Iggy the Influencer

Iggy Dubya wanted to be a golf influencer. It was a new fixation, arrived at through the explosion of young men finding YouTube fame on swanky American courses. Twenty-three and in need of a purpose, Ignatius McWilliam was a multi-sport talent whose skills exceeded his appearance. And with no interest in working a conventional job, having recently failed in cell phone sales, Iggy wanted a piece of the action. 

The story which follows documents his first attempt at creating a social media audience. Iggy had enlisted me, at best an associate, to serve as his cameraman. What was the video format? Stroke play versus a local hockey celebrity. Everything seemed straightforward until it wasn’t. This is what I told the police at the end of that day. 

***

We were going to film on a Wednesday in the second week of May. Iggy didn’t want to shoot on a Saturday because he thought a slow pace would upset the video’s rhythm (not realizing this could have been taken care of in editing). He’d laid out these concerns during a boozy approach at a Hintonburg sports bar. Surrounded by hockey friends and those entranced by their stories, Iggy waved me over with a smile I wasn’t used to. There was intention behind his goodwill. Iggy was getting into the golf game as there were “no popular Canadian influencers in the space.” He was set to become our first. 

We had never been friends. Graduates of the same high school class, Iggy paid me little attention during our four years together. Once at a grade twelve party – one of those where I was forced to stand on the periphery of whichever group had assembled to hear him speak – he pushed me after mistakenly thinking I wanted a girl he dated. Now, five or so years later, I suspected his offer came because he noticed the music video mash-ups I made for Instagram. 

It was an opportune time. I had just graduated with a diploma in film production, and with a loathing of office work and no immediate prospects in a field I was desperate to join, I had both the time and motivation to accept. There was no turning down the money, either: Iggy promised two hundred dollars in addition to my food and gas. We had to take my car because his license was suspended.

I picked him up at six thirty that morning. It was so early because we had a two and a half hour drive to Belleville. Why there? Iggy didn’t want to begin his YouTube career at a forgettable local course, so he made a booking at Deer Park Ridge, supposedly among the best public tracks in Eastern Ontario. 

When I parked my sedan in front of the Hintonburg townhouse he was temporarily living in, it was clear Iggy wasn’t ready. I waited for five minutes before texting him. At once, a light turned on downstairs. He appeared at the door two minutes later, dressed in what was obviously a new golf outfit, all whites and powder blues, his pointed mouth turned upwards in a toothless smile. Iggy held up a finger to indicate one minute. I got out and opened the trunk for his golf bag. 

When Iggy finally returned, he had a coffee mug in one hand, his golf bag in another, and a smaller satchel slung over his shoulder, which presumably included whatever else he needed to glow on camera. 

“How are ya lad?” he asked, slapping my shoulder. “Sorry for the wait.” Iggy sat down in the front, struggling to adjust his seat. For someone of modest renown, he didn’t look like an athlete. Like me, he was short and lacked muscularity, with wispy hair that fell out of a boutique golf cap. But Iggy had skills that I could never understand, like the deceptive timing and spatial sense which separates goal scorers from those who fill their water bottles, as well as a natural feel for whatever tool his chosen sport required. Iggy was also a competitor, with the temper to return instant vengeance whenever his honour was crossed. I’d once seen him pitchfork a much larger player in a junior hockey game. Iggy turtled when he was jumped by the other team’s tough guy, and then – still in a referee’s headlock – made a show of attempting to enter the other team’s bench while being carried by on his way to the penalty box. 

We pulled onto Wellington, turned left on Parkdale and then right on the Queensway. Iggy looked back at the video equipment stored in my back seat.  

“Going to be a good day, bro,” he said, tapping my shoulder. “A real good day.” So early in the morning, his optimism was boundless. 

I had no idea what Iggy’s vision was. Nor did I ask. There was no illusion that he wanted friendship. Rather, he needed my help solely because I knew how to hold a camera and had aspirations to start making original videos. So here we were, two people with no respectable personal history, working together to make him a star in a different sport. I played some light music and we passed most of the early drive in silence. 

At Brockville, Iggy reached into the small bag between his feet and pulled out a notepad. He started mouthing whatever was written on its pages. It seemed like he was practicing an introduction.

“What are you doing, Ig?”

“Just getting prepared, big dog,” he answered, not looking in my direction. “If things go well for both of us today, this could be an ongoing thing.” Visions of a lifelong escape from office work appeared in my head. Iggy then reached for a pack of cigarettes, and without asking whether this was allowed in my car, he pulled out a dart and started smoking. The windows were down. I looked at him. 

“Sorry man, sorry,” he said, throwing it out the window. In my rearview mirror I could see the cigarette’s red spark rebound off the highway. Iggy put the pack inside his bag and returned with a tin of snus. He placed one in his upper lip and offered me a pouch. 

“Get this into ya, guy, good for the neurons.” The nicotine burned my gums as I reached for a half-finished coffee cup to spit in. 

“So what are we doing today?” I asked. “How’s this going to shape up?” 

“I want to hit the range for a bit,” he answered, looking out the window. “We’ll do some filming there, a quick intro on the first tee and then we’ll get right into things. Stapes should be there just before tee off – he had some shit going on this morning.” 

His opponent, Chris Stapleton, was a hockey player from Brighton that Iggy played with on one of his six junior teams. Stapleton had even spent some time in the NHL, appearing in twenty games with the Panthers and fifteen more for the Coyotes. Supposedly a fine golfer and chosen for the minor celebrity Iggy would leverage to launch his channel, Stapleton's small moment in pro hockey was made possible because he could hit and fight. I heard he had a temper. 

When we arrived at the course, driving up the winding road that led to its clubhouse, Iggy suggested that I film his trunk removal. He stayed in the front seat as I prepared my camera by the passenger side door. Now in character, Iggy opened it and smiled as he stumbled to recite a memorized introduction, mashing syllables like a drunk placing his post-bar food order. 

“For fucks sake,” he said, demanding that I delete the footage. Iggy got back in the car and closed the door, swirling his index finger to let me know it was time to start over. He got out of the car again. 

“What’s up everybody? I’m Iggy Dubya and I’m delighted to welcome you to my YouTube channel…” What followed was a boilerplate recitation of the wonders his channel would contain – novel competitions at the best courses with fun playing partners and endless adventure. Iggy walked to the trunk where I filmed him removing his clubs. Only five foot nine, with small legs for a hockey player and a thin upper body, he leaned over to lift up his golf bag. 

“We’re going to have some fun today!” he said, his voice rising. I worried that he would wink at the camera, but instead Iggy walked to the clubhouse for check-in. I wasn’t sure if he wanted me to continue filming, but I did anyway. It seemed unwise to turn the camera off. 

“Stay here for a moment, bud,” he said. I wasn’t sure why, until it occurred to me that Iggy had perhaps not been granted permission to film on the golf course. I could do nothing but stay outside of the pro shop, loitering under a cloudless sky. An older, weathered man in a Deer Park golf shirt, whom I assumed was a marshall, walked by me on his way inside. He stared at my filming equipment. Soon Iggy came out and pointed to a power cart. 

“Do they know we’re filming, Ig?”

“Don’t matter,” he said, grinning with good-natured zeal. “Let’s hit the range.” We climbed into the cart and Iggy asked whether the camera was still on. As we drove past the first tee and down to the range, he began a friendly monologue on the importance of a good warmup, given the quality of his opposition today. “Guys, you know how important it is to get loose after a long drive…”

There were three other golfers at the range. I felt some initial embarrassment, standing in place to document Iggy’s practice swings. Every few moments he would turn and say something to the camera, accenting a good iron with “just sent that one.” Otherwise, Iggy would criticize his few errant drives. He was an excellent golfer, with a well-honed, compact iron swing and a more expansive, upward turn on the driver, which he could draw or fade, creating a noticeable pop when his club face swung up to make contact. With his irons, Iggy kept his hands close during the takeaway, coming down on the ball to where a similar divot followed each strike. He worked through his mid-range irons before returning to the driver. I looked at my watch. Our tee time was in fifteen minutes.

“Where’s your boy?” I asked. Iggy looked at his phone. Chris was in the parking lot, he said. We got back into the cart and drove up to the first tee. Though we’d only been at the range for twenty minutes, the lot seemed almost full now. There were two dozen young guys milling around by the halfway house, participants in what must have been a small tournament. I could see several of them stare at my video equipment. Some were elbowing one another, probably to insult us. 

“You got an audience now, Ig,” I said. This wasn’t what he planned but Iggy’s posture grew taller at the idea.  

Cutting through the crowd in a power cart was a golfer of a superior genetic lineage. Dark-haired, with a full jaw emerging underneath the low brim of his ball-cap, this had to be Chris Stapleton. Even from my distance I could see a vein emerging from the right bicep extended over his steering wheel. The other players noticed him and stood back in silence. 

Chris pulled up beside the tee deck (they were playing from the black tees, and so from the furthest distance). Iggy and he embraced. Dressed in a tight black and white golf outfit, Chris was tall and had a hockey player’s lower half. Without giving him my name, Iggy introduced me as the cameraman. He smiled and shook my hand, looking directly into my eyes. Behind Chris, I could see the tournament goers watching. The starter came over and asked what I was doing here. 

“He’s just filming today,” Iggy said, showing the old Scotsman his best smile. “Ain’t playing.”

“Did you speak to the lads inside about that?” 

“Oh…yeah, I did, and it’s all good. We’re only two so it’ll be fast.”

“They may not like it,” he said, with utterly no frame of reference for what we were doing today. Iggy reassured him that everything was above board and I could see him reach into his pocket, readying a bribe. “I don’t think we allow this sort of thing here,” the starter went on, shaking his head. Iggy, who despised being told no, was becoming frustrated. We had driven too far not to film and I wanted this to work. Not willing to let the video die before it got started, I intervened. 

“Sir, one of the main reasons we’re filming is to bring awareness to a charity the YouTube channel is affiliated with. We’re going to play clean, fast and we’re going to really talk up Deer Park. That’s why we drove all the way from Ottawa. We’ll be quick. I promise.” I could see Iggy smiling through his eyes. The starter shrugged as Chris looked on, perplexed. 

“Fair enough, away lads,” he consented. 

Chris prepared to tee his ball. “Hold up Stapes, we gotta do the intro,” Iggy said. He motioned for Chris to stand beside him and I squared up to film, my neck burning as the tournament players watched from behind. Iggy began his speech, mimicking the same intro that started every YouTube golf video, where prior to the first hole a channel owner gives an enthusiastic hello to his fans, introduces the person he’s playing against, presents a novel concept for the round that no one’s ever seen before (and couldn’t possibly believe), and salutes the course. Chris looked uncomfortable, glancing from Iggy, to me, and the tournament goers he knew were judging us. 

“Let’s go!” Iggy said at the end of the video, in a fine pantomime of the happy Americans who served as his template. This would be simple stroke play, and Iggy made a show of flipping his tee to see who would take the first shot. It landed in his direction and Iggy stepped up to the box, which looked down on a par four where a small creek cut across the hole’s final third. Iggy ripped a drive down the right, just into the side rough. 

“Gosh dang it,” he said, smiling into my lens. I’d never heard Iggy use this sort of language. The summer before, he had been expelled from an Ottawa hockey league for his rancid speech towards one of its referees. Next it was Chris’ turn. He hit a bomb down the fairway’s middle, his ball stopping ten yards before the creek. 

“Great shot Stapey!” Iggy said as we walked back to the cart. It was my job to capture every swing, but also their set up and the reaction afterward. This would require me to criss-cross the course on foot all round. Iggy had communicated this plan to Chris, who was busy packing his lip with a pinch of dip. I didn’t know how this would go over with Iggy – a lifelong, indiscriminate polluter of his small body – who wanted to present a cleaner version of himself on video. 

After taking his cart down to the fairway, we found Iggy’s ball, perched in a decent lie just inside the second cut. Iggy took out his scope, found the yardage and then explained his intention: “a soft seven iron from a hundred and eighty yards.” He executed his vision and found the green’s middle.  

I then jogged over to where Chris was waiting. A few hundred yards back, a new group was standing on the first tee. 

“What do you see here?” I asked.

“Is Iggy Dubs gonna to play an honest game today?” he asked, not answering my question. “I guess you got the camera to keep him straight.” I giggled at his suggestion. A year ago, Iggy was removed from a club championship in Ottawa because of corroborated allegations that he illegally dropped a lost ball. 

“I hope so. So what's the plan?” Chris promised to leave a light pitch just short, not wanting to hit the green’s upper tier where he would have to putt downhill (the flag today was on the bottom right). After his short set up, Chris landed the ball seven feet left of the pin. Not being able to hit consecutive irons without shanking, I always marvelled at the ease with which players did this. For these two, firm contact was the expectation. This explained why they were on camera and I was behind it. 

With that, Iggy Dubya’s march towards social media fame had started. 

****

Deer Park Ridge was beautiful. Its velvet fairways were tightly cut, the rough was thick but manageable and each green had subtleties that turned putts into guesswork. The first few holes cut their way through a wooded area, where Iggy and Chris drove the ball from tee boxes whose narrow shoots opened to the course’s fairways. On the third hole, they were tied at one over. Each was swinging with confidence. 

On the next hole – a difficult four hundred and twenty yard par four with an elevated green, shielded by bunkers – Iggy made his first bad drive, firing the ball into a wooded area on its right side. Chris took a more conservative approach, fading his driver to about two hundred and ninety yards, his ball arcing into the fairway’s centre. Not usually one for easy off-camera compliments, Iggy gushed.

“I didn’t want a pushover for our first video, guys!” he said into my lens. 

We drove the cart over to where Iggy’s ball disappeared. It had settled into the wrangled fold of a tree trunk. He would have no choice but to punch the ball diagonally into the fairway, and Iggy gave a short, cheerful explanation of why he had no other option (“this was golf, after all, it happens”), whereupon he smacked a seven iron twenty yards to his left. His ball was still south of where Chris’ tee shot landed, so I now had to record Iggy’s third. According to his scope, Iggy was one hundred and sixty yards out but hitting into an elevated green. He would have to club up, and Iggy launched a seven iron that rebounded off the backstop and then down towards the pin. We couldn’t see where his ball stopped. Iggy turned to my camera, euphoric. 

“Having fun?” he asked. “We got a good thing going here!” 

I was having fun and thought about the prospect of more work as I ran over to where Chris was preparing to shoot. He was standing upright, his face stoic and perhaps annoyed by the round’s rhythm. I looked at my phone. While we were moving faster than a regular foursome, this was offset by the imperative to always wait until my camera arrived before swinging. 

“Those little pins are moving, bud,” Chris said, alluding to my slim calves. He explained that an eight iron would be enough, and then hammered a high, long shot that appeared to land on the green’s collar. Chris was probably fifteen feet from the hole. He turned with a question. 

“Iggy actually find his ball in there?” I confirmed that he did, hopping into his cart. We drove up to the green together. 

“How’d he rope you into this thing?” I explained that I had just graduated and was looking to build my resume. 

“Fucking right, dude,” he answered. 

“So you guys go back a way, eh?” I asked. 

“To junior. Love Dubya but he’s one of the sneakiest guys I ever played with. He’d kick your achilles to score.” Chris laughed. I wondered if this was an actual memory. 

On the green, Iggy had a nine foot par putt. Since Chris was further away, he would go first. The former NHLer lined up his ball, explaining that he liked the cup’s right side. But Chris underestimated the degree to which its slope would take his ball left. A faint swerve pushed his fast-moving putt south of the hole by six feet. He grimaced. Iggy’s empathy was performative. 

“Ahhhh,” Iggy said, crouching down to evaluate his roll for a final time, “you deserved better Stapey!” Iggy correctly guessed that his putt would break to the right and found the cup’s centre, pumping his fist. Chris congratulated Iggy’s scambly par and then missed his own uphill putt, swearing at the sky. After four holes Iggy had a one shot lead. Chris apologized to me for his language. 

The following three holes were tightly played. We wound through a par three they tied, a four where Iggy’s birdie provided him a two-shot lead, and then a dogleg five where Chris capitalized on his length, reaching the green in two with a monstrous drive and a fading, follow-up three wood. He two-putted for birdie while Iggy made par, cutting his lead to one. This gave Chris the tee deck.

The eighth hole was a short par four that yielded great reward if one could brave the risk. It was a dogleg right where long hitters could reach the green by carrying the ball about two-hundred and seventy yards over a marsh. Emboldened by the previous hole, Chris succumbed to the lure of YouTube showmanship. 

“I didn’t come here to lay up,” Chris said, grinning as he approached the tee deck. It was his first bad drive of the morning. Chris sliced his ball to the right where it disappeared into the marsh. More aware of the camera now, he stayed composed. Iggy offered some muted words of solace as he approached the tee deck with a four iron. Ignoring Chris’ light insults, he would play the hole conservatively and lined up down the fairway’s left side. It wasn’t a good strike, as Iggy’s shot – about two hundred and fifteen yards – pulled towards a tree cluster. We couldn’t see where his ball stopped, but it was possible Iggy wouldn’t have a clear look at the green. 

“Oh, nooooo guys,” he said. 

Chris would have to drop where his drive entered the water. As I prepared for his second shot, Iggy drove off in search of his ball. Chris watched him go before turning towards the drop area. He pulled a hybrid out of his bag, lined up slowly and then made impressive contact, flying his ball over the water to where it landed just left of the green. He would have to get up-and-down from the second cut to make bogey. 

We both looked to where Iggy’s cart was positioned. He was beyond the tree cluster, sizing up what looked like a clear shot at the green. 

“There’s no way he has that line,” Chris said, his reaction a mixture of mirth and anger. “Fucking guy landed right in the middle of that shit, and now he’s hitting two.” I got in his cart and we drove over to where Iggy was waiting. Chris launched another salvo.

“Favourable lie, Iggy boy,” he said.

“The ball just shot through the trees!” 

“Didn’t get any help, did it?” Iggy shook his head. 

“Just a good guy getting a good bounce!” Chris chortled. Iggy pulled out a 52 degree wedge and hit his ball within eight feet. Chris gave a joyless congratulations. 

We drove up to the green. Behind us, I could hear players from the tournament drunkenly whooping it up on the seventh hole. I stood off to the side and went back through my camera footage to see where Iggy’s ball had landed. The trajectory of his shot didn’t support the result, since his ball hit the ground just before landing in the brush, and without the momentum needed to stop where Iggy ultimately hit from. I wasn’t going to say anything so deep into the round, but our star was perhaps regressing into past habits. 

From the second cut, Chris chipped his ball to within five feet. He was going to have a difficult bogey putt, as there was a falling slope steep enough to pull his ball off the green. Meanwhile, Iggy putted to within two and a half feet, immediately cleaning up for par so that Chris could read his next putt. Aware of the danger, Chris left his roll short so as not to tempt the edge – so short, in fact, that it stopped eight inches before the hole. Chris’s double-bogey placed him two shots behind Iggy through the first eight holes. Obviously rattled (and now less conversant on camera), Chris made bogey on the following par three to end his front nine. For his part, Iggy made par. At one over for the round, Iggy was three shots up for the match. 

At the turn we each got a sausage and I was instructed to keep the camera rolling while Iggy ordered for the group. Outside, I could see Chris talking to some of the local guys he knew, pointing to Iggy with a droll smile on his face.

Iggy came out with the food, handing a sausage and Gatorade to Chris (there would be no drinking today, Iggy had decreed before the round, and probably for the first time in his life). We drove around the clubhouse towards the tenth hole – a beautiful downhill par four with the second highest tee deck on the course. There didn’t appear to be anyone in front of us, and after inventorying their front nine for the camera, which Iggy described as “incredibly close in spots,” he stepped up and hit a drive down the right side, leaving him an easy second shot into the green. Chris pushed his drive right of where Iggy landed and into the forest.

I could see Chris’ mood darken. Unpracticed in YouTube influencing, he seemed forgetful of the camera again and his language had deteriorated. “Damns” had become “fucks,” and there would be a fair amount of editing if this was to rise to the wholesome standard Iggy demanded. I rode with Chris down to his ball. He turned to me.

“Seriously, be real dude, that little shit didn’t drop in secret? He’s done it before. I don’t care, it’s all in fun, I’m just wondering.” 

Though it lacked menace, Chris’ stare was intimidating. I could feel myself getting smaller in the seconds between his question and my answer. But it’s not like I could have confirmed his suspicion. If I did, everything would be over.

“No man, it’s all good, he’s on the level,” I answered, feeling like an idiot for lying.  

We had to film Chris’ second shot first. Surrounded by trees and without a clear path to the green, Chris knocked his ball back into the fairway. Next, Iggy hit a pitching wedge just beyond the flag, giving him an opportunity to go four up and place the match beyond reach. This would be good for his score but bad for the video. To sustain viewership, an influencer needed things to stay tight. 

On his third shot, Chris hit a nine iron to about twenty feet. When they arrived at the green, he would putt first as Iggy was still slightly inside. While Chris’ line was straightforward, the putt was long enough to create problems. If he missed, the match would likely be over since four shots was a near insurmountable deficit, and because Iggy would surely finish the tenth hole with par. A proud athlete with a now-legitimate disdain for the person he was competing against, Chris made a lovely putt – the sort of true roll that seemed in from the moment it left his putter. Iggy laughed and congratulated him, aware that it would be a great moment for his video. On his own putt, Iggy missed the cup by four inches and had a tap-in par to remain one over. Chris had just salvaged the match, and I hoped this success would carry onto the following hole, the hardest at Deer Park.  

The par five eleventh was among the most challenging I’d seen in person. It was nearly six hundred and ninety yards from the back tees, veering right around a huge marsh. Even for the longest hitters it wasn’t reachable in two. The appropriate choice was to lay up from the fairway, since its green was protected by bunkers on the right and left sides, with more water at its back edge. 

Iggy still had the tee box and pulled his ball to the left. It landed in the second cut and would force a conservative second shot. Chris then walloped a long, straight drive that stopped rolling close to the tree on the fairway’s right, thirty yards south of where the dogleg started. Still content with his lead, Iggy praised Chris’ consistent driving. I hopped in Iggy’s cart and asked what his strategy would be. 

“We’ll see where we’re at here,” Iggy said. “Not an ideal place to land but I still have a lot of fairway to work with. I’ll definitely have to lay up and just hope I get enough to have a wedge in.” Iggy’s teeth bared when he smiled.  

His ball had settled into some gnarled grass. Iggy considered the shot for a moment, thinking through an optimal landing zone before hitting a hybrid about two hundred and forty yards. His ball sliced to the right, coming close to the water’s edge where it landed again in the second cut. Iggy dropped me off where Chris was preparing to shoot, in deep consideration of his own strategy. Though my camera was on Chris, I was still looking at Iggy, now standing over his own ball. With a subtle flick of his wrist, I thought he may have just fluffed his lie. 

Chris didn’t think it smart to hit a fairway wood and instead chose a four iron, hopeful for two hundred and twenty five yards. His shot drew to the fairway’s left edge. The former tough guy turned and smiled at the camera. He seemed happy for the first time this morning. 

I jumped in Chris’ cart. While I didn’t want Iggy to get away with cheating, there wasn’t enough evidence to accuse him with. We drove up in silence to where he was waiting. I got out with my camera and Iggy began a monologue about how sometimes you “just get lucky” in golf. He had a nine iron and would try and land his ball several feet below the hole. But Iggy didn’t succeed, his ball landing on the green’s back ridge with about twenty-five feet for birdie. 

I then jogged over to where Chris was standing. After talking through his plan, he flopped a beautiful lob wedge to within nine feet. Chris’ posture had a new confidence. 

“I’m coming for this clown,” he said to me. 

On the green, Iggy botched his birdie putt, misreading the slope to where his ball stopped fifteen feet below the hole. Now he would have a tricky look for par. Meanwhile, Chris dripped in his birdie, accenting the falling putt with a roar. Iggy managed a congratulations as he lined up his own roll. Once more, he missed. They were now within a shot of each other. 

After an impressive monologue where Iggy recounted the round’s increasingly serious stakes, both players bogeyed the next hole – a thin, difficult par four lined by water. Chris three-putted while Iggy shanked his second shot, reached the green in three and then two-putted for a five. Next, they both parred one of Deer Park’s easier holes (a short three with more water on the left), and then each bogeyed the long, following par four, which had an elevated green protected by a deep bunker. There were three holes left and Iggy was still ahead by one, but his lead no longer felt firm. Chris was sharking forward. I hoped the camera would capture this. 

Fifteen was a downhill par three, with water on the right and a wooded area on its left. They would both hit midrange irons and try to float the ball down. It wasn’t a bad play to miss the green short as its pin was closer to the front. Chris still had the tee box and hit a fine iron that landed twelve feet left of the hole. While his putt wouldn’t be easy, at least it wasn’t far. 

Iggy stepped up next and hit a looping shot just over the green. It disappeared over the back and with enough speed that, so close to the water, we couldn’t tell if it would be playable. 

“Oh fuck,” Iggy said, oblivious to his commitment for clean language. Chris laughed while, seeming to forget me, Iggy jumped into his cart and drove down the path, stopping greenside. Chris waited for me as I climbed in beside him. 

“That fucker’s going to pull his ball out of the swamp before we get down there,” he said, half-joking. I placed the camera on Iggy as we drove. He was looking for his ball in the second cut, stopping in a spot where it would be nearly impossible to get up and down. Chris stopped his cart and I got out. 

“You find it, Ig?” I asked, my camera trained on him. 

“Yep,” he said, pointing downwards. “The lie’s pretty bad so I’m going to have to get under this.” Iggy positioned himself where his back foot was close to the marsh. He tried to flop his ball but the rough was too thick, his Pro V1 duffing onto the green’s backside several feet away, leaving Iggy with a long par attempt. He sighed, shaking his head while I checked my watch. We were slowing down. A group had appeared on the tee deck. They looked impaired. 

Iggy began lining up his putt. He rolled the ball to within twelve feet and would have a troublesome bogey attempt. Chris then put his ball to within three inches for a tap-in three. Still at a considerable distance, Iggy missed his long roll and the match was tied. He looked skyward in aggravation, and gave the camera nothing.  

Behind us, I thought someone might have said something about us filming. Chris also noticed it and looked up to where they were standing. It was an unimposing group, each player either soft or knock-kneed, but now drunk and reckless enough to cause a problem. Chris didn’t respond and instead got back into his cart. 

I climbed in beside Iggy and asked him to reflect on the round, now with three holes left. I could see his mood had soured, though he wasn’t going to show it. 

“That’s just golf!” he said, forcing a smile. “I knew it wouldn’t be easy competing against a great player like Stapes. Three holes to go, this is going to be exciting!” Despite the flat content of his speech, Iggy smiled and shook his head, like some wondrous extra in a music video. I didn’t know whether to laugh or wince as we drove to the sixteenth hole, an uphill par four – one that climbed towards the clubhouse with trees on both sides, its green defended by a deep bunker. Still first on the tee deck, Chris drew his drive left, where he would have a mid-range iron into the green. Iggy didn’t look as confident, twice switching his club from driver to three wood and then back. He sliced his ball into the forest and swore. I jumped into his cart to document the next shot.

“Don’t you want to shoot Chris first?” he asked.

“Why? He’s in the fairway. We’ll do you and then I’ll run to his ball.” Iggy nodded, his body language grim. He got out of the cart and walked to where his ball entered the forest. Searching in between the trees, Iggy was taking his time. I could hear a thrum from the tee we just vacated. The group behind us had arrived. 

“What do you see, here, Ig, gotta drop one?” 

“Not yet,” he answered, “still looking.” I could see Chris through the trees, watching us. The guys behind us started to yell.

“Let’s go lads,” one of them drunkenly yelled. Iggy looked back and told them shut the fuck up, though not loud enough for anyone to hear.  

“What are you going to do?” I asked. 

“One sec!” he answered, frustrated for the first time. With steel in his eyes, Iggy looked up towards the green and then pulled another ball out of his pocket. He exited the forest and dropped where his drive went in. A seven iron landed in the front bunker. Iggy received a sarcastic cheer from the group behind us. He turned around to address them. 

“Shut your fucking mouths!” he screamed. They stopped and stared. One of the guys responded with something incoherent. I thought for a moment they would deliberately hit into us. It was probably Chris’ presence that toned down their hostility. 

“Alright guys, let’s finish this up,” I said. Chris was still looking in their direction. He turned around and flew his ball just over the green. We couldn’t see where it landed, and rather than climb back into Iggy’s cart I jogged up to the bunker, where our star was set to take his fourth shot. He approached it in silence, having forgotten to describe the strategy for such a crucial moment. But like a drunk who’s turned lucid, Iggy regained his senses. 

“Going to try and flop this up and hope for the best,” he said, opening the club face. Iggy dug his feet into the sand and swept an impressive wedge over the tall lip. I saluted him as he pumped a fist. Still, Iggy wasn’t happy. Where was the American-style optimism?

“Not bad Ig,” Chris said. When we got up to the green, Iggy had about five feet for bogey. He resisted looking back into the middle of the fairway, where the group behind us was clustered. Chris putted his ball to within two and a half feet and then tapped in for par. In deep concentration, Iggy rolled his putt into the cup’s centre and escaped a bad hole with bogey. As we walked off the green, a ball landed in the bunker. Iggy turned around. I thought there was going to be a fight.

“What the fuck are you fucking doing?” he screamed.

“Fuck you, YouTube boy!” the drunkest of them shot back. “Nobody’s gonna watch your bullshit, you ugly little shit!” Two in his group started laughing. The other member of their foursome seemed concerned. 

Iggy’s body lurched forward with his club extended outwards. I thought he was going to sprint down in their direction, so I clamped down on Iggy’s shoulder, pulling him back with a force that surprised both of us. “Let’s go,” I said, “two holes, Ig.”

His stare was hard. “Just worry about the camera,” he said, before softening. 

“Sorry bud, but get this on camera,” he started, the tone of his voice lowering: “So we got this group behind us and they’re being a bit rowdy. I’ve been doing my best to keep my cool, which I haven’t always been the best at,” (here Iggy smiled conspiratorially, confiding to viewers his faults of personality), “but we only have two holes to go and I’m down by one, so I’m going to try.”

On the seventeenth hole, Chris stepped up to the course’s highest tee deck and pulled a long drive down the fairway’s left side. His ball landed beside a wooden fence that separated seventeen from the parallel eighteenth fairway (which moved in the opposite direction and back towards the clubhouse). Chris would have an awkward second shot as there appeared to be a tree in his way. Iggy was next, and when his driver came down there was a noise behind us on the sixteenth green. Iggy shanked into the woods before slamming his club into the ground. He looked for the culprits who ruined his concentration, waiting for Chris to grant him a mulligan.

“Dudeeeee,” Iggy started, despondent, “right in my backswing – like, come on.” Chris raised his eyebrows. 

“You want a mull?”

“Well…that outta the question?”

“I didn’t really hear anything,” Chris said. “But go ahead.” Iggy drove the ball down the fairway’s right side. 

“Mr. Number Two,” Chris started. Iggy chuckled. That group from the sixteenth hole was arriving at the tee deck. One of the fat alcoholics was smirking. 

“Still practicing your lines, boys?”

Chris answered this time, turning to face them. “We’re ahead of pace right now. So relax.” He had the gravitas and physicality to discourage debate. The doughy drunk shut his mouth and we got back in our golf carts.

We drove down a winding cart path towards the fairway and Chris veered off in search of his drive. Iggy was still behind and would hit first. He launched a seven iron that landed just off the green’s left, and though we couldn’t see his lie from our vantage point, Iggy was at least close enough that he’d have an opportunity to make par. Joyous again, he forgot me and drove off towards the green. I jogged over to where Chris was preparing to hit. Hanging tree branches prevented a direct look at the green, so Chris decided to knock his ball into the fairway. As he was about to hit a short seven iron, a ball from the tee deck landed twenty yards behind us. Chris shot his neck back up towards the group behind us. There were four more guys with them. Chris’ rage had won over. 

“Get the fuck down here you fat fucking clown!” he bellowed. The indifference to confrontation that had expedited his path to professional hockey had surfaced. I was nervous. Chris’ pedigree couldn’t overcome their numbers. 

Most of their group started laughing, but one – thick-necked and pasty in appearance, with wide legs and the resolute face of someone who fought before – seemed requisitely game to want a piece. Goaded by a smaller man to his left, his confidence strengthened by their numerical advantage, he started walking down the hill in our direction. Chris prepared to meet him in the fairway. I didn’t want things to devolve and put my hand on his shoulder.  

“Come on Stapes,” I said to him. He wasn’t looking at me. “We’re almost done here, you’re in the lead. Let’s just finish it.” Chris took a few deep breaths, in consideration of his options. On top of the hill, his would-be opponent had stopped. His hands were raised, as if to ask whether Chris was man enough to meet him. After a few seconds Chris turned around. He went back to his cart, retrieved a seven iron and hit a slicing shot that landed short of the green’s right side. It wasn’t a good effort by his standards, but he at least didn’t duff it, as this would have gotten another rise from the group, one that would have inflamed Chris beyond my capacity to calm him. We got back in the cart. Embarrassed by my own nerves, I had forgotten to turn the camera off. 

“These fucking zeros behind us,” he said, shaking his head. “Sorry about that, bud. Can you edit it out?” 

“Of course.” 

Chris parked by the green and removed his wedge and putter. Still away – with twenty yards to the hole and a difficult greenside ridge to chip over – Chris’ fourth shot didn’t work out, his ball landing thirty-five feet from the pin. It was a long roll for bogey.

Chris cursed himself, looking back at our tormentors, now assessing their second shots (two had sliced drives and were searching for balls along the treeline). I walked over to where Iggy was standing. 

Iggy told the camera that he’d get underneath his ball, which was submerged in some thick rough, and try to land it five feet from the hole where it would “release towards the cup.” He didn’t manage this: Iggy’s chip landed seven and a half feet from the pin and pulled left, where he would have six feet downhill for par. On the green’s other side, Chris left his own putt ten feet short, having misjudged the speed. Still away, Chris prepared for his fifth shot. He knew not to leave it short and was overzealous, his ball rolling three feet by the hole.

“Faaaack!” he yelped.

Iggy was next. He pushed his ball to the right, where it stopped a foot and half away. With Chris’ consent, Iggy cleaned up for bogey. Chris then tapped in for double, annoyed that Iggy had profited from re-teeing in response to a light disturbance. The round was tied. 

I had watched enough YouTube golf to know it was necessary for Iggy to make a seventeen hole summary of the round. His attention seemed diverted, so I reminded him to set up their dramatic finish. Chris was on the phone, so Iggy would have to do this by himself. He put his smile back on and gave a synopsis of the round. It was all coming down to the last hole, just as he predicted. Chris came back to the tee deck but it was now Iggy’s turn to go first. He striped a beautiful drive down the centre. 

On the seventeenth hole, we could hear the two groups laughing and shouting. Doing his best to ignore them, Chris pulled his driver once more to the fairway’s left, where it landed at almost the exact spot of the dividing fence he’d found on seventeen. Chris’ upper body was flexed in anger, and I was anxious there would be another confrontation. Fortunately, we were far enough away and moving in opposite directions, so any further dispute would be delayed for at least a few minutes. As usual, Chris had driven the ball further so I went to Iggy first. He selected a three wood, one of his more reliable clubs all round, and talked through his strategy (“hoping for 260 down the pipe with a short wedge in”). But Iggy sliced his ball to the right, where it hit a rock and bounced into the hedgeline.

“Oh noooooo,” he said, trying to remain calm. “I’ll have a look while you get Chris’ next one.” I didn’t want to leave Iggy and provide him with another opportunity to cheat, but there was a job to finish and so I ran over to where Chris was waiting. From a bad lie, he hit a popping three wood that landed ten yards below the green. I looked back across the fairway, where Iggy was still searching.

“Keep this guy honest,” Chris said. 

“Yo Ig, hold up!” I called out. Iggy looked back as I ran over to where he was searching. He hadn’t found it yet. I made sure the camera was running. 

“No luck?” 

“It has to be over here,” he said, “I saw it shoot down towards the bush.” Iggy walked along the hedgeline and saw a ball nestled along its edge.

“There it is!” he said. The ball he identified looked dirtier than the gleaming Pro V1 Iggy had played with all round.  

“That’s your ball?” I asked him. “Looks pretty worn, Ig.”

“Yeah it is.” His speech was short. 

“You sure?” 

“Yes I’m fucking sure.” 

“But there’s no sign on it,” I told him. “You were signing your balls before.” 

“Fuck sake, I cracked the last one,” he said, a more dubious response than I could have even expected. Ignoring me, Iggy didn’t wait for an objection and hit his ball just short of the green, where he would have a twenty yard chip to get up and down for par. After his shot, he turned to the camera and congratulated himself. I planned to edit this out later. 

I didn’t want to get back in his cart and ran up to the green, where Chris was preparing for his third shot. He hit a poor chip that skipped over the putting surface and landed in the second cut, fifteen feet from the hole. Chris swore under his breath. Behind us, the two groups were now in the fairway. One of them hit a three wood that ran up close to the green. These boys were playing too loose. Chris seemed ready to explode.

Iggy’s fourth shot, a chip, landed in the green’s middle. While he had eleven feet for par, it was a straightforward roll that Iggy would be confident in. Meanwhile, Chris hit a wedge to five feet but didn’t seem happy with the result. There was more boozy shouting from the fairway. 

Iggy was too focused on his ball to notice the looming threat. Needful of a par to at least halve the round, Iggy rolled a steady putt that found the cup’s right edge. When it fell with a hollow, plastic pop, he pumped his fist and started whooping. At this, boozy insults were lobbed in the distance. Chris congratulated Iggy and circled his putt, immune to the group behind us. He steadied himself and rolled the ball in, celebrating like one would after an overtime goal. The fairway gaggle started chirping again, and – in a crude acronymization of his name – someone hurled a ‘CS’ his way. So close to the end, I encouraged them to finish before Chris might attack. Iggy shot me a hateful look.

Without much time to conclude our round in peace, there would be a chip-off to decide the first match of Iggy Dubya’s YouTube career. He wanted rock-paper-scissors to determine who would go first, but I told Iggy to move things along. Several members of the group were yelling now. My nerves were straining and I suspected someone would shoot onto the green while we were still standing there. This would be a disaster – my footage instant fodder only for Instagram golf-fight highlights. No. We had come too far for things to blow up. 

Iggy launched a golf tee that landed in Chris’ direction. First to chip, Chris landed his ball within three feet. In the fairway, the same group had swelled to twelve and there was more shouting for us to finish. I needed this to end. Iggy was next and put his ball to near identical length. He said it was for me to decide who was closer. Chris’ ball seemed a hair inside. I delivered the verdict and Iggy exploded.

“Are you fucking serious dude?”

“Hey, Ig, look!” I said. “It’s closer. Check it yourself.  Chris was smiling beside me. 

“Good game Ig—” he started, extending his hand for Iggy to shake. Chris’ sportsmanship was interrupted by yelling in the fairway. 

“Turn that camera off and get the fuck off the green!” someone yelled. It seemed inadvisable to respond but Iggy’s senses had left him. I could see someone among the twelve loading up an iron. He swung, their group cheered, and his ball landed on the green’s front side, fifteen away. The dam had broken. 

With the wild eyes of a lassoed bull, Iggy started sprinting in their direction. I was still between him and the fairway group, and launched myself forward, almost tackling Iggy to prevent a massacre and save my work today. 

“Let it go!” I said. “Round’s over, we got our footage. It turned out good. Let it go, Ig!” 

“Shut the fuck up, Smitty!” he screamed, shoving my hand away. “You’ve been a fuck all day, questioning my shots like the annoying fucking loser you’ve always been, and you’re not getting a goddamn dime for this.” Iggy’s eyes had narrowed with the same accusatory hatred I saw that night he pushed me at the party. This was a man who respected nothing so I punched him in the face. As orgasmic fairway laughter faded within our time-warp, Iggy got up from the ground and tried to choke me. I wrestled him down and knuckled his eye socket. It took Chris’ strong arm to pull me off. 

*****

Someone from Deer Park’s halfway house called the police. When they arrived, we explained that it was a fight of mutual consent. The officer’s indifference was a relief, but Iggy suffered a final indignation when the course banned us from returning. Deer Park told the police we hadn’t been granted permission to film, whereupon the officer, who burst into laughter when told we were driving back to Ottawa together, demanded our footage be deleted and that Iggy and I shake hands. His eye a dark crimson, its swelling mitigated by the press of a cold beer, Iggy agreed to the terms. On the ride home, not a word was said between Belleville and Barrhaven. This story is the sole documentation of a day I would dine out on for years.