Twas the night before Christmas, when all through the house-not a creature was stirring not even a mouse.

The stockings were hung by the chimney with care with the hopes that the tickets to the 2026 US Open would be there.

The children were nestled all snug in their beds with visions of playing a round with Sonic the Hedgehog danced in their heads.

And mama in her pink visor and me in my Pebble Beach cap had just settled down for a long winter’s nap.

When out on the lawn there rose such a clatter, I sprang from my bed, PXG driver in hand, to see what was the matter.  Away to the window, I flew like a flash, recalling the 60 foot putt that had yielded some cash.

The moon on the breast of the new fallen snow shined the light in the brilliance of three birdie putts made in a row.  When what to my wondering eyes should appear, the imposing Bryson DeChambeau brandishing a conductor’s baton in a sleigh with a bunch of reindeer.  It was quite a sight  to see with Rory McIlroy in the rear waving in glee.

Bryson is controlling the pace of the trek hoping that solar batteries will perform to their spec. Bryson and Rory were excited as they called the reindeer by name.  Now Scottie, Now Nelly, Now Nantzy, On Zander for the good of the game.

Deliver all new golf gadgets and all the latest devices, the world cannot wait for these products to enhance the game’s spices.  AI will enable some skills to revive, and don’t forget the videos and electronics that are required for the swing to survive.

As the wind blows before the gales begin, when they meet with an obstacle mount to get that bag in.  Up to the chimneys they flew full in the sleight full of stuff–irons, hybrids, range finders to get them out of the rough.

And then in a twinkling, I heard on the roof, the prancing and pawing of each little hoof.  As I contemplated by next round at Pine Valley, down the chimney wriggled Bryson in a dally.

He brushed the dust off his bright red suit, wondering aloud for what might be the potential for next year’s LIV loot.

A bundle of golf clubs and new PXG balls were flung on his back, he looked like the second coming of John Daly on the attack.  His eyes glowed by flashbacks of thunderous tees shots twinkled with glee, his dimples quite tight.  His cheeks were rosy and bright, his nose was a bit of an oversight.  His mouth was taut and doughty, his freshly new bland beard nested like hot toddy.

He had the stump of a pipe resembling Old Tom Morris, which he held tight in his jaw, smoke from the pipe circled in the night of raw.  He had the physique of a newly minted MMA fighter and frankly was determined to put in the all-nighter.

He was svelte and ready for another 18 holes at Bethpage Black with the lingering vision of the Ryder Cub European victory smack.  A wink of his eye and a twist of his head gave me the hopeful feeling that I might have some great rounds ahead.

He said nothing as he drew from the bag and filled the stockings with vigor as he downed the milk and Oreos that were placed there with great rigor.  He added the new anti-compression golf balls along with a letter of apology as the 300 yard drive would succumb to the age of paleontology.  The unpopularity of these new balls will produce a barrage of player catcallology.

His work completed, he sprang back into his sleigh, to his team he gave a whistle, away they flew like one of Bryson’s driving missiles.  I heard his exclamation clamor into the night:

Fairways and greens to all, and to all a good night!

Merry Christmas!