St Andrews, I’m Sorry, I Cheated

I don’t want this to be my legacy

Before I comment on any of my actions, I would first like to apologise to my family, my friends, my opponents, and most importantly, my playing partner. You did not deserve such disrespect. Furthermore, I would like to apologise to my many, many fans and all who follow, play, or are involved in the game of golf. I have let you all down, and I have let myself down. I understand my actions have hurt a lot of people, and for that I am deeply sorry. What I did on 4 November cannot be undone, and I must now face the consequences of my actions.

On Wednesday 4 November, three of my friends and I were lucky enough to get the first tee time of the day on the Old Course. At 8am we renewed our golfing rivalry, battling it out over eighteen holes bathed in winter sunshine. A glorious occasion, and I could not have asked for better company or a better setting. My own antics, however, were anything but glorious. I bent and broke the rules of the game to my advantage. By doing so, I changed the outcome of my own performance and, crucially, the result of the match.

As I climbed up the steps towards the R&A Clubhouse, I was handcuffed by security and carried away to the Official Scorer’s Dungeon. At this point, it was clear that even if the players in my group didn’t spot me, The Great Eye does not miss a thing. An interrogation began with me being forced to watch my approach to the first hole on repeat for an hour (I chunked it into the Swilcan Burn). 

After consulting with a rules official and pouring over countless hours of footage, I admitted to multiple rules breaches. I broke rules 4.1b, 6.1b, 6.3b, 6.3c, 8.1a, 14.7b, and crucially, 1.3b. In short, in a single round, I falsely found my ball in the bush, teed off from outside the teeing area, improved my lie in the rough, replaced my ball closer to the hole on the green, and switched balls on the fairway to suit the shot’s needs. In fact, I did each of these multiple times, all while carrying fifteen clubs in my bag. It was enough to secure a 2&1 victory for Team Cheat against our clueless opponent. 

By the end of the round, I had incurred seven general penalties, and six penalties totalling twenty penalty strokes. My tidy 77 (+5) had suddenly become 97 (+25); devastating would be an understatement.

These penalties quickly became irrelevant when I was disqualified (three times) for my antics. 

My desperate attempt to escape the dungeon and flee via Granny Clark’s Wynd was halted by the two large goblin guards employed by the R&A. I have been stuck down here for over a week now with nothing but a signed copy of the Rules of Golf to entertain me. I still don’t know the difference between a ‘loose impediment’ and a ‘movable obstruction’ no matter how many times I read chapter twelve.

I am not the only one down here. Across the corridor is Patrick Reed. To my left is Wyndham Clark and to my right Greg Norman. Bryson DeChambeau is currently in the oubliette. Someone else has just been marched in too. To my shock, it looks like Rory McIlroy, fresh from Abu Dhabi, but it can’t be, can it? We giants of the game are all guilty of tarnishing its global image.

I write this with the aid of candlelight and a one-iron pressed against my throat by a guard. I expect I may never see the light of day again. I pray to the golf gods to forgive me, but I fear they will not listen. 

For those still lucky enough to roam the hallowed turf above, make sure to play it as it lies. Lest ye want to make your bed betwixt Patrick and me in this damp pit.

Illustration by Kyla Biesty