According to Netflix, what really happens in golf?

This new Netflix golf thing is rum business. You will have to, you say. Because otherwise, how are we, the poor unfortunate target demo, we the hostages of the streaming war tied to our couches, how can we get by if not with the help of something to calm us down? Rum, gin, hooch – whatever you got my man. And leave the bottle.

We are promised unprecedented access to the PGA Tour. Inside the ropes this, behind the scenes that. What the only sane answer has to be – have the folks at Netflix ever met a PGA Tour golfer? What exactly do they imagine is going on behind the scenes in Abraham Ancer’s life?

Given the choice, here’s the one backstage golf fans would gobble up in an instant. Fly-on-the-wall, hidden microphone, everything you need. Just show us the conversation that took place when the PGA Tour successfully convinced Netflix that golf is next with its Drive To Survive format. A fast-talking executive earned his stock options that day.

As for inside the ropes, surely the folks at Netflix never got to see an actual golf tournament if they’re buying it as a selling point. The greatest golf trick ever was driving those metal teeth into the turf and threading a length of scoop string through the top to remind the scum of their place in the world. It’s great when you think about it, giving the impression that something magical is happening beyond such a fragile barrier.

Anyone who’s been on the ropes at a Major or a Ryder Cup will tell you the same thing. Its good. It’s grand. It’s a godsend for the little asses among us, because it means being able to see the action rather than spending an afternoon getting intimately familiar with every armpit within a five-mile radius. But that’s about as good as it gets. If you’re waiting for a special secret insight to be gleaned from inside the ropes, you’ll be waiting a while.

They pretend to brag about how much money they got out, but they live in a world where everyone recovers anyway, so none of that rings true.

When you’re around golfers going about their business, you realize they’re just as boring as you think. It’s not to belittle them, it’s just the nature of the game. The whole point of golf is to be calm, to erase all outward thoughts, to glide through your course with a blank face and head. anything that does not apply to the next move. Dustin Johnson has won nearly $100 million in prize money. Now you know how.

Boring and laid back is the Valhalla of golf. The very thing that draws millions of us to gambling is the chance to be still, to be at peace, to be apart from the ever-changing world. It’s the unspoken truth that drives us crazy when we play shit – stupidf*ckingballIamtryingtorelax. If Netflix wants spicy talk in the ropes, it’s duffers like us they have to hunt with boom mics. Xander Schauele has probably cursed four times in his life.

Content is content, yes. But golf doesn’t do spice and it doesn’t do glamor. Professional golfers are the only people on the planet who look cooler in golf clothes than in normal street clothes. They are, in pretty much every way, a bunch of well-bred dorks who have this amazing talent. They are as surprised as you that it can bring them girls.

As a rule, they do nothing to risk disrupting this. They don’t rock the boat. They don’t call out to each other. They don’t mope. The closest thing to raiding publicly is issuing false warnings about the imperative to bring a full wallet to the next practice round. They pretend to brag about how much money they got out, but they live in a world where everyone recovers anyway, so none of that rings true.

It may be hard. Maybe the sheer believability of a Netflix series is just what professional golf needs to let in a better light.

You wonder if anyone told Netflix how low the bar is for what passes for golf controversy. It is a sport, after all, which last year gave a player five full months of juice who rolled his eyes as another walked behind him. Brooks Koepka vs. Bryson DeChambeau became the Jets and Sharks of 2021 and the only truly memorable thing was how desperately weak it all was.

But even that storyline won’t be open to Netflix now, since DeChambeau hasn’t signed up to participate. Nor, for that matter, Tiger Woods, Jon Rahm, Rory McIlroy, Phil Mickelson or Patrick Reed. So basically the best player of all time, the best player of the moment, the best player of his day, the biggest ego and the two most obvious villains in the sport. If you were to pick a top six must-haves, these are the six. And none of them will participate.

It may be hard. Perhaps the sheer believability of a Netflix series is just what professional golf needs to better illuminate and share more of who all these people are. Certainly, everyday professionals, like Joel Dahmen, Harry Higgs, Max Homa and others, have stories worth finding a wider audience.

But in general, golf doesn’t tend to want to make a fuss. Each of these players is a mini-society on their own, and the best way to grow that society is to win one to three golf tournaments a year. In Formula 1, only a small handful of drivers can win a race. In golf, anyone can win any week. They don’t think about intrigue, they only think about getting through Sunday afternoon with one less plan than the others. Advertising is great for what it is. Winning is better.

It will be fascinating to watch it unfold, of course. We won’t see the fruits of it until this time next year at least. There’s no bigger fool than someone who rejects a job before they’ve seen a minute of it play out. Fair play to everyone involved for trying.

But at this point, to mutilate an old Robin Williams line, it sounds like God’s way of telling Netflix they have too much money.