For our second installment of a Golf Feuds episode, we gathered as many stories as we could from the career of Seve Ballesteros and his numerous confrontations with American players during Ryder Cup matches, PGA and Euro tour officials, and various media members.

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1028: The Many Feuds of Seve Ballesteros

A second chop session in as many weeks! Randy and TC return for a robust agenda of topics: what we’re monitoring, some life updates, air travel and logistics talk and a few sports items as well.

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The No Laying Up collective chops it up with a wide variety of guests from all corners of the golf world, and more importantly, guests from the golf-adjacent world. 



TrapDraw Podcast

346: Chop Session

Randy, Cody, and TC catch up on all things LPGA and preview this week’s KPMG Women’s PGA Championship at the Fields Ranch East Course in Frisco, Texas. In part two of our preview (45:00), Randy and Cody chat with the course's architect, Gil Hanse, for his perspective on the challenges that the best players in women’s golf face this week.

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Randy, Cody and TC catch up on all things LPGA and preview this week’s KPMG Women’s PGA Championship at the Fields Ranch East Course in Frisco, Texas. In part two of our preview (45:00), Randy and Cody chat with the course's architect, Gil Hanse, for his perspective on the challenges that are facing the best players in women’s golf this week.

1026: KPMG Storylines + Gil Hanse

J.J. Spaun (-1) claims his first Major Championship at the 2025 United States Open, outlasting Big Bob MacIntyre (+1), who finishes second, and Viktor Hovland (+2) in third. Join us as we run down all of the week's events, talk about the highs and lows, what this win means for J.J., clear through news and notes, plus more. 

1025: J.J. Spaun wins the 2025 U.S. Open

This content first appeared in the June 2.0 edition of the No Laying Up newsletter. To be the first to receive content like this, sign up for our newsletter 

Our dads are irreplaceable playing partners, and the ones that gas us up — or the ones we gas up! The ones we share once-in-a-lifetime experiences with, including shots that belong on the SportsCenter top 10. So here's a thank you to the NLU dads in the form of six short essays — and a happy Father's Day to all the dads out there.

 The only golf trophy I’ve ever won is a bit of mystery to me. It goes back over 25 years to the annual Hyde Park Golf & Country Club Parent-Child Tournament. My Dad and I would play each year, mainly because it involved spending a nice Saturday with our friends, Dan MacConnell and his son, Scott. It was an 18-hole tournament, but neither my dad nor I were much in the way of golf. I think breaking 90 was a good day for my old man, while breaking 100 was a thrill for me back then. We’d played in this event several times over the years, never coming close to sniffing a trophy or expecting to. But 1999 was different. And to this day, I have no idea why. 

It was a terribly unmemorable day of golf for both of us. We completed our 18 holes, turned in our scorecard, and went to grab a bite to eat by the pool. When it came time for the little winner announcement and trophy ceremony, we were sitting back, wondering who had won, certain it wouldn’t be us. Again, we stunk at golf. So you can imagine our shock when “Chuck and Philip Landes” were called up to collect the winner’s plaque. 

Surely, there was a mistake. Had they added our scores wrong? Had we somehow messed up our card? We felt the need to make certain the Head Pro knew what he was doing here. He assured us he did. So, we sheepishly collected our hardware and enjoyed nice congratulations from our fellow competitors. 

I asked my dad recently if he remembers anything from the round that stands out, and he is at a perpetual loss. We both have no idea how we won. It was a handicapped event, so that is the overarching answer, but I guess we just picked the right holes to throw some bogeys and a couple pars on the card? I can assure you we weren’t that tuned in to where (or how many) pops we were getting. 

My dad and I still laugh about our win today. And while I’ve gotten a bit better at the game, I won’t come close to collecting any hardware. And my dad’s love/hate relationship with golf has slowly transformed into simply a hate relationship–I think he might play once or twice per year. So he’s unlikely to ever win anything again. But nobody can ever take the 1999 Hyde Park Parent Child Tournament championship from us. Those flags fly forever.

 I have played in countless scrambles throughout my golfing life. I am, generally, an excellent scramble partner. If you remove the pressure of having to count every stroke, I can masquerade as a shockingly good golfer, someone who swings from the heels with all the confidence (and body type) of a young Babe Ruth. Even into her 70s, my mom remains the best golfer in our family, an 11-time winner of the senior club championship back at her country club in Missoula. She drives it as straight as the Montana interstate, and she putts like an artist. We are a formidable duo in summer scrambles. 

Unfortunately, this does not leave my father with much to do when he joins us in these competitions. He does not hit the ball high, or far, or even particularly straight. He is a competent putter, so this is where he tries to make an impact. If we are going for a Par 5 in two, he is often reluctant to even take a rip at a ball, particularly if we already have one up by the green. “Why bother?” he says. “That is well beyond my capabilities at this point in my life.” 

There is a hole, however, at the Missoula Country Club that will forever feel like sacred ground to me, because of something that happened a decade ago. It is the 10th — short Par 5 with a formidable pond in front of the green. The details of that July day are still vivid in my mind. A decent drive left us 220 in. My mom laid up short, knowing her limits. I struck a long iron heavy, then watched it splash miserably into the pond. My dad grabbed his wedge, preparing to hit a second lay up. 

“What are you doing?” I asked, incredulous as ever. 

“I don’t have that shot,” he insisted. He wasn’t wrong. It had been years since he’d carried a ball 200 yards, much less with a 3-wood. But it seemed silly to me to surrender without consequence. 

“Maybe just one time, you do,” I said. “Another lay up doesn’t help us. Let’s give it a go.” 

He sighed and reluctantly yanked a wood from his bag. 

I have seen thousands of great golf shots throughout my life. I have seen Tiger Woods and Rory McIlroy hit towering, majestic, exquisite draws into the 15th green at the Masters, and I’ve seen Bryson DeChambeau and Jon Rahm hit balls that appeared to briefly flirt with the ozone layer. 

But none can compare — at least in my heart — to the 3 wood my father hit that day, the way it started low and climbed like an airplane, the way it reached its apex just as it arrived at the pond, and then landed softly on the bank beyond it, kicking forward and rolling out to 10 feet from the pin.

I don’t remember the specifics of our celebration, only that my family erupted like Bobby Thompson had just homered off Ralph Branca. My father closed his eyes and began to laugh. For a few seconds, his whole body shook. We whistled and we yelled, we thumped him on his back and across his broad shoulders, and I’m certain you could hear our howling all throughout the course as it ricocheted back and forth between the pines.

 One of my greatest golf memories with my dad was having him on the bag for the 2023 Pebble Beach Pro-Am. It was something neither of us could have ever pictured, and I would legitimately crack up every time I would look over and see him just casually chatting with Bill Murray. I'm not sure I would fully believe that any of this happened if it weren't for some of these photos. (

 Growing up, I remember my dad complaining about golfers. He managed our family's bar, and I think he just hated that the golfers all came in on Saturdays after their rounds and made it busy in the afternoon. He didn't complain about the game, though, and used to take us to the local mini golf/driving range/par 3/batting cage place for fun. I remember making a hole-in-one on that 1st hole of Waltzes' Golf Farm's chip & putt course ONE TIME (I had to have been 12 or 13 years old) and he kept calling me Nancy Lopez for the rest of the round. 

As I got older and started to play "real golf," he stopped working at the bar and started to play more often, too. He would tell me that he was going to beat me next time out because he "watched a lot of Golf Channel" and "had Tiger's swing down." He has not beaten me. He does not have Tiger's swing. He does love to have a cold PBR with me as we laugh and talk about the birdies we are gonna make on the next hole. And that's what it's all about.

 My dad is not good at golf, but what I appreciate about playing with him is that he still sincerely tries to improve. He wants to get better. He wants to go to the range ahead of the round. He wants Tron and I to give him tips. He wants to keep score. When he inevitably hits a snipey low left bullet or high spinny slice early in a round, he impulsively goes to his pocket to hit another one. It’s not that he wants to cheat or make his score look better. The impulse for a breakfast, brunch, lunch, and afternoon snack ball throughout the round comes from a genuine desire to improve. He wants to prove to himself that he can get better immediately. I love that. 

I feel like not caring or having apathy has become in vogue in today’s world. It’s easier not to care or not try. It’s safe to be apathetic. It would be a lot easier for my dad to choose not to keep score or ride in the cart as Tron and I play. But he doesn’t even consider it. He wants to play, and he wants to compete. He’s sincere in his effort, even if he looks bad or fails. It’s one of the things I admire most about my dad. He’s comfortable in his own skin and sincere in his intention. This is on display when he’s playing bad golf, and that’s why I love playing golf with him.

 I’ll be brutally honest: I HATE playing golf with my dad. He keeps score but takes at least one mulligan each hole (a brutal combo), possesses the most unreasonable expectations for each shot, is a great athlete but lacks any discernible patience on the course. He's allergic to discipline, tempo, course management, or remembering a swing thought. And at least once a round says “I hate this f*cking game!” I’ve probably played over a hundred rounds with my dad and I don’t think he’s ever been able to sign for an honest score. But he’s not trying to — that’s not why he’s out there. His swing is simultaneously way too long and way too fast, leading to staggering inconsistency. And through it all, he somehow putts well enough to keep drawing him back, and has gotten more into walking in his later years. And if you ever need a “D” player in a scramble, he is your guy - always good for a couple of 250-yard drives right down the middle, some squared-up mid-irons, and he’ll always be prone to rolling in a few 10-15 footers or lag-putting his face off. 

 It’s the one sport he really locks in on being a spectator. Some of my most indelible memories are sitting on the couch on a Sunday, the whole family transfixed with what was going on. The Masters was on dawn until dusk. Yelling at the TV at the top of our lungs during Van de Velde at Carnoustie was a core memory. Rooting against Sergio and Jeff Maggert when they popped up on a leaderboard. Making jokes like “Cink sunk” when he made a bogey. And getting weirdly into all the week-to-week garden variety PGA Tour events on CBS during the summer, even when Tiger wasn’t in the field. We watched a lot of golf. It was the cornerstone of our Saturday and Sunday afternoons (sometimes later that night on “TiVo”) and, while it wasn’t apparent at the time, it laid the groundwork for what Neil and I now do for a living. 

So here’s to you, Franchise. You may not be wired for playing golf, but you taught me how to forge my own relationship with the game, appreciate greatness, and passed along your love of the Masters, specifically. You love the game in your own way.

Dear Dad

Rickie, Rory, Wyndham, and Scottie separate from the field at LACC, as we recap a furious finish to a very fun day of golf. We talk about what a win would mean for each person, how things unfolded on Saturday, Hamsterdam, veneers, what we expect out of Sunday, and a lot more.

698 - Saturday U.S. Open Recap

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