As much as the Internet Invitational sounds like some kind of late 90’s cyber conference, a throwback to yesteryear everything was the Internet, you can never get more than a few scenes into this six-part, 16-hour, million-dollar mega-series before you’re reminded why it’s a fitting title: These are people trained by the Internet, living on the Internet, who know its power—and its wrath.
This is how the field of Invitations was ultimately formed. The collective trust of Barstool Sports and Bob Does Sports gathered 48 golfers whose main qualifications were their online presence and fun factor rather than, say, their composure under pressure and short games. (More on that in a minute.) If you combined the YouTube subscribers and social media followers from the 48, you’d get a number so high in the millions it would feel meaningless.
And so, while things are going well or, more importantly, error – for the over-the-top, apathetic Luke Kwon in the first episode, for example; for Fasoli the cameraman who catches the ball; or for the various cast members trying to eliminate one fiddle or three-legged push-up at the same time, you can see them fumbling for the cameras, knowing that judgment will come their way in the cross-platform comment sections.
(Sidenote: There may have been a time when websites like the one you’re currently on wouldn’t have thought to write about an amateur golf event built for YouTube. But at one point more than 200,000 people were tuning in to watch the finals live on YouTube, and one of those people might have been LeBron Jamesanother one was me, and that viewership number will climb into the millions before the weekend, so here we are.)
So when Paige Spiranac and Malosi Togisala end up embroiled in back-to-back 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 breaking down in tears, struck by the stakes of the moment, both the million-dollar prize and the approval ratings of millions of online viewers. Ditto Togisala’s wide-eyed expressions as the assembled onlookers embark on a real-time Zapruder-like investigation on his trolley camera. “Bubbie, I’m not that guy,” he says, horrified by the accusations. After all, in golf — even in this modern YouTube iteration — rule violations have a way of catching up with you.
“I’m playing for a million dollars,” says their teammate, Frankie Borrelli, amid the chaos. “And everything is about everything aside from golf 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 “regular instructor for the regular golfer,” arrives at the finals shocked to be there at all.
Every time Beef appears on screen, it’s a painful reminder of his shocking death at the end of October, aged just 31, explained only as an “unexpected medical issue”. It’s surreal to see one of the main characters of a golf series round and know he’s gone. However, it is special to see the man at this moment.
In a quiet scene at the beginning of the final episode, Robby Berger asks Beef how he would spend his share of the winnings if his trio comes out on top. Beef answers eagerly.
“I think I’ll pay off my parents’ house,” he says.
The game itself is everything a production team could have asked for: a memory of the joys of alternate shooting, of team match play, of getting to the 18th over, all tied up. It also becomes something of a painstaking watch. You’ve seen the PGA Tour pros succumb to the pressure of playing for million-dollar prizes on Sunday; now imagine the same situation with a much worse cast of characters in golf. And while Barstool King Dave Portnoy, an obsessive entertainer and the man behind the event, expresses early on his desire for the match to end, “like a missed five-footer,” he too feels some trepidation as tensions rise and controversy spreads.
“We actually need real officials,” he says at one point, walking down a freeway. “I don’t like to be the official about it, I just like to argue with the official about any decision they do.”
So by the time Borrelli stands over the decisive shot of the match, a narrow fairway shot with long green water, some onlookers can barely look at him.
“Oh, and that’s what he inhales too, isn’t it?” Portnoy says, typically and effectively bluntly.
When Borrelli proves him a prophet only moments later, biting that fatal chip into the backwater, they each fall to the ground.
“I did that thing,” says a shocked Borrelli, acutely aware of what this means for his Internet future.
“I can’t even watch it. I feel so bad for him, it’s terrible,” Portnoy says, showing his humanity for a moment before his internet brain resumes. “But at the same time it’s, like, I love it. I feel terrible and excited all at once. It’s a weird thing.”
All that’s left is Beef to play a reasonable shot, a fair putt off the green, the common game for the common golfer, and the match is theirs. And as his partners, Francis Ellis and Brad Dalke, sing with triumphant delight, Beef is speechless, overcome with a wave of emotion as his competitors come one after the other to hug him.
“How are you feeling, dog?” one asks.
“Overwhelmed,” he says. “Overwhelmed.”
It’s strange to get a snapshot of reality here at the Internet Invitational, from artists who spend their days in a light, brightly colored, high-drama version of the world. But there’s an awe and appreciation with which they offer Beef their congratulations that serves as a reminder that they know the difference. Or that he is their reminder of what really matters.
