As much as the “Internet Invitational” sounds like some sort of late-90s cyber-conference, a throwback to the time before everything was the internet, you can never go more than a few scenes in this six-part, 16-hour, million-dollar mega-series before you’re reminded why its a fitting title: These are people who are trained by the internet, who live on the internet, who know its power — and its wrath.
That’s how the Invitational field was formed, after all. The collective braintrust of Barstool Sports and Bob Does Sports assembled 48 golfers whose main qualifications were their online presence and entertainment factor rather than, say, their cool under pressure and short games. (More on that in a minute.) If you combined the YouTube subscribers and social media following of the 48, you’d get a number so high into the millions that it’d feel meaningless.
And so as things go right or, more importantly, wrong — for the oversleeping, apathetic Luke Kwon in the first episode, for instance; for Fasoli the cameraman who picks up a ball; or for various cast members who fumble their way to elimination one shank or shoved three-footer at a time, you can see them wincing at the cameras, knowing there’s judgment coming their way in cross-platform comment sections.
(Sidenote: There may have been a time when websites like the one you’re currently on wouldn’t have considered writing about a built-for-YouTube amateur golf event. But at one point more than 200,000 people were tuning in to watch the finale live on YouTube, and one of those people may well have been LeBron James, another was me, and that viewership number will surge into the millions before the weekend, so here we are.)
So when Paige Spiranac and Malosi Togisala end up embroiled in consecutive rules controversies in the series finale — first when Spiranac is accused of improving Togisala’s lie in the weeds, second when Togisala is accused of illegally using the “slope” function on his rangefinder — you can see their wheels turning in real time.
“I wasn’t trying to cheat. Like, I wouldn’t…” Spiranac says before she’s overcome with tears, hit by the stakes of the moment, both the million-dollar prize and the million-viewer approval rating on the line. Ditto with Togisala’s wide-eyed expressions as the assembled onlookers launch a real-time Zapruder-like investigation into his cart camera. “Bubbie, I’m not being that guy,” he pleads, terrified of the allegations. After all, in golf — even this modern YouTube iteration — rules violations have a way of following you around.
“I’m playing for a million bucks,” says their teammate, Frankie Borrelli, amid the chaos. “And it’s all about everything aside from the golf right now.”
In this reality-show context, there’s one man who doesn’t quite belong — and I mean that in a good way. Cody “Beef” Franke, a PGA professional and self-described “common instructor for the common golfer,” arrives at the final overwhelmed by the opportunity to be there at all.
Every time Beef shows up on screen it’s a painful reminder of his shocking death in late October, at just age 31, explained only as a “sudden medical issue.” It’s surreal seeing one of the main characters of a rollicking golf series and knowing he’s gone. It’s special, though, getting glimpses of the man in the moment.
In a quiet scene early in the final episode Robby Berger asks Beef how he’d spend his share of the winnings, should his trio come out on top. Beef answers earnestly.
“I think I’d pay off my parents’ house,” he says.
The match itself is everything a production team could have asked for: a reminder of the joys of alternate shot, of team match play, of arriving at the 18th tee all tied up. It also becomes something of an agonizing watch. You’ve watched PGA Tour pros succumb to pressure playing for million-dollar prizes down the stretch on Sunday; now imagine that same situation with a cast of characters much worse at golf. And while Barstool’s kingpin, Dave Portnoy, an obsessive entertainer and the man behind the event, expresses early on his desire for the match to come down to, “like, a five-foot missed putt,” even he feels some trepidation as tensions rise and controversy spills over.
“We actually need, like, real officials,” he says at one point, driving down a fairway. “I don’t like being the official for this. I just like to argue with the official on whatever decision they make.”
So by the time Borrelli stands over the match’s deciding shot, a tight-lie pitch shot with water long of the green, several onlookers can barely watch.
“Oh, and this is what he sucks at, too, right?” Portnoy says, typically and effectively blunt.
When Borrelli proves him a prophet just moments later, skulling that fateful chip into the back water, they each fall to the ground.
“I did the thing,” Borrelli says in shock, all too aware of what this means for his online future.
“I can’t even look at him. I feel so bad for him, that’s awful,” Portnoy says, showing his humanity for a moment before his internet brain kicks back in. “But at the same time it’s, like, I love it. I feel horrible and thrilled at once. It’s a weird thing.”
All that’s left is Beef to play a sensible shot, a putt from off the green, the common play for the common golfer, and the match is theirs. And as his partners, Francis Ellis and Brad Dalke, crow in victorious delight, Beef is speechless, hit with a wave of emotion. as one after another of his competitors comes through to give him a hug.
“How do you feel, dog?” one asks.
“Overwhelmed,” he says. “Overwhelmed.”
It’s strange to get a shot of reality here, at the Internet Invitational, from entertainers who spend their days in some jacked-up, brightened-color, heightened-drama version of the world. But there’s an awe and appreciation with which they offer Beef their congratulations him that serves as a reminder that they know the difference. Or that he’s their reminder of what really matters.
