By Michael Mattingly | Aug 16, 2026
By this afternoon, Memphis is supposed to hit 100 degrees.
That seems about right.
There is already plenty of pressure at TPC Southwind.
Scottie Scheffler has spent the week doing what Scottie Scheffler does—making professional golf look considerably easier than it has any right to look. He heads into Sunday with the lead, trying to turn another week of good golf into another trophy.
Rory McIlroy has had a very different week.
He’s been missing to the right.
And if you’ve played enough golf, you know the look.
It isn’t necessarily anger. It isn’t even disappointment.
It’s the look you get when the golf ball does something you absolutely, positively did not tell it to do.
You stand there for a second and wonder what the hell just happened.
I’ve been thinking about pressure lately.
Pressure comes in different shapes and sizes. It has a funny way of becoming relative.
For some people, it’s a golf tournament.
For others, it’s a job, office politics. Swimming in corporate America. A career. The expectation that you are supposed to be good at it and maybe even supposed to enjoy it.
I’ve spent enough time in corporate America to know that pressure doesn’t always arrive dramatically.
Sometimes it’s just another meeting.
Another email.
Another vague conversation about the future.
Another reminder that everything is changing and you’d better change with it.
Artificial intelligence has only added another layer to that particular stew. Depending on who’s talking, AI is either going to save us, replace us, make us wildly productive, destroy civilization, or somehow do all five before lunch.
It’s a lot.
And eventually, all that noise has to go somewhere.
That’s the part I’ve been thinking about.
Pressure rarely stays where you put it.
A bad day can follow you home and onto the course.
An argument can follow you on and off the golf course.
And then, standing on a tee box, you discover that your golf swing has somehow become responsible for every other problem in your life.
Which is absurd, of course.
The golf ball doesn’t know any of that.
It just sits there.
And waits.
That’s probably why golf can be such a wonderful laboratory for pressure.
You can actually see it.
A grip gets tighter.
A backswing gets shorter.
The transition gets quicker.
The player starts steering instead of swinging.
And then one bad shot becomes two.
Two become three.
Pretty soon you’re pissed off at the golf course, your swing, the weather, the guy who designed the fifth hole, and possibly the inventor of golf himself.
We’ve all been there.
And here’s the thing:
Being frustrated is not the problem.
We care.
That’s why we’re frustrated.
If you didn’t care whether you hit a good shot, golf wouldn’t be much fun.
The problem is what happens next.
Do you let the bad shot become the next shot?
Do you let a bad hole become the round?
Do you let a lousy round become a lousy afternoon?
Or, better yet, can you find a way to reset?
That’s easier said than done.
But maybe the reset doesn’t have to be complicated.
Hit the ball.
Say whatever needs to be said—preferably not within earshot of someone’s children.
Take a breath.
Figure out what actually happened.
Then let the damn thing go.
Because the next shot deserves a clean slate.
And so does the person sitting beside you in the cart.
That’s the part we sometimes forget.
We’re not playing the PGA Tour.
We’re playing golf.
We aren’t supposed to leave the 18th green emotionally exhausted because we shot four strokes higher than we wanted.
We’re supposed to enjoy four hours outside.
We’re supposed to laugh.
We’re supposed to give each other shit.
We’re supposed to tell the same stories we’ve told ten times before.
We’re supposed to celebrate the one ridiculous birdie that makes no mathematical sense compared with the other seventeen holes.
We’re supposed to enjoy the company.
And if we’re lucky, we’re doing all of that with people we love.
Maybe the goal isn’t to stop getting frustrated. Maybe that’s impossible.
Maybe the goal is to contain the frustration.
Let it have its moment.
Then leave it there.
Don’t let one shot steal the next shot.
Don’t let one hole steal the afternoon.
Because the guy riding in the cart beside you probably isn’t going to remember whether you made a five or a six on the 12th hole.
Your wife probably isn’t going to remember whether you hit the seven-iron fat.
Your friends aren’t going to care that you three-putted the ninth.
They’ll remember whether you laughed or whether you were fun to be around.
Whether you enjoyed the day with them.
That seems worth remembering the next time I hit one 30 yards right.
And I’m sure I will.
Because golf is still golf.
Scottie Scheffler will hit a bad shot Sunday.
Rory McIlroy will probably hit another one to the right.
And the pressure will only get turned up next week as the top 50 coming out of today’s finale head north to St. Louis, where the challenge of Bellerive awaits.
The heat will be brutal in Memphis today, and I’m sure it will be plenty warm in St. Louis next week. I know because my wife and I play in it every week.
The pressure will be real.
The golf will be spectacular.
And somewhere between the first tee and the 18th green, hopefully we’ll all remember why we came.
Not to prove anything.
Not to be perfect.
Not even necessarily to shoot our best score.
We came to play.
And, if we’re lucky, to spend four hours with people we love.
Don’t let a bad shot—or a bad day—take that from you.
Enjoy your Sunday.
— MWM
Michael Mattingly is a freelance journalist from Smithton, Illinois, with a background in advanced mathematics and creative writing. He is a student of the game of golf, drawn to its pressure, rhythm, and unpredictability.
He is also an avid St. Louis Cardinals fan and a loyal Chicago Bears supporter.
