Saturday, October 4, 2025 at The Highlands Golf & Tennis Center, St. Louis, MO

The 24th Annual Nino Memorial did not feel like a golf tournament. It felt like a parole hearing held at a dying municipal golf course where every participant had either: a nicotine addiction, unresolved childhood trauma, two functioning vertebrae, or an active restraining order from Buffalo Wild Wings. NMXXIV began the exact moment organizers announced there would be TWO Nino Memorials in the same year. Phil "CHiP" Ruben reacted to this news like a bloated Roman emperor learning his favorite prostitute had been reassigned to another gladiator. The man LOST HIS FUCKING MIND because it meant he wouldn't get to wear the tartan jacket for a full uninterrupted year.

Important reminder: Phil contributed approximately one meaningful shot to the previous title run. The rest of the time he looked like a confused assistant manager at a vape store accidentally wandering into a PGA event. But facts never stop CHiP. The moment the second tournament was announced, he vanished from the group chat completely. No texts. No reactions. No comments. Just silence so dramatic you'd think he got drafted into Vietnam instead of slightly inconvenienced at a scramble tournament. Meanwhile Denmark pulled a Denmark and canceled the night before, which had roughly the same surprise factor as a stripper with unresolved custody issues showing up late to work.

Then came Tom "Eagleglass" Spiegelgass. Every year Tom treats the Nino Memorial rules committee like he's arguing a Supreme Court case while three Michelob Ultras deep and sweating through an Oakley polo. This year's grievance: He's allegedly a "B+ player" trapped among "A captains." Buddy… you swing a driver like you're trying to kill bees with a shovel. Tom demanded: captains pick teams playground-style, he gets first overall pick, random draws be abolished, and Dave Hoffman be assigned to him like a court-appointed emotional support animal. At one point he was so worked up people thought he might storm the clubhouse and declare himself Golf Dictator of Missouri.

Then tournament morning arrived. And emerging from the parking lot like a divorced Scottish war criminal came CHiP Ruben wearing the Decader jacket. The jacket was covered in dog drool and literal bite marks. Not metaphorical bite marks. ACTUAL FUCKING TEETH MARKS. The thing looked like it had survived a pit bull attack during a meth lab explosion. Somewhere inside the fabric there was probably cigar ash, beef jerky crumbs, barbecue sauce, and traces of depression.

Then Aaron "Denmark" Vickar appeared out of nowhere like a cocaine-powered divorce attorney. Nobody even knew he was coming. Aaron immediately demanded the teams be reorganized so he could play and allegedly threatened legal action if excluded. Imagine threatening litigation over a scramble format at 8:12 in the morning while grown men are still shotgun-blasting gas station breakfast sandwiches.

Then Tom Spiegelgass started ANOTHER format argument because apparently his blood pressure drops dangerously low if he goes more than fifteen minutes without complaining. He once again demanded a return to traditional 2-man pairings and insisted players should choose their own partners. At this point Dave "Dusty" Hoffman had to calm him down like a prison negotiator trying to stop an inmate from eating batteries. And somehow… SOMEHOW… golf began.

This was the first Nino Memorial: played as a Par 34, featuring 3-man teams, AND somehow including a 4-man team because this organization runs on the same mathematical principles as a Waffle House fistfight. The event also debuted the first LIVE Nino Memorial leaderboard, which was astonishing because most years this tournament is organized with the technological sophistication of an ISIS cell. Two rookies entered: Joe Rohlman and Andy Bolazina. And two legends returned from the grave: Dan "Opie/Duval" Wiggins after 24 years away and Scott "Luger" Masin after 18 years. Both men looked like retired bounty hunters who smell faintly like Marlboro Reds and boat fuel.

Andy Bolazina, Scott "Maynerd" Chelist, and Jaeson Becker finished 4th at even par. Jaeson started the round hotter than a church youth pastor's search history. Drives were striped. Chips were magical. The man looked possessed by the ghost of cocaine-era Tiger Woods. Then his game completely exploded. Not collapsed. EXPLODED. By Hole 5 he was golfing like a recently tranquilized zoo animal. Bolazina had to drag the team to respectability while Scott Chelist contributed absolutely fucking nothing except creating shade near the cart.

Then came the four-man disaster orgy: Tom Spiegelglass, Dan Wiggins, Scott Masin, and Josh Mentle. Tom Spiegelglass spent the entire round screaming about: his leg, his shoulder, his teammates, the format, the greens, the pace of play, humidity, physics, and probably immigrants. The man was so furious after one drive that rumors spread he launched Robbie's driver into the lake like he was sacrificing a virgin to Poseidon. At one point nearby golfers genuinely thought they were witnessing an active domestic disturbance. Tom finished the round threatening: retirement, boycott, format changes, violence, and possibly domestic terrorism if the 25th Nino Memorial didn't "fix this fucking bullshit."

Joe Rohlman, AJ "Jamal" Abrams, and Jeremy "K-Dawg" Klaven tied for second at -1. Jeremy played the best golf of his career. Rohlman played like a man who made a blood pact with Satan for improved wedge play. AJ Abrams, meanwhile, looked like he ate 700 milligrams of marijuana gummies and then got abandoned inside a Dick's Sporting Goods. The man could not function. He lost clubs INSIDE HIS OWN BAG. He got into the wrong golf cart multiple times. At one point he stared at a squirrel for so long people thought they were communicating telepathically. And then came the woodland piss catastrophes. TWICE…TWICE… AJ fell over trying to piss in the woods. Not slipped. Not stumbled. TOPPLED OVER. Like a folding lawn chair collapsing at a NASCAR tailgate. Witnesses say after the second fall he just laid there giggling at leaves while holding his dick like a confused Civil War ghost. Honestly the fact that their team finished tied for second should qualify Jeremy and Rohlman for military honors.

Aaron Vickar, Brett "Noodles" Bunsick, and Dave Hoffman also tied for second. Aaron played like a coked-up cyborg sent from the future to ruin friendships. Every drive was hammered. Every iron was pure. And for the first time in recorded Nino Memorial history…Dave Hoffman did NOT accuse Aaron of cheating. Historians are still studying the phenomenon. Dave actually played well despite spending most of the round one sarcastic comment away from cave-manning Brett Bunsick to death with a sand wedge. Bunsick spent the entire day acting like a raccoon that learned how to drink energy drinks. After last year's pairing, Vegas reportedly had "Dave commits homicide by Hole 6" at even odds. But none of these degenerates mattered.

Because Dane Kearns, Jeff "Smailz" Small, and CHiP Ruben absolutely gangbang-fucked the leaderboard with a 31. Dane Kearns played golf like he personally hated par. The man didn't miss a shot all day. Drives. Chips. Putts. Everything was perfect. At one point it looked less like a scramble and more like Dane dragging two emotional support humans through a PGA event. Jeff Small exceeded expectations and actually contributed meaningful golf. And CHiP? CHiP mostly wandered around absorbing credit like a tick on a golden retriever. Dane was carrying the team so hard Phil should've been legally required to ride in a baby carrier strapped to Dane's chest.

Then came the award ceremony beside the 18th green. Short. Sweaty. Profane. Emotionally unstable. Half the field needed beer. The other half needed spinal surgery. Tom Spiegelgass continued screaming demands for next year's format like a shirtless revolutionary moments away from storming a capitol building.

And finally, as darkness fell over another beautiful dumpster fire of a Nino Memorial, Brett Bunsick delivered the closing prophecy: If CHiP wins again next year and three-peats…he will personally hire a seamstress to let the jacket out around the waistline. Because after back-to-back championships where Dane Kearns carried him harder than a drunk bridesmaid at a destination wedding…the tartan jacket's buttons are now under more pressure than AJ Abrams trying to remember which cart was his.

ja + ChatGPT