It's the mid-1990s and you're walking into a college-town watering hole. It's dimly lit, there are neon and mirror beer signs, a framed autographed sports jersey is above the bar, and the floor is slightly sticky. In one shadowy corner, near the narrow hallway to the bathrooms, stands this magnificent piece of shit.
You know - it is a mortal lock - that if you stay long enough, a couple of hammered frat boys will find their way to Golden Tee and promptly engage in a long-drive contest, measuring their theoretical dicks by spinning the poor white trackball as hard as they can while not spilling their beer. It will get loud, exhortations mixing with uncreative insults, accompanied by the occasional Caddyshack misquoting.
I didn't go to bars much in college. My senior year, after turning 21, some of us would wander into the downtown hotspots. What I mostly recall is it being too loud and too crowded for my taste. And the boys at the Golden Tee. They're probably still there now.