but it didn’t need to. All it needed to do was find a niche and be semi-watchable. Hardly a ringing endorsement, I know, but it’s more of an endorsement than I gave it 12 months ago.
In a rare moment of happy families in The Sopranos, Tony dispensed the following nugget of advice to his kids: “Someday soon, you’re gonna have families of your own and, if you’re lucky, you’ll remember the little moments like this that were good.”
You’d have got long odds on the TGL being among the ‘good’ little moments for me, yet here we are. I probably won’t remember the scores, the shots, or who won, but I’ll remember those mornings.
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