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Yammy here, sipping sake and savoring the sight of the world’s best unraveling at Oakmont. There’s just something poetic about a place dishing out humble pie like it’s the house special. Fairways running faster than a New York cabbie, greens with no mercy, and bunkers so deep even the Norse Goddess is waking up screaming in Norwegian about digging to China.
And let’s talk about the bunker from hell—The Church Pews. A heavenly name for a truly wicked trap. It’s less a bunker and more a spiritual reckoning. You don’t land there—you get exiled. Norse calls it “the confessional,” because once you’re in, all that’s left is to pray and confess your poor club choices.
Only three—count ‘em, three—players under par out of 156. That’s not a leaderboard, that’s a survivor’s list.
JJ Spaun deserves a toast. The man gritted out a 72 and did it while keeping his Puma drip dialed in—bright shirt, clean accessories, and yes, those white pants the Tour boys are suddenly obsessed with. Speaking of white pants, Sam Burns didn’t just win the outfit battle; he dropped a 65 that made everyone else look like they were hitting beach balls with pool noodles.
Now let’s talk trends. Navy blue. Navy blue. Navy blue. It’s like the entire field got the same group text: “Wear navy. Don’t ask why.” Spieth, Rahm, and Rose looked like the Bobsy Triplets in a sleepover sequel. Somebody, please, throw us a coral or a kelly green—anything!
Detry gave us a Euro moment (we saw you trying, boo), and shoutout to Thriston Lawrence for squeezing into those skinny pants with just enough flair to make it work. Honestly, the man was one oat milk latte away from pulling it off completely.
And don’t get us started on the Nike boys. Wait—actually, let’s not. Until they start showing signs of life, we’re placing a style gag order on the whole squad. Come back when you’ve discovered color—and tailoring.
Yammie out, sake in hand. Norse is still hiding from the sand traps. Catch us tomorrow as we pray for fashion resurrection amid the Oakmont chaos.