By Michael Mattingly | May 24, 2026
New Orleans, French Quarter…
You try to do the impossible—take in a place like this in a three-day whirlwind. Jackson Square, Bourbon Street, the slow drift in and out of bars. A city shaped as much by Super Bowls as by storms.
You tell yourself you’ll really understand it if you just keep moving.
At some point, you even try to squeeze in a round at Bayou Oaks—timing it between rain bands like that’s something you can actually control.
But the weather has its own plan. And before you know it you are soaked, trying to convince the ball not to slide off your club face on an approach shot, or putting through puddles on the green.
So you settle for a glass of bourbon and let the week replay itself.
And like everything else here, it comes at you in pieces.
By Tuesday morning, the golf world was still caught up in Aaron Rai’s run of one-putts—seven in a row, dropping with quiet certainty. Not loud, not dramatic. Just one after another, like he’d decided the hole was no longer part of the negotiation.
Just enough to make everyone wonder if the answer had been hiding in plain sight all along.
Two gloves.
Simple enough to believe—just like the flood of takes that followed.
That same morning, I found myself in a coffee shop surrounded by conference chatter. Pressed shirts. Lanyards. Conversations about AI and everything but golf.
Until she walked in.
Quarter-zip. Golf skirt. Easy to spot.
We made eye contact, nodded.
“Getting out today?” I asked.
She smiled. “Yeah—my mom, my sister, my daughter, and me.”
Four generations.
I asked who they were watching right now.
She laughed. “Depends who you ask. My daughter copies everything Nelly Korda does.”
And why not?
Korda isn’t just winning—she’s visible. Relatable. The kind of player kids don’t just watch, but imitate. The kind that hands a ball to a kid and turns a moment into something lasting.
She grabs her coffee and disappears as quickly as she arrived.
And that’s the part that sticks.
Not the leaderboard.
That moment.
Because if Tuesday feels like the morning after, then Saturday is the night before.
By then, the questions have changed.
Now it’s about pressure.
S.W. Kim had what we like to call control—a five-shot lead. The kind that feels comfortable. Predictable. Nearly decided.
But control is a dangerous word in golf. A lot like rain.
Three missed putts on the back nine don’t look like much on paper. But that’s all it takes. Not an explosion—just a slow leak. Something small going missing.
And players like Wyndham Clark and Scottie Scheffler don’t wait around.
That’s how fast it turns.
From curiosity to consequence.
From imitation to inevitability.
Sitting there with a bourbon, listening to the rain come and go outside, I found myself thinking about Byron Nelson—the namesake of the CJ Cup.
He said golf is only twenty percent mechanics.
The rest?
Philosophy. Humor. Tragedy. Romance.
Companionship. Camaraderie. Conversation.
You don’t really understand that quote until you stop thinking about scorecards.Think about your last great round.
Not your best score—your best day.
Who were you with? What do you actually remember?
It’s never just the number.
It’s the joke that carried across holes. The shot everyone saw. The conversation that showed up somewhere between the fairway and the green and mattered more than it should have.
Golf gives you something most things don’t anymore:
Time together.
Uninterrupted.
Walking. Talking. Competing—but also just being there.
That’s the heartbeat of it.
And when the professional game leans too hard into outcomes—wins, rankings, points—it can start to feel distant.
But then you get weeks like this.
A daughter copying Nelly’s swing.
A kid pulling on two gloves.
Four generations heading to the course with no agenda beyond being together.
That’s the game.
Not the broadcast.
Not the prize.
That.
And it all circles back, the same way the rain did that afternoon at Bayou Oaks.
Light at first. Easy to ignore. Something you think you can wait out or push through.
Until you realize it’s not stopping.
And neither is he.
Because Scottie Scheffler is there. He’s always there. Consistent. Relentless.
Sometimes it doesn’t even feel dramatic. Just steady, methodical…like rain falling through the round.
Until you’re soaked through and there’s no escaping it.
And so, in the immortal words of Vin Scully—pull up a chair.
Because Sunday isn’t about what’s already happened.
It’s about what’s still out there.
Whether S.W. Kim can steady himself and deliver a round worthy of winning…
or whether Scottie does what he does and lets it all come to him.
Either way—
It’s going to be a good one.
Enjoy your Sunday.
—MWM
