WE ARE NOT GOING TO THAT GOLF COURSE AND HERE'S EXACTLY WHY.
Photos snapped in the chaos and cool of the Fashion District—Mitchell Royel behind the lens. Soundtrack? Tate McRae's it’s ok i’m ok on repeat. Turns out, moody vibes and sharp angles go perfectly together.
“Dad. First of all, put the phone down if you're driving. Pull over. This is not a red-light text — this is a full parking-lot, engine-off, sunglasses-on text. Get a coffee. Sit down. Maybe hold onto something.
You know how we were supposed to go to Pinebrook Ridge on Saturday for our little daddy-daughter golf day? The one where you pretend you're not losing and I pretend I'm not winning? Yeah. That's canceled. Not postponed. Canceled. I am not setting foot on that property. Under no circumstances. This rule is not negotiable, not even if you do the sad dad eyebrow thing.
Before you ask — no, I didn't do anything. For once in my life, I am the innocent party. I am the Switzerland of this situation. I'm the girl in the background of the true crime documentary going "she was always so nice" while staring directly into the camera.
It was Maddie.
Obviously it was Maddie.
Okay, here's what happened, and I need you to stay with me because it gets worse before it gets significantly worse.
Yesterday, Maddie and her squad went to Pinebrook for the charity pro-am. You know the one — white tents, overpriced lemonade, old guys in visors who've never once in their lives been inconvenienced. There were six of them, Dad. Six. Maddie, Kenz, both of the Avery twins, that girl Sloane who uses "literally" as punctuation, and Priya — who I actually like, but who apparently has the judgment of a golden retriever at a barbecue.
So there's this pro playing — Grant Whitaker. You'd recognize him if you saw him. Dark hair, beard, kind of looks like a guy who sells very nice kayaks. He's not a household name but the golf moms absolutely love him. And he is married, Dad. Married married. Wife. Baby. Stroller. The whole starter pack, present and accounted for on the course.
So Grant is on a break between holes, standing by the snack cart, minding his own business, probably eating something sensible, and Maddie decides this is her moment. Her Olympic final. Her moon landing.
And I need you to understand — this started as a prank. Kenz bet her twenty dollars she couldn't get a pro's number before the 12th hole. Twenty dollars. My sister risked our entire family's reputation for the price of a sad airport salad.
So all six of them descended on this man. Like seagulls on a dropped French fry. Sloane asked him about his "grip." One of the Avery twins asked if he could sign her arm. Priya — sweet, chaotic Priya — asked if he could teach her to "swing" and then giggled for what witnesses are describing as nine full seconds. Witnesses, Dad. There were witnesses. There were retired men with binoculars on a hospitality balcony watching the entire thing unfold.
And the poor guy is being polite, because he's a professional and because he has probably never been ambushed by a pigtail militia before. So he laughs, because that's what you do when you don't know what else to do. And Maddie — being Maddie — takes that laugh as a green light, a signed contract, and a marriage proposal.
Somehow, and I will never understand how, she walked away with his number. Maybe he panicked. Maybe she just stood there blinking until he gave in. I don't know. I wasn't there. Thank God I wasn't there.
That's bad, right? That's bad, but survivable. Like spilling juice on a white couch. Embarrassing. Fixable. You move on.
Then it got really bad.
Because Maddie, in her infinite wisdom, screenshotted the number and dropped it in the group chat to collect her twenty dollars. And the group chat is not just the six of them. The group chat has forty people in it, Dad. It is called "Pinebrook Baddies" with a golf emoji and a nail polish emoji, which is, first of all, embarrassing, and second of all, one of the people in that chat apparently knows someone who babysits for someone who is friends with someone who knows the wife.
Six degrees of Maddie's terrible decision-making.
And by hole fourteen, the wife has the screenshot. She is there, Dad. On the course. With the baby. With the stroller. She knows.
So picture this. Maddie and the squad are near the 15th green doing little victory dances, and here comes Grant Whitaker walking up the cart path absolutely furious, pointing directly at them. And right behind him is his wife — gorgeous dark hair, zero patience, stroller moving at a speed I can only describe as purposeful — and she was not walking. She was advancing. That stroller had more authority than I have ever had in my life.
Grant is pointing and saying "them, it's them" like a courtroom scene on a legal drama. And security shows up. Not one guy. Multiple officers, Dad. Two uniformed security guards plus additional staff, radios out, moving with intention across that manicured grass.
And they walked them out. All six. Past the clubhouse. Past the lemonade tent. Past the hospitality balcony where the retired men with binoculars got a front-row seat to the whole procession.
Based on the footage that is now circulating — and yes, there is footage, because of course there is footage, it's 2025 and people film themselves making toast — you can see the security officers physically guiding them across the course while Maddie and the squad walk in a loose, chaotic group, pigtails and all. Kenz was crying. Sloane was apparently saying "this is literally so unfair" on loop, which is the least literal thing she has ever said. Priya waved at the balcony people. Waved. Like she was on a parade float at a homecoming game.
And Maddie — your firstborn, your pride and joy, the one you bought a car for — apparently turned around mid-escort and yelled "it was a prank!" at the wife. Like that was going to help. Like the wife was going to go, "Oh! A prank! That changes everything. Let's grab brunch."
Now here is the part that directly involves me, your other daughter, the good one.
The video is going around. It's not like nationally viral, but it's locally viral. The kind of viral where my old volleyball coach texted me "is this your sister??" with three skull emojis. The kind where our neighbor Mrs. Delgado liked it on Facebook. Mrs. Delgado, Dad. She has never once liked my birthday posts. Not one.
And people are saying Pinebrook is putting together some kind of list. A banned list. A golf course no-fly situation. And the thing is, Maddie and I look alike. You know we do. People have mixed us up since we were twelve. Grandma still calls me Maddie at Thanksgiving and I just answer because I'm tired.
So imagine me walking into Pinebrook on Saturday, minding my business, carrying my clubs, ready to absolutely destroy you on the back nine, and some security officer steps in front of me and goes, "Ma'am, we need to talk." And I have to stand in front of the entire clubhouse explaining that I am the other daughter. The one who has never been escorted off of anything except a really bad group project.
They're not going to believe me. Why would they? "It was my sister" is literally what a guilty person says. I'd look like someone attempting a disguise. I'd have to show my student ID, my volleyball stats, and probably a notarized letter. I'd need you there as a character witness, and you'd just be standing there in your golf hat holding a hot dog saying "she's a good kid" while absolutely no one listened.
So no. I'm not going. I love you. I love golf. I love the turkey club at the halfway house that they cut into the little triangles. But I do not love being walked past a slow-clapping crowd of retirees because of something my sister did with her pigtails and twenty dollars of prize money.
We can go to that public course by the highway instead. The one with the windmill near the parking lot. Nobody there knows us. Nobody there cares. The security guard there is a seventy-year-old man named Phil who naps in a golf cart. That is my kind of security detail.
Also, someone needs to have a conversation with Maddie. And it cannot be me, because the last time I tried to give her advice she told me I "dress like a gym teacher" and I am still processing that. It has to be you. Use the dad voice. The deep one. The one you used when she backed into the mailbox.
And maybe tell her to apologize — to the wife, specifically. A real apology. Not a "sorry if you were offended" apology. That woman was out there on a Saturday with her baby, just trying to watch her husband play golf, and six girls in matching pigtails turned her afternoon into a situation that required a security escort and is now being watched by Mrs. Delgado on Facebook. She deserves a real sorry.
I do feel a little bad for Maddie, for the record. She texted me last night at 1am and said "do you think Mom and Dad are going to kill me" and I said "Dad probably not, Mom definitely" and she sent back one crying emoji and I felt terrible. So go easy on her. Medium easy. Stern lecture, then tacos.
Anyway. That's the full update. I love you. We're still doing daddy-daughter day, just somewhere else. Somewhere with a more relaxed security infrastructure.
Bring your clubs. Bring snacks. Leave the pigtails at home.
P.S. If anyone at the club asks you about the video, you don't know her.
P.P.S. Okay, you do know her. But you can pretend.
P.P.P.S. I'm still better than you at chipping.
Love you.
Good luck.”
-Deck
(of Mitch Leyor)