The Greatest Oldies Music

Country

Shitty Golfer – Toby Keith

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

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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

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THREE DECADES. THREE ICONS. ONE RECORD THAT FINALLY MOVED. For thirty-five years, the number “six” stood as the absolute ceiling for a single night at the ACM Awards. It was a benchmark set by Garth Brooks in 1991, an untouchable milestone that felt like it belonged in a different era of the industry. Over the years, country music saw legends like Faith Hill and Chris Stapleton reach that same height, but for over a generation, no one could push past it. Until May 17, 2026. Ella Langley didn’t just break the record; she rewrote the scale. Walking away with seven awards—a clean sweep of every category she was nominated in—the 27-year-old from Hope Hull, Alabama, proved that the next chapter of country music isn’t just arriving; it has already taken the stage. Her wins were across the board: Female Artist of the Year, Artist-Songwriter of the Year, and critical sweeps for “Choosin’ Texas,” including Song and Single of the Year, plus a Music Event win with Riley Green. But the most striking image of the night wasn’t the trophy count. It was Langley standing beside Miranda Lambert—the woman who co-wrote and co-produced the anthem that fueled her historic night. In a business that loves to talk about “the good old days” and the untouchable nature of its legends, seeing a new artist stand on the shoulders of the giants who came before her to reach a new height was a powerful shift. Garth, Faith, and Chris Stapleton defined what was possible for thirty-five years. Ella Langley simply showed us that the ceiling wasn’t a permanent fixture—it was just waiting for the right song to push it higher. History in country music doesn’t end when a record is broken; it just gains a new perspective. The “six” record was a mountain that seemed impossible to summit, but now it’s just the base camp for whatever comes next.

SHE DIDN’T WAIT FOR THE GRIEF TO FADE. SHE WALKED ONTO THE STAGE WITH IT. Lorrie Morgan has spent a lifetime learning a lesson that most people spend a lifetime trying to avoid: how to sing while your heart is breaking. In 1989, the world watched her lose Keith Whitley, and in the decades since, she has walked that same harrowing path again. When Randy White—the man she leaned on as her rock and her champion—passed away after his own battle with cancer, the silence in her home must have been deafening. But just six days later, Lorrie was in Prestonsburg, Kentucky. She didn’t go there to perform a polished, emotionless set. She went there to exist in the only place she has ever really known: behind a microphone. The most poignant part of that evening wasn’t the headliner, but the person who opened for her: her son, Jesse Keith Whitley. To see the man who lost his father decades ago now standing as a grown man, holding the space for his mother as she navigated the loss of Randy, was a silent, powerful testament to the only kind of legacy that matters. Randy had loved Jesse as his own, and in that moment, the love they had shared didn’t feel absent—it felt present in the way a son stood by his mother’s side. Lorrie didn’t return to the stage because she had “moved on.” There is no moving on from that kind of loss. She returned because she understands that strength isn’t the absence of sorrow; it’s the ability to keep moving even when sorrow is the loudest thing in the room. When she stepped into that spotlight, she was performing an act of defiance. She was proving that while life may leave you with empty chairs and broken pieces, the music—and the family you build—is the only thing that allows you to survive the night.

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THREE DECADES. THREE ICONS. ONE RECORD THAT FINALLY MOVED. For thirty-five years, the number “six” stood as the absolute ceiling for a single night at the ACM Awards. It was a benchmark set by Garth Brooks in 1991, an untouchable milestone that felt like it belonged in a different era of the industry. Over the years, country music saw legends like Faith Hill and Chris Stapleton reach that same height, but for over a generation, no one could push past it. Until May 17, 2026. Ella Langley didn’t just break the record; she rewrote the scale. Walking away with seven awards—a clean sweep of every category she was nominated in—the 27-year-old from Hope Hull, Alabama, proved that the next chapter of country music isn’t just arriving; it has already taken the stage. Her wins were across the board: Female Artist of the Year, Artist-Songwriter of the Year, and critical sweeps for “Choosin’ Texas,” including Song and Single of the Year, plus a Music Event win with Riley Green. But the most striking image of the night wasn’t the trophy count. It was Langley standing beside Miranda Lambert—the woman who co-wrote and co-produced the anthem that fueled her historic night. In a business that loves to talk about “the good old days” and the untouchable nature of its legends, seeing a new artist stand on the shoulders of the giants who came before her to reach a new height was a powerful shift. Garth, Faith, and Chris Stapleton defined what was possible for thirty-five years. Ella Langley simply showed us that the ceiling wasn’t a permanent fixture—it was just waiting for the right song to push it higher. History in country music doesn’t end when a record is broken; it just gains a new perspective. The “six” record was a mountain that seemed impossible to summit, but now it’s just the base camp for whatever comes next.

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SHE DIDN’T WAIT FOR THE GRIEF TO FADE. SHE WALKED ONTO THE STAGE WITH IT. Lorrie Morgan has spent a lifetime learning a lesson that most people spend a lifetime trying to avoid: how to sing while your heart is breaking. In 1989, the world watched her lose Keith Whitley, and in the decades since, she has walked that same harrowing path again. When Randy White—the man she leaned on as her rock and her champion—passed away after his own battle with cancer, the silence in her home must have been deafening. But just six days later, Lorrie was in Prestonsburg, Kentucky. She didn’t go there to perform a polished, emotionless set. She went there to exist in the only place she has ever really known: behind a microphone. The most poignant part of that evening wasn’t the headliner, but the person who opened for her: her son, Jesse Keith Whitley. To see the man who lost his father decades ago now standing as a grown man, holding the space for his mother as she navigated the loss of Randy, was a silent, powerful testament to the only kind of legacy that matters. Randy had loved Jesse as his own, and in that moment, the love they had shared didn’t feel absent—it felt present in the way a son stood by his mother’s side. Lorrie didn’t return to the stage because she had “moved on.” There is no moving on from that kind of loss. She returned because she understands that strength isn’t the absence of sorrow; it’s the ability to keep moving even when sorrow is the loudest thing in the room. When she stepped into that spotlight, she was performing an act of defiance. She was proving that while life may leave you with empty chairs and broken pieces, the music—and the family you build—is the only thing that allows you to survive the night.

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HE NEVER WORE THE UNIFORM, BUT HE CARRIED HIS FATHER’S FLAG FOR THE REST OF HIS LIFE. Toby Keith’s most iconic anthem, “Courtesy of the Red, White and Blue,” was never intended to be a commercial product. It wasn’t born in a high-end Nashville writing room or designed to top the country charts. It was written in 20 minutes on a piece of scrap paper by a son grieving a father who had been taken in a sudden, senseless accident just months before the world changed on September 11, 2001. Hubert Keith Covel was not a celebrity. He was a veteran of the Korean War, a man who had given an eye to his country and spent every single day of his life making sure a flag flew from his porch. When he died in a collision on I-35, he left behind a vacuum that Toby didn’t know how to fill. When the towers fell, Toby didn’t look to the charts for inspiration—he looked to the lessons his father had hammered into him for years. His father had spent a lifetime urging Toby to support the people who do the heavy lifting—the soldiers. Toby listened. He spent the next several decades in places most artists avoid: carrier decks in the middle of the ocean, the dust of Kandahar, and the forgotten corners of Bagram. Over 18 USO tours and 250,000 service members, he became a fixture in the lives of those serving overseas, showing up not as a star, but as a representative of the man who raised him. He didn’t have to wear the uniform to understand the weight of it. By carrying his father’s flag into the most dangerous places on earth, Toby Keith turned a personal loss into a national service. Long after the stadium lights go dark and the records stop spinning, that flag in Oklahoma continues to wave. For the soldiers he sang to in the dirt and the families he supported, his music became more than entertainment—it became a promise kept to a one-eyed veteran who taught his son that being an American wasn’t just a label, but a lifelong commitment.