Written by David Skilling

LIV Golf is actively seeking new investors as questions grow around the long-term role of Saudi Arabia’s Public Investment Fund in sustaining the league.

LIV Golf’s CEO, Scott O’Neil’s comments during LIV’s Mexico City event didn’t deny the pressure, and they didn’t need to, because the language shifted from inevitability to process, with references to private equity norms, funding cycles, and the expectation that raising capital is part of building any long-term enterprise.

Until now, LIV has operated outside of those constraints, backed by a sovereign fund willing to absorb losses in exchange for speed, visibility, and leverage across the wider golf ecosystem, but that’s likely to change soon.

The numbers give context to that shift, because the Public Investment Fund is projected to have spent more than $6 billion on LIV since its 2022 launch, while O’Neil pointed to nearly $500 million in sponsorship revenue across league and team deals in 2025, including brands like Rolex, HSBC, Salesforce, and Aramco.

That gap between capital deployed and revenue generated isn’t unusual for an emerging sports league, but it becomes more visible when the funding source signals that future backing may not be open-ended.

The early assumption, from some, that LIV could outspend the PGA Tour into irrelevance always ignored how deeply embedded the Tour’s structure is in the sport’s culture. LIV changed the economics quickly, but it hasn’t replaced the ecosystem that makes golf feel coherent to players and fans over a full season.

What LIV has done, however, is shift the baseline for what elite players expect to earn and how they think about control, and that doesn’t reverse even if funding tightens, because the leverage created over the past three years is already embedded in contract negotiations, appearance fees, and the broader conversation around player value. You can see it in how the PGA Tour responded with its own structural changes, including equity-style incentives and increased purses.

O’Neil’s emphasis on franchise valuations points to the next phase, as LIV’s long-term model relies on team equity becoming the primary source of returns, with ambitions to build 13 teams valued at $1 billion each. That approach borrows from established US sports leagues, but it also raises a fundamental question: whether golf, traditionally an individual sport with loosely connected events, can sustain a franchise model that feels meaningful beyond the initial novelty.

The early steps towards minority stake sales, supported by advisers like Citigroup and targeting private equity and family office capital, suggest LIV is testing whether external investors believe in that vision enough to commit real money. That test matters more than any public statement, because it moves LIV from a funded experiment into a market-validated business, and the outcome will shape how seriously the model is taken across the industry.

The wider consequence for golf is that the sport no longer has the option of returning to a single, uncontested structure, because the economic expectations, player behaviours, and fan awareness shaped by LIV have already altered the landscape. Even if the league evolves, scales differently, or brings in new ownership structures, the pressure it created on prize money, player autonomy, and global expansion remains in place.

Golf now sits in a more complex position than it did before 2022, because it’s balancing heritage with commercial acceleration, individual identity with team structures, and established tours with emerging formats that are still proving themselves. LIV’s search for new investors doesn’t resolve that complexity, but it does make the next phase more honest, because it moves the conversation from whether disruption can be funded to whether it can be sustained, and that’s the question that will define where golf goes next.

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David Skilling

The Masters is here, and with that, I felt the urge to explore one of the most unique “trophies” in world sport, the Green Jacket.

In a sport shaped by global schedules, sponsorships, and constant visibility, the most important symbol still operates under a different set of rules, because even after a player wins it, the terms of ownership are tightly controlled, and that control shapes how the victory is understood. Players don’t just chase a title at the Masters; they chase entry into a system that defines how that title exists beyond the final day.

When Augusta introduced the jacket in 1937, it wasn’t designed as a prize; members wore it during the tournament so patrons could identify who to approach, and staff could recognise who held status within the club. It functioned as a uniform, practical and visible, and nothing about it suggested it would become the most recognisable prize in golf.

That changed in 1949, when Sam Snead became the first Masters champion to receive one, which reframed the jacket without requiring a redesign. Augusta didn’t create a new trophy; it reassigned the meaning to something it already controlled, and in doing so, it linked victory to membership.

Bobby Jones’s (Co-Founder of the Augusta National Golf Club) reported inspiration came from the red jackets worn by captains at Royal Liverpool Golf Club, which fits that pattern, because Augusta has always taken existing traditions and refined them into something more tightly managed. The Green Jacket follows that logic, as its power comes from how it is controlled.

The terms attached to winning the jacket define the relationship between the player and club, because after a champion’s year ends, the jacket is returned to Augusta and stored in the Champions Locker Room. Players can wear it when they return to the club, but they can’t take it with them, and it doesn’t become part of their public identity in the way most modern sporting symbols do.

Gary Player’s 1961 story still stands out because it sits outside those rules. He took his jacket back to South Africa and didn’t return it the following year, only doing so after a discussion with Clifford Roberts (Co-Founder of the Augusta National Golf Club), which ended with the condition that it wouldn’t be worn publicly. The story is a rare example of lost control, and Augusta’s system depends on that kind of exception remaining rare.

A small number of early jackets have surfaced in private hands, including Horton Smith’s, which sold for $682,000 in 2013, and those moments show how scarcity translates into financial value. It’s quite a testament to how the club values its unique position in sports culture, because it hasn’t relaxed certain rules despite the enormous commercial growth of golf around it.

The Sunday ceremony that most viewers recognise follows the same structure each year, because the previous champion helps the new winner into the Green Jacket on the lawn outside the clubhouse, and the setting is presented without fireworks or variation. The moment is enough, and in a world where noise and fanfare compete for attention, the understated experience is what makes the ceremony stand out above many others.

The jacket used in that moment isn’t the final version, as the winner is later fitted for a custom piece produced by Hamilton Tailoring Company in Cincinnati, which has handled the process since 1967, with every detail controlled from fabric to finish.

Inside the jacket, the winner’s name is stitched into the lining, and the same jacket is worn if they win again, which fixes the achievement to a single point in time. Players don’t build a collection; they return to the same marker of entry, which keeps the emphasis on when they joined rather than how often they’ve won.

Augusta National itself explains why this system holds: the club has built its identity on control over access, information, and experience. It operates without a public membership list or an application process, allowing it to shape perception without responding to it.

The Masters reflects that structure, because everything from the food to the broadcast language is curated, and even the absence of mobile phones on site changes how the tournament is experienced. Fans watch without distraction, and that difference shapes how moments are absorbed, because attention isn’t split across multiple screens.

For an informed audience, the idea that the Green Jacket is golf’s ultimate prize holds up, but it remains incomplete without recognising how much of its weight comes from the limits placed on it. Winning earns access, but the conditions attached to that access prevent the symbol from being diluted, even as the sport expands around it.

Most modern sports properties push for exposure because visibility drives commercial return, and achievements are designed to travel across markets and platforms. Augusta moves differently because it keeps its most recognisable symbol tied to one place, a decision that protects its meaning rather than expansion, which would weaken it.

Augusta sits outside the normal rhythm of sport, and players understand what it represents, because winning there doesn’t extend your reach; it fixes your place. The Green Jacket doesn’t travel with you; it anchors you to a place in history, and that difference is why it carries weight in the modern era of sport.

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David Skilling

A four-hour round that starts under low morning sun and ends in harsh overhead light will expose how poorly most sunglasses are suited to golf, because what feels comfortable on the first hole often becomes restrictive by the back nine as the course begins to flatten and visual detail fades.

Anyone who plays regularly recognises that moment where greens lose definition, distance becomes harder to judge, and the eye starts working harder than it should, yet for years golfers have accepted that trade-off while obsessing over marginal gains everywhere else in their bag.

Eyewear has mostly been positioned as a lifestyle category rather than a performance one, which makes it easier to sell at scale but harder to tailor to the specific environments golfers actually play in.

Golf itself has moved in the opposite direction. Over the past decade, the sport’s product ecosystem has been breaking into smaller, more specialised categories, driven by a generation of players who see equipment as part of the experience rather than something fixed and standardised.

You can see it in the rise of niche training tools, in apparel designed specifically for movement, and in the way amateur players now talk about setups with a level of detail that used to sit with club fitters and professionals, which creates the conditions for new categories to emerge once players start questioning assumptions that have gone unchallenged.

To better understand how brands approach this more seriously, I spoke to Christian Freissler, Creative Director at Shinzo Tamura, whose work focuses specifically on visual clarity in environments like golf, and his framing cuts straight to the point, “your eyes are the primary decision-making tool,” which, once you hear it put that simply, makes it harder to justify treating eyewear as an afterthought.

Standard sunglasses were never built for that kind of task, because most are designed simply to reduce brightness, which can make environments more comfortable but does not necessarily improve what the eye can interpret, and in some cases removes detail that golfers rely on.

Christian describes the limitation directly, explaining that “many standard sunglasses simply reduce brightness… but it doesn’t necessarily improve visual information,” which reflects a design approach focused on comfort rather than clarity, and helps explain why golfers often experience visual fatigue over the course of a round without necessarily understanding the cause.

That gap has persisted not just because of product design, but because of incentives. Large brands tend to prioritise products that work across multiple environments, since a general-purpose lens is easier to manufacture, market, and distribute at scale, while category-specific products require education and a more informed consumer.

At the same time, equipment coverage has historically focused on clubs and balls, where performance gains are easier to measure and explain, which has left vision under-analysed despite its constant influence on how the game is played.

What is changing now is the way golfers are starting to think about the problem. As players become more comfortable analysing their equipment in detail, it becomes harder to ignore the role of vision. That shift is opening space for eyewear designed specifically around how golfers see the course, rather than how they block out the sun.

Category-specific lenses approach the problem by focusing on balancing competing needs. Christian describes this balance through their own lens development, noting that the goal is “maintaining true colour, enhancing contrast… and preserving enough brightness so the eye can comfortably read the course,” which reflects a shift away from simply filtering light toward actively supporting perception.

Shinzo Tamura’s work sits within a broader push to bring TALEX lenses into the United States after more than eighty-five years of development in Japan. Rather than building a general-purpose product, the focus is on environments where visual clarity directly affects performance, including golf, driving, and fishing, which share similar demands in how the eye processes light and surface detail, and where small improvements in clarity can meaningfully change how the environment is experienced.

That thinking extends beyond the lens itself into how the product fits within the culture of golf. The sport sits between performance and lifestyle, which means players often move directly from the course into everyday settings, and equipment that feels overly technical can limit how often it is used.

Shinzo Tamura’s approach leans into a more understated design language, which aligns with a broader Japanese philosophy where craftsmanship is expressed subtly, and where, as Christian explains, “the performance is inside the lens, and the frame supports that experience,” allowing the product to integrate more naturally into how golfers actually use their equipment.

Golf has always been a sport where small advantages accumulate over time, and once players begin to recognise that vision is part of that equation, it becomes difficult to ignore, particularly as more golfers start to question why something so central to performance has been treated as peripheral for so long.

If that shift continues, eyewear will move from being a generic accessory to something selected with intent, which would reflect a broader change in how golfers think about the game, not just what they carry in the bag.

To go deeper into how that thinking translates into product, I asked Christian a series of questions about building category-specific eyewear for golf.

Q&A: Christian Freissler, Shinzo Tamura

Q: Golf seems to be entering a phase where brands are becoming more specialised rather than broader. From your perspective, why does golf lend itself so well to category-specific products, particularly when it comes to vision and eyewear?

Golf is very dependent on visual perception, and your eyes are the primary decision-making tool. You’re constantly reading distance and terrain. Additionally, there are subtle changes in light over several hours of play. Small improvements in clarity, contrast, and glare reduction can meaningfully change how a player experiences the course. Category-specific eyewear allows you to tune the lens for exactly those conditions—wide open landscapes, reflective grass, shifting sunlight—rather than relying on a generic dark sunglass lens.

Q: TALEX has been refining its lens technology in Japan for more than 80 years. When developing a lens specifically for golf, what are the visual challenges you’re trying to solve that standard sunglasses typically miss?

Many standard sunglasses simply reduce brightness. That can make the environment darker, but it doesn’t necessarily improve visual information. When we developed our golf-specific lens, Carbon, we focused on balancing three elements: maintaining true colour, enhancing contrast against the sky and greens, and preserving enough brightness so the eye can comfortably read the course.

Polarisation removes glare reflected from grass and sand, which allows the eye to relax and focus more easily. At the same time, the tint formulation is tuned so that subtle textures—like the grain of the green or the break of a putt—remain visible rather than being flattened by an overly dark lens.

Q: Many performance products in golf lean heavily into aggressive “sports tech” aesthetics. Shinzo Tamura seems to take a more understated design approach. Was that a deliberate choice for the golf audience?

Yes, absolutely. Golf sits at an interesting intersection of sport, tradition, and lifestyle. Many players move between the course, the clubhouse, and everyday life without changing their eyewear.

Our approach is to start with the lens experience and then design frames that feel timeless rather than overtly technical. The performance is inside the lens, and the frame supports that experience. In Japan, there is a long tradition of letting craftsmanship speak subtly, and that philosophy carries through the design language of Shinzo Tamura.

Q: Golf is played in constantly changing light—morning rounds, low sun, cloud cover, seasonal shifts. How do you approach lens design so that it works consistently across those different conditions?

The key to a great experience is having a small quiver of lenses. With our golf-specific product Carbon, we developed an all-around lens that sits in a balanced middle range. It filters glare through polarisation while maintaining a relatively light transmission level, allowing the eye to adapt naturally as the light shifts throughout the day.

For days with strong, direct sunlight, we also suggest having a slightly darker lens option in your quiver. Dark lenses perform well in bright summer sun but often struggle in early morning, late afternoon, or overcast conditions—which are common during a four-hour round.

Then there are overcast days with higher light diffusion, as well as dry, brighter courses with more reflective surfaces. In those conditions, a lens formulated for stronger contrast can be helpful—similar to what you might use at the beach or in alpine environments.

Q: You chose to launch the golf collection through a collaboration with Fairgame. When introducing a niche product into the US golf market, how important is it to partner with communities that already understand the culture of the sport?

It’s extremely important, especially for a brand like ours. TALEX lenses have a long reputation in Japan among anglers, drivers, and outdoor professionals, but in the US, the brand is still relatively unknown.

Working with communities like Fairgame allows the product to be introduced in an environment where people genuinely care about performance and where their equipment comes from. Those communities are often very knowledgeable. When they experience the difference themselves, the conversation becomes much more authentic than traditional marketing.

If you’re interested in exploring, here’s more from Shinzo Tamura Golf Collection.

David Skilling

This article was produced in partnership with Shinzo Tamura.

Callaway Golf Company announced it will sell 60 per cent of its stake in Topgolf, valuing the venue and tech business at roughly US $1.1 billion. That figure is about half of what Callaway paid in its full acquisition of Topgolf just a few years ago, and the move marks a decisive break with its “golf-entertainment” ambitions.

When Callaway first invested in Topgolf (originally founded in 2000), it was tapping into a new kind of social sport experience, and seen as somewhat of a gateway to the game via one- to two-hour sessions in climate-controlled bays, with a nightlife-meets-golf atmosphere. I doubt I’m the only one who has seen it as the bowling alley of the new millennium, for those of us who remember Saturday nights at the alley in the ‘80s and ‘90s.

That model seemed to mix with the pandemic-era surge in golf participation, but scaling large-format entertainment venues is capital-intensive, and that can leave investors vulnerable to shifts in consumer behaviour and macro-conditions.

TopGolf isn’t a cheap outing for a family, and people’s pockets are being hit hard at the moment, what with tariffs, inflation, and interest-rate hikes, which have seen sales dip, and the stock of the combined entity (branded then as Topgolf Callaway Brands) fell more than 70 per cent from its post-merger highs.

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TopGolf does offer something great for the casual consumer, but the experience needs to remain accessible; after all, they’re casual, which means they’re likely casual about other things too, and those things are likely cheaper. That’s what TopGolf is competing with: people choosing a night of Netflix or taking the family out for a meal, not serious golfers who will return to fulfil an obsession. We go to the course for that.

From a business perspective, the sale is smart. Callaway will receive around US $770 million net from the transaction, freeing cash to reduce debt, repurchase shares and redirect investment into core categories. Meanwhile, Callaway retains a 40 per cent stake in Topgolf, giving it upside if the venue business rebounds under private-equity ownership. It looks like a pragmatic pivot rather than a full retreat.

The era of “golf as lifestyle” remains real, but this deal signals that the venue-heavy, capital-intensive end of the business may not scale the way some had hoped. For younger consumers drawn to hybrid sport-leisure experiences, the brand still holds value, but the economics of large-format sites are clearly tougher than the product model Callaway does so well.

On the equipment side, competitors such as Acushnet (owner of Titleist and FootJoy) have doubled their value in five years, while Callaway’s share price plunged. That comparative under-performance suggests the diversification bet may have distracted rather than elevated. Now, Callaway is sending a message that it wants to return to what made it strong. And I think that’s a good thing.

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David Skilling

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Back in July, I took a golf trip with friends and family to British Columbia, Canada. Specifically, Vancouver, Kelowna, and Vernon. It was a large group of mixed ages and abilities, and definitely a lot of fun. I wanted to share some of that experience for anybody thinking about a golf trip in that area.

Golf in the Okanagan is never short on options, but many valley courses sit comfortably beside vineyards, scenic without ever feeling overly dramatic. Drive north into Vernon and climb into the hills, and the experience shifts entirely.

The Rise doesn’t rest quietly on the land; it dominates it, pulling you higher until the valley shrinks below. From the very first moment, it feels less like a golf course and more like a stage built for spectacle.

The first thing you notice is the clubhouse. Glass and timber cut sharply against the hillside, perched like a lookout over the valley, it feels more like a contemporary resort than a golf facility. The Edge restaurant glows behind its thirty-foot windows, and the multi-level patios spill down toward the entrance. It’s stunning, and it tells you immediately that The Rise is playing on a bigger stage.

The second thing you notice, as you step out to the patio or walk toward the first tee, is the view. Okanagan Lake stretches out below like a mirror, silver in the morning and deep blue by afternoon, and you realise this isn’t going to be a standard round. The setting becomes part of every swing: twelve holes give you direct sightlines to the water, and even when you’re tucked into the trees, the altitude never lets you forget where you are.

Only then does the course reveal itself, and it doesn’t do so gently. Designed by Fred Couples and Gene Bates, The Rise is mountain golf in every sense, fairways that tilt away, approaches that climb or plunge, and greens that rarely reward anything casual. It can feel punishing for novices, even from the forward tees, because the terrain exposes every hesitation. For experienced players, it’s compelling theatre, for casuals, it’s a test of patience, but nobody leaves indifferent.

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The clubhouse experience feels luxurious. The Edge restaurant leans on local produce and a refined service, the pro shop feels carefully built rather than just functional, and Dante’s Golf Lounge (we didn’t use) adds a modern twist with simulator bays that keep competition alive when daylight fades. This isn’t an afterthought clubhouse; it’s part of the reason to come.

Staff are equally tuned into the challenge. Advice at check-in is delivered with a smile and some useful course info: where to aim on blind tee shots, which bold lines aren’t worth chasing, and how to approach certain greens that break harder than they look. In mountain golf, local knowledge can be a matter of survival, and here it’s shared generously, which makes the experience feel less intimidating, even when the course bites.

The putting and short-game areas are sharp enough to give you a feel for the surfaces. But in reality, once you’re on the first tee, any practice thoughts vanish; the mountain takes hold, and the course itself becomes the lesson. At least for me, anyway.

You’re not walking this course. The climbs are relentless, the gaps between holes stretch across the hillside, and the cart isn’t a luxury; it’s the only way to play. That’s not a drawback; it lets you absorb the views, catch your breath, and reset between holes. Minimalist purists might grumble, but this is golf designed for spectacle, and the cart frees you to lean into it.

The round itself swings between adrenaline and frustration. Drives hang forever against the backdrop of the lake, approaches demand conviction when elevation scrambles your numbers, and greens which appear gentle from afar reveal their subtle breaks up close.

For the novice golfer, your scores will rise faster than you would like, and expect to lose a few balls, but the memories that stick aren’t numbers on a card, they’re the moments of acheivement: the bravery of a drive onto a sloping fairway, the blind 6 iron that turns out safe, and those moments everyone stops to stare at the view instead of their ball.

That’s what The Rise delivers. It doesn’t aspire to be easy or fair; it aspires to be unforgettable. Some golfers will love the theatre, others will feel the difficulty overwhelms the fun, but all will remember it. Courses that stay with you aren’t always the most polished; they’re the ones that insist on being felt, and The Rise fits that description perfectly.

So if you make the trip, do it with clear eyes. Pick the right tees, accept that the mountain and blind holes will add to your score, and don’t fight it. Then leave time to sit on the patio at The Edge, drink in hand, as the lake changes colour below.

Because The Rise isn’t just another Okanagan course, it’s golf staged as a performance, and the curtain lifts the moment you see that clubhouse.

theriseresort.ca

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David Skilling

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The Ryder Cup was always supposed to be one corner of golf untouched by money, but when the U.S. team steps onto the tee at Bethpage Black, they’ll do so with a $200,000 cheque attached.

The PGA of America confirmed last December that each of the 12 players, along with captain Keegan Bradley, would receive a $200,000 stipend, in addition to a $300,000 allocation for charitable causes. That’s $6.5 million in total, a significant jump from the previous model introduced in 1999 when Tiger Woods and David Duval pushed for charity allocations. Back then, the number was $200,000 per player, held steady for 25 years, until the PGA argued it was time to “bring the Ryder Cup into the present day.”

Critics see something else: the end of the Ryder Cup’s purity. European players, from Rory McIlroy to Luke Donald, have all been asked questions and shared that playing for the flag requires no compensation, while former captain Colin Montgomerie said the move “leaves a sour taste.” Even Patrick Reed, never shy of a commercial deal, called it “unnecessary.” For them, this is a step toward eroding the very foundation of the event and its meaning as a rare space where money is not part of the conversation.

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The reality, however, is more complex. Most American players have indicated their stipends will go straight to charity. Scottie Scheffler told reporters that he and his wife prefer to give quietly, focusing on Dallas-based organisations without public fanfare. Xander Schauffele said he planned to donate his share, describing it as “something that selfishly will make me feel good about what I do.” Cantlay went further, committing his entire $500,000 package to charities supporting children of military veterans and first responders. Bradley has also chosen discretion, arguing that charitable giving is “a personal decision.”

What emerges is a picture where players may not see this as a personal payday at all, but as a redistribution of Ryder Cup wealth that otherwise sits on the PGA of America’s balance sheet. That balance sheet is hefty: in 2021–22, the organisation reported $192 million in revenue and $73 million in profit, largely driven by its home Ryder Cup, while subsequent years swung back into the red. Chief commercial officer Jeff Price has admitted the competition is “financially critical,” essentially underwriting the PGA’s entire four-year cycle.

Against that backdrop, the new stipend structure looks less like greed and more like a compromise. Golf has already normalised payment in similar contexts; the Presidents Cup offers $250,000 stipends, while the Solheim Cup provides smaller stipends to cover expenses, so the Ryder Cup is in many ways catching up. Still, the optics differ because of what the Ryder Cup represents: passion, tribalism, and a rivalry that stretches beyond economics.

The 2023 event in Rome proved how sensitive the issue is when Patrick Cantlay’s “HatGate” sparked rumours he was protesting the lack of pay, despite his insistence that the hats simply didn’t fit. European fans seized on the idea anyway, waving their caps to taunt him. That episode underlined how quickly compensation talk can bleed into perception, regardless of truth. This year, even with players pledging donations, the fact of a stipend changes the narrative.

For some, it might not matter; for others, they will see this moment as a turning point, the day when one of sport’s few cash-free sanctuaries finally gave way to the economics that dominate everything else.

Perhaps the most interesting question is not whether the U.S. team should be paid, but whether fans will care. One thing we do know, whether they actually care or not, the European fans will likely use it as fuel to write a chant.

The Ryder Cup has entered an era where patriotism and money are no longer mutually exclusive, and what that means for its legacy is still up for debate. I’d love to hear your thoughts about it.

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David Skilling

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The Masters has never been in a rush to change. For decades, Augusta National limited coverage to tight broadcast windows, rationing the images of its immaculate fairways and forcing fans to live with scarcity.

In a media world built on abundance, that scarcity became mystique. Now the tournament has made its boldest shift in years, handing Amazon Prime Video four hours of early-round coverage from 2026, a move that transforms how fans experience golf’s most sacred broadcast.

The deal gives Amazon a two-hour slot on Thursday and Friday from 1pm to 3pm ET, leading into ESPN’s traditional coverage. Those early hours often contain the rawest drama: debutants learning the weight of Augusta, veterans fighting to stay relevant, amateurs punching above their weight. Historically, much of that was hidden. By opening the gates to Amazon, Augusta is letting fans into the parts of the story that once remained off-screen.

For context, the expansion is significant. In 2024, the Masters aired just 18 hours of broadcast golf. In 2025, small increments were added through Paramount+ and CBS. With Amazon’s deal, 2026 will total 27 hours of coverage, a 50% jump in two years.

For an institution that has historically moved at glacial pace, that’s a cultural shift disguised as a programming tweak. The choice of Amazon matters too, because it isn’t just another broadcaster but a platform that shapes how people consume sport across devices, markets, and demographics.

Augusta’s reputation has always been bound up in control. From the no-phone policy on the grounds to the strict rules on sponsors, the tournament has preserved a sense of separation from modern sport’s commercial chaos. Fans only ever saw what Augusta allowed, and in that selectivity lay the power.

So the decision to extend coverage raises questions: does greater access risk eroding the aura, or does it protect relevance in an era where scarcity looks more like invisibility?

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Amazon’s involvement also marks another chapter in its steady takeover of sports broadcasting. Thursday Night Football, Premier League games in the UK, and tennis rights across Europe, each move has tested audiences’ willingness to embrace streaming for live sport.

The Masters, however, is different. It is not a rights war prize to be bought; it is an invitation, extended carefully by Augusta to a chosen partner. That partnership signals not just trust but recognition that audiences demand more than a Saturday-Sunday crescendo. They want the whole story from the opening tee shots to the final putt.

Still, there is unease. The Masters’ aura was partly born of rationing. When coverage was limited, every broadcast minute felt heightened, every camera angle was an event. With 27 hours available in 2026, that scarcity decreases a little.

The tournament will argue that mystique comes not from withholding but from presentation, from the way Augusta controls its aesthetic, its production, and its messaging. Amazon, if it wants to remain in the club, will have to respect that tone.

Yet history suggests that each innovation, once resisted, eventually becomes part of the tradition itself. When colour television arrived, it changed the way Augusta looked but soon became inseparable from its identity. More coverage via streaming may feel disruptive now, but in five years it will likely be considered the standard.

For Augusta, this is both expansion and experiment, a way to broaden access without surrendering full control. For Amazon, it is a cultural prize, a chance to associate Prime Video with one of the most recognisable events in sport. For golf, it is an opportunity to catch new fans at a time when every sport is fighting for relevance in a crowded market.

The Masters’ power lies in its ability to balance tradition with change. By letting Amazon through the gates, it has taken a step towards the future, one that will test whether mystique can survive in an age of abundance. The answer will define not just how we watch Augusta, but how golf positions itself in the global hierarchy of sport.

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David Skilling

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The Ryder Cup has always been more than golf. It is theatre, nationalism, and culture colliding over a few days of sport that refuses to be reduced to individual scores or rankings. Rome 2023 proved that better than any marketing campaign ever could.

In Rome, Europe turned a golf event into something that felt like a festival. Fans packed the Marco Simone Golf Club in numbers rarely seen in the sport, singing songs that belonged more in a football stadium than a country club. It was emotional, loud, and deliberately tribal. Golf had rarely looked or felt like that before.

For the Americans, Rome was a reminder that talent doesn’t always win when the culture isn’t right. The team arrived with the higher world rankings, major champions, and depth on paper. But golf at the Ryder Cup is not played on spreadsheets. It’s played inside the pressure cooker of history, in an atmosphere where every shot feels like it carries the weight of nations. Europe fed off it. America stumbled. The final score looked inevitable long before the last putt dropped.

In Rome, it was never about prize funds or appearance fees. It was about belonging. When Rory McIlroy fought back tears in his interviews, it wasn’t PR; it was the reality of what the Cup extracts from its players. For a game that is sometimes criticised by outsiders as sterile, the Ryder Cup breaks the mould.

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That is the energy now rolling into 2025. This month, the United States hosts Europe on home soil, with the weight of Rome still heavy in the background. Every American player knows that the memory of Marco Simone lingers, just as every European golfer knows they now have to defend their crown in an environment designed to strip them of the comfort they had in Italy.

The Ryder Cup in the U.S. is always different. The crowds are bigger and brasher, and what European fans did with songs and chants, American galleries do with volume and intimidation. It is not subtle, and it is not meant to be. That’s part of the identity. Where Rome was about romance and history, New York will be about spectacle and defiance. The Ryder Cup thrives on those contrasts because it is built on the cultural collision of golf played in two different contexts.

That’s why this year matters so much. The Americans want redemption, not just a win. The Europeans want validation, proof that Rome was not just a home advantage but the start of a cycle. Either way, it’s going to be full of tension, drama, and excitement for both sides.

When the first tee shot is launched later this month, the competition won’t just be about golfers; it’ll be about us, our cultures, our histories, and the identities that make the Ryder Cup a special event in sport.

Thanks for reading, David Skilling.

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For Hypegolf’s fifth anniversary, the platform is returning to New York with the Hypegolf Clubhouse, a month-long pop-up running from 29 August to 27 September at 147 Grand Street in Manhattan. It’s a deliberate celebration of golf as more than sport: fashion, lifestyle, and community stitched into a single retail-meets-cultural hub.

Since its launch in 2020, Hypegolf has carved out a lane that didn’t really exist before, treating golf with the same curatorial eye that fashion and sneaker culture have long enjoyed. By leaning into performance, design, and community in equal measure, it has become a reference point for how the next generation wants to experience the game.

The Clubhouse 2025 edition follows that same philosophy. Expect apparel from names like MANORS, Reigning Champ, and Pluto of St Andrews, sitting alongside accessories from Jones, Sentinel, Gumtree Golf & Nature Club and others. The aesthetic leans toward what Hypegolf calls “quiet sport”: premium materials, technical precision, and a subtle crossover between fairway function and city wear.

It’s not about loud logos, it’s about looking right whether you’re walking into a clubhouse or a Soho café.

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Exclusivity also plays a big role this year. The Clubhouse will debut Hypegolf’s first collaboration with Oakley, a co-branded line of sunglasses and apparel that bridges performance optics and street utility. There’s also a retro-inspired capsule with Michelob ULTRA and the first-ever Hypegolf x Post Archive Faction (PAF) drop in the United States. These are the kind of releases designed to anchor collections, not just sit in a locker.

But Hypegolf isn’t only about retail. The space doubles as a social hub, with a simulator and weekly After Hours events hosted with the likes of Johnnie Walker, Lexus, and SEGA. Timed around one of golf’s most anticipated team competitions happening nearby, the Clubhouse is as much about capturing New York’s spirit of competition as it is about giving fans a reason to connect off-course.

Perhaps the biggest addition this year is the Hypegolf Clubhouse Classic, a first-ever tournament set for 17 September. Less than half an hour from Bethpage Black, the event is open to golfers of all levels, designed to mix individual play with team-based competition. It’s part festival, part proving ground, an extension of the idea that golf can be serious and social at once.

For a sport going through a lot of change, the Hypegolf Clubhouse offers a rare thing: a physical representation for where golf culture is heading. Not confined to the course, not chasing empty hype, but curating a world where style, sport, and community overlap.

If you want to check it out, Hypegolf Clubhouse 2025 is open August 29 – September 27, 2025 at 147 Grand Street, Manhattan.

• Pop-up Period: August 29, 2025 – September 27, 2025

• Location: 147 Grand Street, Manhattan

• Opening Hours: Monday – Thursday: 11 am – 7 pm

• Friday – Saturday: 11 am – 8 pm

• Sunday: 11 am – 6 pm

*Opening hours may be subject to change.

Thanks for reading, David Skilling.

For more like this, check out the archive.

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Somewhere between the crack of the driver and the ball’s soft thud on turf lies golf’s purest form of tension, that window of uncertainty. A moment where anything can happen, and now, it’s under threat. At least that’s what some fans believe.

When Shane Lowry stepped up to the tee at TPC Toronto, he became the first test subject in what might be the PGA Tour’s most divisive broadcast innovation yet. A sleek new overlay appeared onscreen, colour-coded, predictive, and driven by years of investment in drone AR, cloud computing, and advanced shot-tracking infrastructure. The ball flight traced in blue. Then, a 1.2 second pause. The line turned green. The shot was good. The suspense? Decided before the ball had even landed.

This is the new “smart tracing” feature, born out of the PGA Tour’s partnership with NBC, CBS, and a trio of production tech firms. It merges real-time drone footage with predictive analytics to pre-emptively colour a golfer’s tracer: green for safe, red for trouble. Simple enough on paper. But on TV, it changes everything.

The Tour calls it progress. Many fans call it a spoiler.

It’s clever, but whether it’s good TV is still up for debate.

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Broadcast tech in golf has always walked a tightrope. Shot tracers were once controversial, as well, with purists grumbling that they took away the mystery of ball flight. Now, they’re as standard as a leaderboard. Smart tracing, though, takes it a step further. It moves the moment of tension. You no longer hold your breath when the ball lands near a bunker; you watch the line turn red and brace for the inevitable.

For some, that shift feels surgical and emotionless. Like watching poker with every card already face-up. But here’s the rub: sport isn’t just about what happens. It’s about how you experience it.

That’s the case Turnbull and Freedman—the PGA Tour’s senior tech leaders—make in defence of the innovation. For them, it’s not about robbing drama but reshaping it. “This is just real-time feedback,” Turnbull says. “It’s becoming part of the story.”

Modern fans aren’t strangers to context. But golf’s relationship with suspense is delicate. The sport thrives in those few seconds between the strike and the ball settling. Unlike football or basketball, where drama comes thick and fast, golf relies on taking a longer moment of anticipation.

Do fans trust that these tools serve the experience, rather than hijack it?

Predicta-ball, an earlier PGA Tour experiment that predicted shot outcomes on par 3s, quietly vanished from broadcasts. The tech may live on in some form, but its short run suggests one thing: even clever tools can outsmart themselves.

Smart tracing is a different beast. It’s impressive tech that feeds off data that gets sharper as the round progresses, learning from ground conditions and rollouts in real time. Yet there’s a lingering sense that the Tour is solving a problem that nobody asked to be fixed.

Sport, at its best, isn’t perfect. It’s messy, unpredictable, and sometimes cruel. That’s what makes it magnetic. And there’s a difference between enhancing the story and skipping to the end.

The smart tracing debate isn’t just about tech. It’s about attention. In a world where everything is being optimised, like your feeds, your viewership, and your dopamine levels, there’s something sacred in letting drama play out in real time. Especially in a sport like golf, where so much of the spectacle lives in the pause.

As one Golf Digest editor said, “You wouldn’t want a graphic telling you if a Steph Curry shot was going in as it left his hand.” And yet, here we are.

Smart tracing is the latest line in golf’s digital sand. It’s clever, but whether it becomes part of the fabric or just another flashy experiment depends on how it evolves, and how we, as viewers, respond.

Because sometimes, the best stories are the ones we don’t see coming.

Thanks for reading, David Skilling.

For more like this, check out the archive.

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Justin Bieber just hosted a listening party surrounded by golf clubs and celebrities. This wasn’t a country club affair; it was a slick, Gen Z-coded event with music-industry aura, and Aussie golfer Min Woo Lee blending in among the crowd.

On the same week, Drake’s OVO brand dropped a full-blown golf capsule with Callaway and Vessel. Golf is being culturally hijacked, and the music business is one of the major instigators.

We’ve seen fashion claim golf as the next frontier, I’ve spoken about how sports like football (soccer) have leaned into it’s historic connection to the game, and music artists like Travis Scott, Tyler the Creator, and DJ Khaled have been playing a major role in the connectivity of golf and music. But it seems like the music connection is growing momentum with the industry’s sharpest minds showcasing golf as a lifestyle accessory, equal parts luxury, rebellion, and aesthetic flex.

Bieber’s “SWAG” listening party didn’t just feature golf; it was golf. The entire experience was designed to feel like a studio session at a golf facility. As an avid golf fan, Bieber understands what golf represents right now: access, elevation, and cultural connection.

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Then there’s Drake, another cultural tactician who never enters a space without knowing its long-game value. His brand, OVO, dropped new golf collaboration with Callaway and Vessel isn’t your traditional collection; it’s a slick, black-and-gold statement that focuses on symbolism and sophistication.

What makes these moves matter is not just their optics, but their reach. Music has always held a unique power over perception. When artists embrace something, it doesn’t just get visibility; it gets validation from culture’s most influential storytellers.

Of course, this didn’t start this week. But there’s a difference between aesthetic proximity and full lifestyle adoption. The last two years have pushed golf past that tipping point. DJ Khaled posting swing clips like a golf influencer, Travis Scott and Tyler The Creator releasing collections, and Schoolboy Q, once an outlier for his golf obsession, is now seen as a pioneer in music circles. This is what cultural tipping points look like: when outliers become archetypes.

The smart players in music know what’s happening. Golf offers a canvas for an evolving identity, and for artists who’ve mastered their domain, it’s a new frontier of authenticity. Want to show evolution? Swap the studio for a putting green. Want to tap new markets? Show up at Pebble Beach Pro-Am with your label logo on your hat. It’s not a gimmick, it’s brand architecture focused around something they’re passionate about.

It’s also big business. Brands like Callaway and Vessel don’t just see this as a moment; they’re very aware of the consumer pivot. Today’s golfer doesn’t just subscribe to Golf Digest; they read Julius Oppenheimer’s HypeGolf features on Hypebeast, wear Travis Scott Jordans, and likely pay more attention to their favourite artist in a campaign than a pro golfer.

There’s a generational nuance at play here too. For millennials and Gen Z, golf is no longer seen as a post-retirement hobby or a corporate networking cliché; it’s a personal aesthetic, a place to be seen, and a backdrop for creativity.

Let’s be clear, though, this is not a purity war. Golf purists might not be fans of this evolution, but this isn’t about destroying the game’s legacy; it’s about expanding its lens. Both can exist side by side; acceptance and respect for both sides of the coin should be encouraged. A culture shift doesn’t ruin the sport; it adds fuel and keeps it relevant to new expectations, making the sport enjoyable for a new generation growing up in a different world.

The Venn diagram between golf, fashion, other sports, and music is becoming one concentric circle. And the cultural tastemakers are bringing a level of visual and emotional storytelling the sport has never had before.

Thanks for reading, David Skilling.

For more like this, check out the archive.

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The Open has returned to Royal Portrush, and it comes home to a place that doesn’t need to fake depth. County Antrim’s coastline, with its mythic cliffs and centuries-old stories soaked in salt air and Bushmills, isn’t just scenery; it’s a movie setting. So when a visionary golf brand like Malbon lines up a collection with one of the oldest distilleries on Earth, it doesn’t feel like a marketing play. It feels like a match made in heaven.

You can’t fake heritage. And you can’t fake cool. Bushmills and Malbon know this. That’s why their latest collaboration doesn’t lean on nostalgia or trends. Instead, it lets the textures do the talking, literally. Woven through the collection is a reimagined version of traditional Irish plaid, native to County Antrim, flipped in Malbon’s signature contemporary cut. It’s culture that you wear.

This isn’t the first time Malbon and Bushmills have linked up. But timing the collection to coincide with the 2025 Open Championship, which tees off at Portrush for only the third time in history, raises the stakes. Golf’s cultural reset has been unfolding slowly and steadily, with more players caring about style and more brands treating the sport as a canvas for their ideas.

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For Bushmills, this isn’t about reinventing itself; it doesn’t need to, it’s about welcoming us into the clubhouse in 2025. The distillery dates back over 400 years, and it would be easy to lean heavily on tradition, but what’s clever is how the partnership resists the temptation to do the obvious. This is a modern wardrobe built for modern golf, worn as comfortably on the dunes of the North Coast or in the streets of Brooklyn.

And for Malbon, whose growth has mirrored golf’s broader cultural reawakening, it’s another reminder that they don’t just make clothes, they make context. Malbon carved its niche by turning golf into a vibe, not just a sport. Through strategic collaborations with Coca Cola, Nike, and FootJoy, the brand has helped rewrite who gets to look good on the course and how. This Bushmills collection might be its most geographically grounded collection yet, but it still carries global weight.

I’ve said this many times, golf’s not just growing, it’s evolving. The post-pandemic boom brought people in. But it’s fashion, lifestyle, and social capital that are keeping them. And collaborations like this, anchored in time and place but styled for anywhere, are what make that evolution stick.

Of course, the cynics will call it merch. A whiskey brand and a golf label, selling hats and flasks during a major. But that misses the point. This isn’t about slapping two logos together. It’s about storytelling. And in a summer where Northern Ireland is back on the sporting map, with Portrush playing host to the world, this collection threads heritage and hype into something with purpose.

Let’s not pretend this is just another week in golf. Portrush is different. The Open is different. And the culture around the game is more alive than ever. This collection doesn’t just commemorate that, it contributes to it.

And maybe that’s what Bushmills and Malbon have figured out better than most. That blending old and new isn’t a conflict; it’s a craft. Just like a good whiskey.

The collection is available now at Bushmills.com/malbon and malbongolf.com, and is also available at the Bushmills Distillery.

Thanks for reading, David Skilling.

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AC Milan, one of Europe’s most stylish and storied football (soccer) clubs, just dropped a golf capsule with PUMA, and it’s genuinely sharp. It’s sleek, understated, and rooted in performance, but there’s something else going on here.

This isn’t just Milan selling some golf gear because the sport is culturally relevant (not completely). This is cultural confirmation.

Footballers have been avid golfers for decades; it’s been a part of football culture since I can remember. Whether professionals or amateurs are often better than you might think. The AC Milan x PUMA collection is just the first time a major European club has packaged that connection into a fashion-forward, commercially viable play. And it lands because the link was always there. Quiet, but constant.

Christian Pulisic, the face of the campaign and a known golf obsessive, summed it up like this:

“Golf has always been one of my biggest passions outside of football, so bringing those two sides of my world together through this collection has been truly special.”

He’s not alone. Gareth Bale built his post-football identity around the game. Haaland’s already on the simulator circuit. From Joe Hart to Andriy Shevchenko, there’s a long line of elite players who’d give your scratch mates a run for their money.

But this goes deeper than one or two examples. Since the ‘90s, I’ve watched footballers quietly dominate summer golf days, charity scrambles, and off-season tourneys. Teams would finish training, then head straight to the local course. Footballers organise their own stroke play competitions, buy fittings like Tour pros, and travel with their own TrackMan setups. It’s not a hobby. It’s a second sport.

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So why has it taken this long for clubs to lean into it?

AC Milan, to their credit, got it. This new golf drop is the launch of Clubhouse, the club’s new culture and lifestyle platform, a space where football intersects with fashion, design, music, and yes, golf. The name Clubhouse is a clever wink to both sports: the inner sanctum of a football team and the communal heart of every course on earth. That wasn’t an accident.

The collection’s aesthetic is also spot-on. No forced fashion statements, just wearable, functional, well-cut pieces with subtle nods to Milan’s black-and-red DNA. You could wear it to a links round in St Andrews or a late lunch in Milan’s Brera district and feel right at home in either. It’s golfwear that respects the rhythm of the modern player, with both the swing and the swagger.

But here’s where the move hits: it’s not just for football fans. It’s for golfers. Real ones. Milan’s not trying to enter the golf world with a celebrity gimmick. They’re stepping in with credibility, and that matters.

Because the truth is, golf is no longer content being boxed into tradition. The game has moved. It’s entered the lifestyle era, where culture drives just as much conversation as competition. You see it with Eastside Golf’s Jordan drops. With Malbon’s expansion into Seoul and Paris. With Topgolf’s takeover of social sport. Golf now sits at the intersection of sport, self-expression, and social identity, and footballers have been sitting there too, for a long time.

Historically, AC Milan has always had range. They were founded in 1899 as a football and cricket club, blending codes before that was cool. They’ve collaborated with fashion labels, dabbled in music, and been photographed as much off the pitch as on it. But this feels different. This is a global club saying, “golf is part of who we are now”, not just as a sport, but as a culture.

And it’s not hard to imagine where this goes next. PSG with Jordan Golf. Real Madrid with an exclusive adidas capsule. Premier League players fronting their own collections. Footballers don’t need to be convinced, many of them already carry a 5-iron and a 5 handicap. Now, it’s just about turning that culture into product, into community, into brand value.

That’s what this Milan x PUMA Golf drop signals. Not a pivot, but a long-overdue acknowledgement. Golf isn’t just having a moment; it’s a movement with an updated engine. And if footballers are already part of that movement, it’s only natural that clubs start showing up too.

Thanks for reading, David Skilling.

The full AC Milan x PUMA collection is available now in all AC Milan Official Stores (excluding the Milan Store at Malpensa T1), on store.acmilan.com, on pumagolf.com.

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The best shot in golf isn’t the one that flies 350 yards. It’s the wedge that checks and spins back to within tap-in range. That’s where the magic lives, and it’s also where the Grass League is building its entire identity: from 150 yards and in.

This isn’t country club tradition. This is night golf under the lights in Tempe, Arizona. Teams with names like the San Diego Munis and Tampa Bay Swamp Dawgs. Two-player scrambles. Fast rounds. Big personalities. Paige Spiranac’s doing social coverage like it’s a music festival. And Sedona Hopley, a longtime Grass League supporter, shared her insider view with me to help us understand what makes this tour so special.

With its second season underway, the Grass League isn’t trying to imitate the PGA Tour. It’s not a protest movement like LIV either. It’s something different. Something that’s quietly carving out space in golf’s crowded ecosystem, and if the early signals are anything to go by, it’s a model that might just have staying power.

The 2025 season opened with the Grass Clippings Open at Rolling Hills in Tempe, airing live on Peacock and played under the lights. It wasn’t just the start of another tournament, it was a statement of intent.

Shorter rounds. Prime-time viewing. A par-3 format that rewards shot-making, not just power. And teams that fans can root for. Not players. Teams. Team names based on locations, and that works, because it helps build tribalism among fans. Something another league didn’t quite get right, in my opinion.

The tour, founded in 2018 and officially launched into a full season format last year, features 11 franchises with names and branding that feel closer to minor league baseball than traditional golf. The Dallas team includes members of Good Good Golf, a popular YouTube collective with millions of followers and a strong Gen Z fanbase. The format is a two-player scramble, designed to be fast, entertaining, and inclusive.

And it’s working. The opening event in Arizona pulled attention across golf’s digital circles, not for birdie streaks or final-round comebacks, but for the vibe. The social energy. The access.

Sedona Hopley, an Arizona golf personality affiliated with the home team, PHX United, put it like this: “Par-3 competitive golf, fantastic food, unreal vibes and live music? Affordable tickets too. Oh and also under the lights!? Even if you aren’t a fan of golf, there’s no way you could have a bad experience attending a Grass League event.”

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At its core, the Grass League is built on the idea that golf, real, competitive golf, can be reimagined without losing its soul. The founders don’t claim it’s better than the PGA Tour. But they believe it’s different and that difference could be key to future growth.

Jake Hoselton, the league’s CEO, put it plainly in a recent interview with Golf.com:
“Par-3 golf is a standalone sport. It’s quicker, it’s more action-packed, but it’s still golf.”

That isn’t just a format pitch — it’s a philosophical stance. Traditional golf is time-consuming and hard to access, especially for younger or casual fans. Par-3 courses are shorter, more affordable, and easier to broadcast in full. Add team-based competition and night play, and it starts to feel like a proper entertainment product.

Hoselton added:
“Par-3 golf, and particularly the format that we use — the two-person scramble — lends itself the ability to have men and women ages 18 to 75 who are competitive. It levels the playing field. And all of golf’s greatest moments happen from 150 yards and in.”

That might sound like marketing, but it’s also not wrong.

“Playing from distances where co-ed is fair, it’s really anyone’s game,” Hopley said. “Amateur or pro, man or woman, however you want to show up, anyone can have their Tiger moment out there.”

Paige Spiranac’s involvement with the Grass League isn’t just smart casting. It’s cultural alignment, much like the inclusion of the Good Good crew.

The former collegiate golfer turned influencer boasts over four million followers on Instagram. Her posts regularly cross into mainstream media, and she’s one of the few golf figures who can move the needle with people who don’t follow the sport.

During the Grass Clippings Open, Spiranac took over the league’s Instagram and posted live coverage from the course. She interviewed players, showed behind-the-scenes content, and offered a tone that felt more like a music festival correspondent than a traditional golf analyst, and that’s exactly the point.

Hopley’s involvement has also evolved with the league. She’s played, caddied, and now provides media coverage, and she’s clear about what makes it special:

“Grass League is something revolutionary, not just in golf, but in sports as a whole. If you can play, you can play. It’s giving talented people who might not have had a chance an equal and fighting shot to be seen.”

“With $100,000 on the line, the stakes are very real. And as easy as Par 3 golf may sound, it is far from easy.” Hopley added.

Unlike most startup leagues that chase broadcast rights and hope the rest follows, the Grass League is focused on three core revenue streams: ticket sales, team ownership sales, and sponsorships. All of them already show signs of traction.

With support from WME, the league has already inked deals with brands like Red Bull, Heineken, UNRL, and Gila River Resorts and Casinos. That kind of backing, especially for a new format, suggests real belief in its longevity.

WME has also helped connect the dots in the content world. Good Good Golf, a WME client, being tied into a team? That’s no coincidence. And Paige Spiranac? Also, a WME client. The synergy is intentional, and the audience reach reflects that.

Then there’s team ownership. PGA Tour pros are banned from playing in the league, the Tour doesn’t allow conflicting event appearances, but they can still own teams. Wyndham Clark, the 2023 U.S. Open champion, bought the San Diego Munis and installed his longtime caddie John Ellis as a team member.

That’s a blueprint with serious potential: player-owners, fast-paced entertainment, brandable teams, and a solid digital strategy.

“And let’s be clear,” Hopley added. “It’s not easy out there. You absolutely have to have the skill to play. There’s $100k on the line. The greens are tough, and the course? It’s called Grass Clippings Rolling Hills for a reason.”

She credits the grounds team as part of the story, too: “Coming from an Arizona native who’s golfed most of my life, the love and care they’ve put into the course is a beautiful story on its own. It used to be nothing like this.”

This is an exciting project that I, for one, am looking forward to watching evolve. It’s off to a strong start, not just in how it looks and feels, but in the people it’s attracting and the energy it’s generating. With the right infrastructure in place, the right cultural signals, and the right people backing it, Grass League has all the ingredients to build something both successful and sustainable.

Or, as Sedona Hopley puts it:

“It’s only the beginning. Grass League is more than just a tournament — it’s the future of golf.”

Thanks for reading, David Skilling.

Check out Grass League: Website | Instagram

Thanks to Sedona for her contribution. Check her out on Instagram

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Caddies aren’t just bag carriers, they’re part psychologist, part strategist, and part crisis manager. So when Collin Morikawa parts ways with J.J. Jakovac, the only caddie he’s had since turning pro, it’s not just a change in personnel. It’s a seismic shift for his career.

Jakovac has been there for Morikawa’s biggest moments. From his breakout PGA Championship win in 2020 to his triumph at the 2021 Open, their partnership was marked by calm under pressure, unflinching consistency, and the kind of mutual trust that’s hard to fake. That bond helped Morikawa rise quickly to the top of the game, making him one of the youngest stars with two majors under his belt.

So when a duo like that splits, people pay attention. And when the replacement is someone as respected and recently in-demand as Joe Greiner, the move begs deeper questions.

Greiner’s own journey has been a whirlwind. Long associated with Max Homa, his childhood friend, Greiner’s departure from that role caught many off guard, especially since it wasn’t by choice.

“I mean, it was not my choice, so it sucked,” Homa admitted during the Masters, referencing a difficult decision that nonetheless preserved their friendship. That quote tells you everything about how tight the player-caddie relationship runs: it’s business, but it’s deeply personal too.

Greiner’s services didn’t stay on the market for long. He filled in temporarily for Justin Thomas, who then won his first PGA Tour event in three years with Greiner on the bag at the RBC Heritage. That sparked inevitable rumours about a long-term deal, which Thomas shot down quickly. Still, the victory served as a live testimonial to Greiner’s skills, and clearly, Morikawa agrees.

On paper, Morikawa has remained a world-class performer. But in the ruthless arena of elite golf, near-misses don’t pay the same dividends as trophies. His last PGA Tour win came in the autumn of 2023. His last major title was at St Andrews in 2022. He’s been consistent, often in contention, but not closing.

This caddie change isn’t a panic move. It’s a signal: Morikawa isn’t chasing comfort. He’s chasing greatness.

By all accounts, his decision wasn’t rooted in fallout or friction. It was strategic. Jakovac did nothing wrong, but Greiner might be the one who can help Morikawa unlock that extra gear, whether it’s decision-making under pressure, emotional balance, or a more assertive course management style. These small margins are often the difference between top-five finishes and lifting the trophy.

Morikawa and Greiner already have deep ties through their shared connection to Max Homa. Both Morikawa and Homa played collegiate golf at Cal, have been close friends for years, and have shared practice rounds and even the same coach, Mark Blackburn, at various points.

That familiarity likely made this transition feel less like a gamble and more like a calculated upgrade. Greiner already understands Morikawa’s game. More importantly, he knows the personality behind it, when to talk, when to listen, and when to challenge. And chemistry matters.

Homa, now working with veteran caddie Bill Harke, is already showing signs of adapting well. Jakovac, meanwhile, leaves with an enviable resume and will surely land another top-tier bag soon.

With the PGA Championship coming up fast, this new partnership will be tested immediately. Expectations will be high, but Morikawa has never shied away from big stages. If anything, his decision suggests he’s doubling down on trying to win the ones that matter most.

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New Collection From J Lindeberg

This week, J Lindeberg dropped a performance tech Pro Pack collection with weather-ready layers and utility gear. The vision was to create versatility on and off the course.

I am particularly excited about this because the brand hired one of my agency’s sports models for the shoot, Elisa Park. 👈 I would love it if you gave her a follow.

She’s a young golfer on her journey of development and is a very cool personality. We recently began working with her, and already, she’s doing very well booking jobs with some of the biggest brands in sportswear.

She’s going places!

Thanks for reading, David Skilling.

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It starts with the cigar.

Not because it’s part of the collection, but because the image it conjures, Michael Jordan, stogie in hand, is exactly the kind of energy Aimé Leon Dore brings with its latest drop.

For those unfamiliar, Aimé Leon Dore is a New York-based fashion label founded by Teddy Santis in 2014. If Ralph Lauren and Nas collaborated on a capsule collection for the New York Gold scene, ALD would be the result. It’s a brand that leans heavily into nostalgia and filters it through a lens of clean tailoring. The brand has become a symbol of tasteful hype. And now, it's returned its attention to golf.

With this new golf collection, ALD’s second, the brand brings its signature approach to the fairways: deliberate, thoughtful, and loaded with cultural reference.

Let’s start with the clothes. There’s a panelled golf jacket with a boxy, vintage fit; double-pleated trousers that nod to an era when elegance, not elastane, defined men’s style; and performance polos that could pass for something you’d wear to dinner in SoHo.

Colour-wise, it's a restrained palette, allowing textures and cuts to take centre stage. And they do. Cordura fabric is a standout, durable enough for the course but styled like a fashion week favourite.

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Golf has spent the last five years undergoing a quiet revolution, one you don’t need me to rehash. Streetwear’s entry into the space has opened the door to a new wave of brands, players, and aesthetics. But while others have leaned hard into maximalism or athleisure, ALD has done something subtler: they’ve made golfwear aspirational again, not just accessible.

What makes this drop stand out is how it builds a bridge between two worlds, one where you have still a 4-iron in your bag wrapped in leather, and one where you’re sipping an overpriced artisan coffee on the Lower East Side.

There’s a deliberate rhythm to the collection’s styling, pleats falling clean and jackets worn with a relaxed poise that says, “I care, but not too much.” It taps into a masculine ideal that feels rare in modern golf apparel: cool without trying too hard, nostalgic without being cartoonish. It’s easy to throw around words like “timeless,” but here, it fits.

Accessories round out the capsule, but they’re not an afterthought. We’re talking leather gloves, embroidered umbrellas, club covers, and even hints at a forthcoming FootJoy collaboration, an updated classic golf shoe, through the ALD lens. That FootJoy tease is important. It signals that ALD isn’t here for a cameo; they’re here to build something with longevity.

The best fashion speaks without shouting. And while plenty of new golf brands have brought energy and chaos in equal measure, ALD’s entry feels like a reminder that style can whisper and still be heard. It's for the player who sees their golf wardrobe the same way they see their whisky shelf or watch roll: refined, curated, meaningful.

There’s a quiet confidence to this collection that aligns it more with legacy than trend. Which brings us back to MJ, the prototype for cool in golf. The swagger, the confidence, and an aura that can’t be ignored. You see it in the cigar, yes, but more so in the mindset: this isn’t just sport, it’s personal style.

For golfers who care about how they present on the course, this drop is more than just a brand doing golf. It’s golf finally being done by a brand that understands cultural currency.

And for those just discovering Aimé Leon Dore? Welcome. You’ll start with the pleated pants. You’ll stay for the philosophy.

The collection is now available at ALD Golf

Thanks for reading, David Skilling.

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On the Monday after Rory McIlroy completed his career Grand Slam at Augusta, the Jordan brand had a timely release of its latest shoe.

Not with a whisper. With intent.

Unveiled at Michael Jordan's ultra-exclusive Grove XXIII in Florida, the Jumpman's latest release isn’t a nostalgic reissue. It's a strategic cultural move, blending athletic innovation with swagger. From the new Air Rev golf shoe to a fully reimagined apparel line, Jordan Brand is stepping back onto the course with something to prove and plenty of ground to shake up.

Jordan's relationship with golf isn't new. The man plays daily, often at his own course. Grove XXIII, nicknamed "Slaughterhouse 23" for how tough it plays to guests, is a testament to Jordan’s obsession with detail. Designed for speed, competition, and elite-level play, it reflects his approach to everything: dominate with precision.

So when Sarah Mensah, president of Jordan Brand, says the timing for the release is perfect, she's not playing marketing games. “Golf is at an inflexion point. So are we,” she told CBS Sports. And she’s not wrong.

The pandemic fuelled a surge of new players, with Gen Z and millennials now forming a significant chunk of the market. Style, diversity, and cultural relevance are becoming as important to new golf consumers as swing mechanics. The Jordan Brand is built on that shift.

If the 1990s gave us “It’s gotta be the shoes,” then 2025 says: it’s gotta be the innovation. The Air Rev, launching in May, is the brand’s headline act. With its new Flight Lock technology and movable Air Zoom unit, it doesn’t just look sharp, it plays smart. It’s engineered for traction, support and adaptability, a nod to how golfers move across terrain.

It’s not a lifestyle sneaker passed off as a golf shoe. It’s performance-first with edge.

Mensah made clear this isn’t just about footwear. The wider collection includes sleek Dri-Fit polos, mock neck tops, and streetwear-inspired golf pants, a deliberate nod to how today’s athletes dress across sports. Whether you’re teeing off at Torrey Pines or hanging out at Topgolf, the look is as much the sell as the specs.

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Jordan Brand dominates basketball. It’s taken over college football. Now the question is: when will golf see its first Jordan-signed major winner?

Rory McIlroy may wear the swoosh, but the field is wide open. Younger players are style-savvy. They’re building audiences online, wearing statement fits, and shaping their own narratives.

Mensah hinted that big things are coming. "There’s something magical about what happens when someone wears the Jumpman. It represents championship excellence." If that translates to golf, and it likely will, expect to see a new generation of athletes teeing it up under the wings of a different kind of icon.

Jordan Brand’s golf movements aren’t just about creating better shoes or cooler gear. It’s about giving golf a new language, one that speaks to confidence, expression, and that unshakeable mentality of its founder.

Thanks for reading, David Skilling.

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After a nerve-racking playoff with Justin Rose, McIlroy finally won the Masters, becoming just the sixth man in golf history to complete the career Grand Slam. But for those watching closely, it wasn’t just about the green jacket. It was about something deeper.

The first man to embrace McIlroy was Harry Diamond, his caddie, but more importantly, his boyhood friend from Holywood Golf Club in Northern Ireland. The man who stood beside him through the highs, the collapses, the pressure. The man who knew Rory before Rory was Rory.

This wasn’t just a sporting achievement. It was a shared journey. And it sticks out to me as one of the best parts of Rory’s success.

McIlroy’s talent has never been in doubt. By 25, he’d already won four majors, two PGA Championships, one U.S. Open, and The Open Championship. But the Masters? That was the missing piece.

He came painfully close in 2011, leading by four strokes heading into Sunday, only to fall away in the final round. “I’ll have plenty more chances,” he said back then. That was 14 years ago.

Since then, McIlroy has carried the burden of expectation, often playing well at Augusta, but never quite sealing the deal. Between 2015 and 2020, he had five top-10 finishes but no green jacket. The story became almost mythic: Rory, the nearly man at the Masters.

In 2017, McIlroy made a decision that changed everything. He parted ways with J.P. Fitzgerald, the caddie who had been on the bag for all four of his majors, and handed the job to his best mate, Harry Diamond.

Diamond, a solid amateur golfer himself, had no professional caddie experience. Many in the golf world raised their eyebrows. This was Rory McIlroy, one of the most marketable names in the game, entrusting his career to someone without a résumé in Tour pressure.

But Diamond wasn’t just any friend. He’d known Rory since they were kids at Holywood. He’d been best man at his wedding. He knew the golfer, but more importantly, he knew the person.

Over time, the results began to speak. McIlroy didn’t win another major immediately, but his form remained consistent. Diamond was calm under pressure, known for his quiet manner and sharp golfing brain.

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McIlroy entered this year’s Masters in good form, having already won twice on the PGA Tour earlier in the season. For me, it felt going into the tournament that this could be the one, but that did come with hesitation of course. McIlroy played with focus and restraint all week, making birdies without fireworks, playing with a kind of inner calm. He was in a great position going into Sunday, but as ever with Rory, it wasn’t going to come easy.

A double bogey on the opening hole. A ball in the water at 13. The ghosts of Augusta were back. Justin Rose’s final-round 66 forced a playoff.

But McIlroy, with Diamond at his side, didn’t blink.

On the second playoff hole, Rory stuck his approach to just a few feet. Birdie. Game over. Career Grand Slam complete. As the crowd erupted, McIlroy turned to Harry.

After the win, McIlroy’s voice cracked when talking about his caddie. “I’ve known Harry since I was seven years old,” he told the press. “To be able to share this with him, after all the close calls we’ve had, all the crap he’s taken from people who don’t know anything about the game—this one is just as much his as it is mine.”

It was an emotional release, not just for Rory, but for anyone who’s ever leaned on a friend through failure and stuck with them long enough to see it turn to triumph.

Harry Diamond never courted the spotlight. He never tried to be a brand. But in that moment, he was a central figure in one of sport’s greatest achievements, not because he carried clubs, but because he carried belief.

The relationship between golfer and caddie is often transactional. Some pros switch caddies like they change putters, seeking an edge, a spark, a fix.

But McIlroy’s faith in Diamond has never wavered. Even when critics said he needed a more experienced voice. Even when he went another year without a major. Even when the doubts were loud.

Their story is one of loyalty in a sport that often rewards short-term thinking. Of emotional intelligence over analytics. Of friendship over formula.

With this win, McIlroy enters golf’s rarest club, and Diamond can proudly own his part in that history. Rory may be the only one with the green jacket, but the journey, the years of hurt, pressure, and expectation, were certainly not walked alone.

In an era of data-driven coaching teams and media-trained entourages, Rory and Harry’s bond is a reminder that even with all the modern influences, you can’t replace the support of a solid human connection.

And maybe that’s what made this Masters win feel different. It wasn’t just about greatness. It was about goodness. About sticking with the people who know you best and letting them walk with you all the way to history.

Thanks for reading, David Skilling.

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Augusta National Golf Club during Masters week. It doesn’t chase money, it just prints it!

It’s not about massive sponsor banners everywhere: no influencer lounges or corporate branding exercises. It looks more like a museum than a modern sporting event. And yet, quietly, precisely, with near-military control, The Masters still manages to print money like few other sports events.

This is the paradox: Augusta National doesn’t act like a business, but it runs one of the most profitable and powerful business models in global sport. Not because it chases attention but because it doesn’t.

Let’s start with the merch. During Masters week, Augusta transforms into a retail behemoth. Patrons (never “fans”) queue for hours to gain access to the store and pick up their coveted Masters-logo caps, polo shirts, tea towels, picnic blankets, and umbrellas. The designs are understated, and the branding is clean, with no loud graphics or gimmicks.

But the psychology? That’s loud. You cannot buy this gear online. If you want the green umbrella or the limited-edition quarter zip, you have to be there. This artificial scarcity fuels compulsive buying. Reports estimate the tournament generates over $70 million in merchandise revenue in just one week, more than many major retailers make in a quarter.

Augusta could easily make Masters gear available year-round online. But they don’t. Because saying no creates value. In this way, they’ve built one of the most lucrative pop-ups in the world, disguised as a golf event.

The Masters has a handful of corporate partners: Bank of America, AT&T, IBM and Mercedes-Benz are what’s known as Champion Partners, while Delta Air Lines, Rolex and UPS are known as Tournament Partners.

They’re hushed, integrated relationships that keep the prestige and elegance of the event intact. CBS doesn’t even get to air commercials during certain parts of the coverage because CBS is paid by Augusta National to have minimal commercials.

Despite this subtlety, the estimated annual value of those sponsorships exceeds $100 million. Why? Brands pay a premium to be associated with greatness. There’s a halo effect in being associated with The Masters, even if your presence is barely visible.

And the club likes it that way. Augusta doesn’t need to fully succumb to commercialism when they can focus on strategic partnerships on their terms. It’s not just about money. It’s about strategic alignment.

Augusta National owns the land. They own the clubhouse. They control the ticketing. The food. The broadcast. Even the camera angles. Unlike most sporting events, where rights are carved up and sold off, The Masters is vertically integrated to the point of obsession.

This gives Augusta National leverage that’s rare in sport. By controlling the entire ecosystem, they eliminate friction, middlemen, and, critically, brand dilution. What you see, hear, and buy is tightly curated. That level of control isn’t just about legacy. It’s business strategy.

Here’s the thing: Augusta doesn’t need to say yes. They don’t need to host concerts. They don’t sell naming rights. They could rake in millions more by expanding capacity or loosening the merch restrictions, but they won’t.

That restraint is what makes The Masters a masterclass in brand power. In a world chasing virality, Augusta prioritises consistency. And that creates trust. That’s why when a Rolex or a Mercedes signs a deal, it sticks. The value of being affiliated with Augusta doesn’t change. It compounds.

That restraint also applies to the patron experience. Tickets are notoriously hard to get, often passed down through families or acquired via lottery. The pimento cheese sandwich? Still $1.50. Augusta could charge £15 and still sell out. But they don’t. It’s not just humility, it’s strategy.

Everything about The Masters is designed. The green jacket. The limited field. The white jumpsuits for caddies. The lack of mobile phones. Even the font on the leaderboard. It all feeds a narrative of purity and exclusivity.

But let’s not pretend it’s all organic. This is brand architecture. A long play. We live in a culture of more, more access, more hype, more noise. But The Masters has built a billion-dollar brand by doing the opposite. By obsessing over the less. Less inventory. Less exposure. Less availability. And in doing so, they've created more demand.

There’s a lesson here for any business trying to navigate the modern landscape. You don’t have to shout to be heard. You don’t have to be everywhere to be relevant. Sometimes, saying no is the most valuable decision you can make.

So when the golf world descends on Augusta next week, remember: behind every green umbrella and polo is a business model rooted in control, scarcity, and ruthless selectivity.

That’s not anti-commercial. It’s one of the highest forms of it.

Thanks for reading, David Skilling.

Spring is here, and the days are getting longer. That means more golf and a great time to refresh your wellness routine with a great-tasting Daily Health Drink.

AG1 is a great companion for golfers. As someone who can’t drink caffeine but still needs an energy boost for those early tee times, AG1 helps me feel energized, and it supports a calm, healthy mood, which comes in handy when trying to sink a pressure put.

When it comes to my health, I want something I can trust; for me, that’s AG1. With science-backed ingredients and real benefits I can feel, AG1 makes it easy to support overall wellness every day. And that’s why I’ve partnered with AG1.

They also have these great travel packs that make it easy to stay consistent no matter where you’re golfing this summer.

For those with varying dietary requirements, it’s Gluten Free, Dairy Free, Paleo, vegan, keto, and <1g of naturally occurring sugar.

AG1 is offering new subscribers a FREE $76 gift when you sign up. You’ll get a Welcome Kit, a bottle of D3K2 AND 5 free travel packs in your first box.

CLAIM YOUR GIFT

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The problem isn’t the golf. It’s the camera, or more specifically, who’s holding it.

When the Creator Classic rolled into TPC Sawgrass, it promised to be golf’s answer to the YouTube All-Star Game: big personalities, wild moments, and plenty of content to fill TikTok feeds for days.

On paper, it had the ingredients, a legendary course, social media’s most-followed golf creators, and a prime opportunity to showcase how far golf’s influencer scene has come.

Instead, it felt flat. Stripped of their signature video editing, personality-driven commentary, and fast-paced storytelling, the creators were placed inside a traditional golf broadcast shell, complete with the hushed tones, steady camera pans, and Sunday-best politeness we associate with PGA Tour coverage.

The result? A lukewarm watch that neither satisfied traditional golf fans nor excited the digital-native audience these creators usually dominate. And it raises a question: what happens when the entertainment value of a digital-first creator gets smothered by a legacy format designed for an entirely different type of star?

Let’s start with why we watch professional golf broadcasts in the first place, elite performance is the main attraction. Fans tune in because the pros do things most of us can’t even imagine attempting. That tension, between impossibility and execution is the heart of sport as entertainment.

For creators, it’s the opposite. Fans watch them because they’re relatable. They pull off great shots (many of them) but more importantly, they entertain us while doing it. They talk trash, tell stories, and turn their rounds into episodes rather than events. Their real skill isn’t pure shot-making, it’s the on-camera performance.

Yet, when these same creators step into a world designed for traditional golf broadcasts, their advantage disappears. No editing. No reaction cams. No quirky voiceovers. Just a slow, sanitised production where decent amateur golfers get around the track.

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Golf has always struggled with TV translation, especially with the casuals. Unlike basketball or football, which come pre-packaged with speed, noise, and highlight moments, golf asks viewers to invest hours of slow build-up for brief moments of brilliance.

The classic broadcast approach, calm tones, long silences, and reverent commentary, work when the stakes are a Major Win with the world's best going head-to-head building legacies in the sport.

But this format doesn’t translate so well to creator golf, in my opinion. There’s no major on the line or a step toward season goals, and because these creators aren’t elite (they are very good), there’s less awe factor. So what’s left is a diluted version of both worlds.

The moment you lock creators into a format where they can’t do cutaways, vlogs, or jokes with the camera, you lose what made them influential in the first place. Take Good Good or Bob Does Sports. Their fans aren’t tuning in just to see if they break par. They’re there for the camaraderie, the antics, the group dynamics.

It’s about building a world, inside jokes, rivalries, and the evolution of their skills over time. Strip that away, and you’re left with…golf shots. And frankly, there are better places to watch golf shots.

If events like the Creator Classic want to thrive, they can’t just shove creators into the same template built for Rory McIlroy or Brooks Koepka. They need to rethink the production from the ground up. Hand the cameras back to the creators. Give them portable rigs, live commentary booths, mic’d-up trash talk. Let them produce vignettes, social clips, and mid-round confessionals. The broadcast needs to meet the creators halfway and allow them to do what they do if they want this format to succeed.

The match format also needs rethinking. Stroke play is great when every shot matters but in creator golf, people are less interested if someone doubles the 13th. Viewers want chaos, side bets, and moments that generate clips. Teams, challenges, and forfeits. Lean into the viral nature of the creators themselves.

Golf is undergoing a cultural shift. The sport is younger, cooler, and more accessible than it’s been in decades. Creator-led golf is part of that wave but only if it plays by the rules of digital culture, not broadcast tradition.

Putting creators into a PGA broadcast setting, for me, missed the point. It’s like taking a TikTok comedian known for 15-second clips and dropping them on stage at Madison Square Garden, expecting them to deliver a polished hour-long set to a crowd of seasoned stand-up fans. It’s going to be a tough night.

I think the Creator Classic has a place in golf entertainment and I think the creators add a lot of value to the wider culture of the sport, but when it comes to blending both the creator world with the traditional, the traditional world needs to involves the creators more on the content distribution strategy.

Thanks for reading, David Skilling.

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