Toby Keith's Family Brought to Tears During CMT Awards Tribute

About the Song

In the realm of country music, Toby Keith stands as a towering figure, a true American icon. Renowned for his gritty anthems and patriotic ballads, Keith has captivated audiences for decades with his honest storytelling and down-to-earth persona. Among his vast repertoire of hits, one song stands out as a humorous and relatable ode to the struggles of the average golfer: “Shitty Golfer.”

Released in 2017 as part of Keith’s album The Bus Songs, “Shitty Golfer” is a lighthearted romp through the frustrations and mishaps that plague even the most seasoned golf enthusiasts. With its catchy melody and Keith’s signature twang, the song has become a favorite among golfers of all skill levels, providing a much-needed dose of camaraderie and laughter to a sport that can often be as challenging as it is rewarding.

The song’s lyrics paint a vivid picture of a golfer struggling to make par, slicing his drives into the woods, and duffing his chips into the sand. Keith’s self-deprecating humor shines through as he recounts his own golfing woes, admitting that he’s “no Tiger Woods” and that his game is more “hit and pray” than skill and precision.

Despite his struggles, the narrator of the song never loses his love for the game. He acknowledges that golf is “not for the faint of heart” but insists that it’s worth the effort, even for those who are more likely to find themselves in the rough than on the fairway.

The chorus of “Shitty Golfer” is a rallying cry for all those who have ever picked up a club and experienced the frustration of a missed putt or a wayward shot. Keith sings, “There’s a whole lotta folks like me out there / Who ain’t no good at golf, I swear / But we love it just the same / Even though we’re a shitty golfer’s shame.”

“Shitty Golfer” is more than just a funny song about a bad golfer; it’s a celebration of the camaraderie and shared experiences that make golf such a popular pastime. It’s a reminder that even the most skilled players have their bad days, and that the true joy of the game lies not in perfection but in the challenge and the shared experience.

So, the next time you find yourself hacking your way through the woods or three-putting from the green, remember that you’re not alone. There’s a whole community of “shitty golfers” out there who share your pain and your passion for the game. And if you happen to stumble across Toby Keith on the course, be sure to buy him a beer and commiserate over a round of your “not-so-great” golf.Toby Keith Thanks His Fans for the Love and Support

Video 

Lyrics: Shitty Golfer

I’m a shitty golfer, you can ask my wife
I’ve been out there hackin’ every day of my life
I got the shorts and all the plaid sweaters
And new taylormade driver didn’t make me any betterMan, I hit ’em fat and I hit ’em thin
I roll ’em in the bunker’s man, I hit ’em again
Slice ’em in the bushes, crank ’em in a creek
I popped that sucker up and hooked it out in the streetYeah, I’m 245 right down the middle
And I’ll miss the green, to the left just a little
Chili dip a wedge, and put it all together
Hit that son of a bitch right up there in the leather
If you call that good, and let me press on the side
You can put me down for a fiveHey, I’m a shitty golfer, most of us are
But we carry our clubs in the back of our cars
What else you gonna do when you’re out of town
And you need to waste a whole day and shoot another roundMan, I played Augusta, and I played Pebble Beach
And one time at Sawgrass I shot 83
If I live long enough to be 88
I think I’ll celebrate it by shooting my age

Yeah, I’m 245 right down the middle
And I’ll miss the green, to the left just a little
Chili dip a wedge, and put it all together
Hit that son of a bitch right up there in the leather
If you call that good, and let me press on the side
You can put me down for a five, oh yeah
You can put me down for a five

You Missed

The ink was barely dry on Whitey Shafer’s latest divorce papers when he sat down to map out the fictional geography of his own heartbreak. Sanger D. Whitey Shafer sat in a Nashville room contemplating his mounting legal bills and a life of complicated romantic exits. He found a bitter sort of comedy in the mess, mapping out a fictional geographic gauntlet across Texas where every town held a woman he owed something to. He did not write this map alone; he penned the lyrics alongside his wife at the time, Lyndia. It was a domestic collaboration built on the foundation of their own fraying reality, documenting a man terrified to cross the state line because of the ghosts waiting in Houston, Lubbock, and Texarkana. When George Strait took the song into the studio, he did not lean into the desperation. He treated the lyrics with a cool, detached resignation that turned a personal wreck into a standard. The fiddle kicked in, clean and bright, masking the reality that the man writing the words was essentially charting his own ruin. There was a profound, quiet irony in how perfectly the arrangement clicked into place while Shafer’s own life was busy unraveling in the background. Years later, the song remains a fixture in every bar from Abilene to Amarillo, a perfect piece of Western swing engineering. History eventually caught up to the lyrics, as Lyndia herself became just another name on the long list of Shafer’s former wives. The upbeat tempo masks the alimony, and the steel guitar rings out over the wreckage of a life turned into a chorus.

“I AM NOT ASKING FOR A HERO, JUST SOMEONE TO REMAIN UNTIL THE LIGHTS GO DOWN,” KENNY ROGERS MUTTERED TO THE ENGINEER BEFORE LAYING DOWN THE VOCAL TRACK. He had sung thousands of lines about high-stakes risks and lonesome train rides, but this specific take demanded a vulnerability that made the studio air feel thin. It was the sound of a man who had sold his soul to the industry finally stopping to ask the room if anyone could hear him. Kenny Rogers spent forty years as a professional fixture, a man who projected the image of the invincible gambler and the steady hand in a chaotic world. His voice was a reliable comfort to millions, a deep, warm anchor for listeners who viewed him as someone who always possessed the right answer or the perfect piece of stoic advice. But when the house lights dimmed and the applause faded, that projection often left a heavy, suffocating silence in the dressing room that no amount of platinum records could fill. In 1997, while recording for the album Across My Heart, Rogers stepped away from the usual bravado and the polished, radio-ready persona that defined his later years. He entered the booth to record “See Me Through,” a track that bypassed the typical commercial polish to reveal a man tired of being the permanent pillar of strength. It was not a desperate reach for sympathy, but a quiet, honest confession that the person everyone relies upon is often the one struggling the most to find a reason to remain standing. The song remains a masterclass in professional restraint. There is no soaring crescendo, only the weary, grounded weight of a man asking for someone to simply sit with him through the static. He stopped trying to be the hero for three minutes and instead acknowledged the fragile reality that persists after the spotlight finally goes cold.

“JUST LET ME HAVE THE LAST WORD ON THIS ONE, KENNY,” DOLLY WHISPERED WHILE ADJUSTING HER HEADPHONES. He laughed, that deep rumble hitting the monitors, and let her steer the final chorus into a place neither had planned. The resulting take turned a tired pop standard into an intimate negotiation between two heavyweights who knew exactly how much space to leave for each other. There was an uncanny ease in the way Kenny and Dolly occupied a microphone together, a kind of shorthand that only comes from decades of shared road grease and lonely hotel rooms. When they decided to track that old rhythm and blues staple, Love Is Strange, they weren’t looking for a radio hit. They were looking for the space between the notes, that quiet, dusty air where two lifelong friends could just talk. Kenny brought the heavy, grounded weight of a man who had seen too much, while Dolly possessed that sharp, silver-tongued wit that could cut through any pretense in the room. They didn’t just harmonize; they engaged in a playful, dangerous dance of familiarity. Most duets are forced marriages of convenience, calculated in executive boardrooms to shift units. This was something else entirely. It sounded like an unscripted conversation, a series of knowing glances caught on tape where the melody mattered less than the subtext. You can hear them smiling through the vocal booths, leaning into each other with the kind of comfort that only exists when you stop trying to impress the world and start paying attention to the person standing right next to you. In the final mix, the gloss of the production fades into the background, leaving only the sound of two distinct lives briefly overlapping. It serves as a reminder that the most authentic music often happens when the cameras stop rolling and the tape is left running, capturing the simple, fragile beauty of a human connection that requires no explanation at all.

DOLLY PARTON LIVED HER ENTIRE LIFE IN THE PUBLIC EYE, YET IT TOOK HER FINAL EXIT FOR THE WORLD TO FINALLY SEE THE WOMAN BEHIND THE RHINESTONES. Sally Field stepped onto the stage at the 78th Emmy Awards, not as a Hollywood peer, but as a grieving friend who had known the person that the stage lights usually obscured. Her voice cracked, not with the practiced polish of a televised tribute, but with the raw weight of a woman who remembered the quiet, humbler days on the set of Steel Magnolias. She spoke of the humanity that lived underneath the wigs and the industry machinery, grounding the glittery spectacle in a very human sorrow that transcended the screen. Reba McEntire followed, wearing Dolly’s own butterfly ring—a tactile, heavy piece of history that seemed to vibrate with the ghost of its original owner. As she began “Appalachian Memories,” a grainy clip of Dolly introduced the song, creating a ghostly duet across decades. It was a stark, jarring reminder that while the voice in the recording was immortal, the breathing, weeping woman who once walked the Smoky Mountain ridges was gone. The room went quiet as Reba navigated the song’s mountain roots. There were no cameras for the moments that mattered most to Dolly, only the cold, bright light of the stage and the weight of a jewelry piece that felt far heavier than gold. When the music stopped, the silence that hung in the theater felt less like a ceremony and more like the heavy, still air of a mountain hollow at dusk.