Welcome to The Rough Report — where golf isn’t always pretty, but the stories are worth the strokes.
This blog was born somewhere between a duck hook into a cow pasture and a 12-minute wait at a cart path bottle-neck in Pontotoc. I play in North Mississippi with a group of guys who take the game just seriously enough to keep score, but not seriously enough to stop teeing off barefoot.
We don’t play on tour-level courses — we play wherever there’s grass, a flag, and a faint hope of cold drinks at the turn. Whether it’s a muni in Tupelo or a back-nine showdown in Baldwyn, one thing stays consistent: we’re never in the fairway.
Our rounds usually start with optimism and end with a group text full of excuses. We’ve hit drives into bean fields, lost wedges in catfish ponds, and once witnessed someone fall out of the cart trying to parallel park on a slope in New Albany.
One recent round ended with someone shooting a 112 — and they still claimed “I left a lot out there.” Buddy, you brought a lot out there.
This blog isn’t for scratch golfers or swing coaches. It’s for the guys who break more tees than par, who live for twilight rounds, and who consider “cart path only” a personal challenge.
If you’ve ever topped a tee shot, blamed your shoes, then immediately ordered a hot dog and kept playing — welcome home. This is The Rough Report, and we never lay up on laughs.
The Rough Report 