Harris English: The Quiet American Golfing Through Global Chaos

Harris English and the Mirage of American Exceptionalism
By Geneva Desk, Dave’s Locker International Correspondent

There is something deliciously ironic about a man named “English” becoming the quietest American success story in a sport invented by Scottish shepherds who had nothing better to do than swat rocks across rabbit fields. Yet here we are, in the Year of Our Overlords 2024, watching the 34-year-old Georgian (the U.S. state, not the Caucasus republic still waiting for NATO’s RSVP) methodically climb world golf rankings as though geopolitics were merely a background hum.

To the rest of the planet—where “football” means Lionel Messi, not the Kansas City Chiefs—Harris English is the embodiment of America’s latest export category: curated ordinariness. Europeans, who have spent centuries perfecting the art of condescension, note that English’s swing is “textbook” the way IKEA instructions are “intuitive”: technically correct and entirely devoid of soul. Meanwhile, in Singapore, where golf courses are carved out of reclaimed land because God evidently subcontracted urban planning, English’s brand of risk-averse excellence is studied by junior golfers who dream of scholarships to American universities that cost more per year than the GDP of Tuvalu.

But let us zoom out, dear reader, like a satellite watching Earth’s temperature rise another tenth of a degree. English’s resurgence—two wins in the 2020-21 season, top-10 finishes in majors, a Ryder Cup appearance where he politely collected half a point like a banker accepting a modest bonus—coincided with a global pandemic, supply-chain collapses, and the revelation that several Saudi royals enjoy golf more than human rights. LIV Golf, the breakaway league funded by oil money and existential boredom, began luring players with sums large enough to make even Swiss bankers blush. English stayed on the PGA Tour, which now markets itself as the moral high ground, a phrase that once upon a time did not require air quotes.

The international takeaway? In an age when nations weaponize trade routes and TikTok, the United States still manages to project soft power via a soft-spoken man hitting a little white ball toward suburban real-estate developments named after the ecosystems they replaced. South Korean television networks—whose audiences treat golf with the reverence Americans reserve for Marvel movies—broadcast English’s rounds with subtitles that translate “nice lag putt” into cultural commentary on American stoicism. Australian bookmakers, ever the cheerful merchants of human folly, now offer odds on whether English will ever display an emotion detectable by current facial-recognition software.

Meanwhile, in the locker rooms of Dubai and Shenzhen, agents whisper that English’s endorsement portfolio—Ping, Titleist, Ralph Lauren—is worth more than the combined annual income of every caddie in Latin America. The irony, of course, is that English’s greatest asset is his refusal to behave like an asset. While other athletes monetize their migraines on Instagram, English posts photos of freshwater fish he releases back into lakes that will probably boil by 2050.

Which brings us to the broader significance: Harris English is the perfect hero for a world exhausted by heroes. He does not kneel during anthems, date pop stars, or launch NFTs. He simply shoots 67 on Saturday, tips his cap, and drives home in a courtesy car to a mortgage he can actually afford. In an era when democracy itself feels like a provisional experiment, English’s reliability is almost subversive. The French call it “la banalité du bien”—the banality of good—a phrase they usually reserve for their own civil servants, right before striking for a four-day week.

So, as COP28 delegates argue over carbon credits in another desert nation where grass is imported by the square foot, Harris English will tee it up this week in Georgia (again, the state), chasing yet another paycheck that will, in some indirect but inevitable way, fund a yacht somewhere else. And the world will watch, half-awake, half-envious, reminded that the American dream still exists—it just looks like a quiet guy in a pastel polo, pretending the apocalypse isn’t paralleling him in a climate-controlled gallery.

Golf, after all, is the only sport where you can shoot under par while the planet officially goes over it.