The Ol’ Ball Coach don’t come cheap. Golf clubs ain’t getting any cheaper, son. And the OBC’s through with this compressed titanium bullshit stuff–I ain’t hitting my fifty dollar a box Maxflis with some cheater’s whomping stick like a Big Bertha. Might as well tee off with a broadaxe. Not what winners like me do, son.


Winners don’t come cheap, son. Neither do these fly-ass golf duds.

Nope–Mr. Heisman’s moved on to the top of the line Maruman Majesty Prestigios, and those cost a cool two grand just for the driver. So all our loyal Cocks out there have to whip it out for the things we need to succeed here at Carolina: facilities, higher coaches’ salaries, enhanced fundraising staff, a Bushnell Pinseeker 1500…all the things winners have, basically.

So sure you paid $165 for season tickets in 2004. But look what you were paying for! It wasn’t the Ol’ Ball Coach. It was an old ball coach, sure, one whose players were jacking the televisions off the wall from the locker room and losing to everyone by 3 points. A ball coach who used–gasp!–Callaway clubs when he played golf. A coach who didn’t have fitted $6,000 John Lobb spikes when he steps on the fairway.

What am I trying to say? That $320 dollars for season tickets ain’t shit, Cocks fans. It’s nothing. I’m trying to make Yukon omelets from quail’s eggs here already, and you rednecks pay three times that annually just to keep Smackdown! streaming live into your trailers. Don’t tell me you can’t afford that. You want better football, pony up or putt out. We ain’t playing from the ladies tees anymore.

If you don’t like it, I’ve got a pile of money to count in between practice swings. Brad Scott’s ready for the phone call when you are, people. He’s just waitin’ by that phone.