DEAR BOBBY is written by Bobby D Cutz, also known as Robert Cuthill, and was founded by his mother Jean Cuthill.  Write Dear Bobby at



Dear Bobby: Recently I had a lesson with a top 100 teaching pro who told me my swing “needed some work” and that he was “excited to see me hit the ball better.”  My first reaction was to ok boomer him but he didn’t give me the chance. He barreled right through his “assessment” saying I was “taking it too far to the inside and yet across the line at the top”.  It was impossible to hide my smirk and check my insta as I had just shot a remarkable 92 the day before in completely unfair conditions (the starter conveniently forgot to mention the OB areas on 4, 7, 10, 13 and 18.  My Dad is going to get him fired which is cool).  Anyway, Captain Oblivious didn’t even notice as my facial expression turned to a scowl/persistent eye roll when he told me I was “getting stuck on the way down”.  Adding insult to injury he showed a recording of my swing on his pathetic Dell Inspiron 5000 series (uhh compute much?) to show exactly how I was “releasing the club with a slight flip”.  As callously as possible he drew crude circles around my hands at various points in my swing, and drew lines across my body and golf club to show where I was “coming off the tush line”.  It was like I was back in 4th grade when Jamie Wandersee told everyone in school that the neighborhood dog had urinated on my face. Um, insensitive much?

As I write this I can just see the man’s fake warm smile and lame attempt at reassurance when I started crying.  “With just a little work, you’ll be hitting it so much further and straighter.  You could be great some day. You won’t believe it!”  Pretty sure my Dad would have said, condescend much Chet?? Dad says that a lot to my college professors when he demands to speak with them. They say I should apply myself more instead of partying at the Zeta Pi lodge but maybe I wouldn’t have to party so much if they didn’t stress me out all the time.  Anyway, the lack of care for my mental health from this Golftec wannabe was just outrageous.  Thankfully Mom was sitting on the bench behind me literally feeling the exact same fury that I felt.  The last straw was his intent to record some thoughts laid over more video analysis that he could send me in an email, I suppose to create a lasting record of what an utter piece of shit he thought I was.  At that point my body was like hypothermic, shaking uncontrollably and my mouth and lips were frozen like a lost caveman in the arctic; unable to formulate words of any kind.  

Thankfully Mom kept her shit together and was able to rise to the occasion.  “You have some nerve,” she said, “picking on a boy who only two years ago was a teenager, just because you wish you had his life.  I thought you were supposed to be a professional.  More like an amateur if you asked me.  Expect 1 star and the worst review of your life on Yelp.  Good day sir.”  The guy doubted he was on Yelp but acted all apologetic for hurting my feelings.  “Rycin, I was just pointing out where you could improve! I’m so sorry.  I never meant for you to take my feedback personally.  Don’t forget, you came to me for a lesson, right?  I’m here to help you improve. And I know you can do that!”  We had him right where we wanted him so Mom and I just started laughing and laughing.  The laughter was like a magical Magic Cards strength elixir that broke the spell and let me finally speak up and slay.  “Go fuck yourself old man.  I hope your wife divorces you and your tiny wrinkly dick.  Also you’re basic.”  Mom and I high-fived and walked out, tossing a couple singles over our shoulders.  “That should cover it,” she said.

Bobby Cutz, the question is, where do I go from here?  TBH this experience left a bad taste in my mouth and I feel like the game owes me an apology if they ever want me to come back.  Because let’s face it, this sport needs younger players and as an Influencer I know a lot of young people who will do whatever I tell them to do.  Ball is in your court, assface.  My Mom and Dad anxiously await your response. Shout out to them for helping me craft this kick ass letter. Bye Felicia.

Salty in Scarsdale  


Dear Salty in Scarsdale: As an ambassador for golf, I’m so sorry for your awful experience.  And just keeping it 100, you’re right, we all do owe you an apology.  And I beg you, please don’t quit the game and please don’t tell all your cool friends to quit with you.  As you are well aware, everything in golf-land is like a house of cards and it will surely come crashing down without the support of all the Rycins and Aidens and Camerons like yourself.  

The fact is we need to do a better job nurturing young and young adjacents and sparing them any negativity about their swing.  The gentleman you saw, Top 100 Teaching Pro or not, is simply rachet and needs retraining (or should be immediately retired).  You were totally right to be savage AF. But as you can tell from my casual use of millennial lingo, we’re not all like that and it’s not fair to paint us with a broad brush.  Like if you had hired me to give you a lesson I would have only pointed out the good parts of your swing and made sure you heard this feedback while eating a bag or two of Welch’s Fruit Snacks, and some Doritos and Gatorade if you were feeling dehydrated.  

You don’t need to be told you can be great some day because we all know you are extra, turnt and most likely even lit.  I don’t know what your trophy case looks like but if it’s not already filled please let me know.  Bae, I love you and respect your realness and power.  Please come back and please don’t cancel me or my friends at TTAF.

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