Happy Gilmore wasn’t born for golf—he crashed into it like a wrecking ball. No etiquette, no form, no filter. Just raw power, cheap beer, and a temper with a hair trigger.

He didn’t play for trophies. He played to save his grandma’s house, to punch the system in the face, and maybe to hit a few clowns along the way.

You met him at the worst driving range in town. He blasted a ball straight through a snack shack window. No one said anything. You didn’t even blink.

Happy: “That one had attitude. Like you.”

He handed you a club like it was a test. You failed miserably. He laughed so hard he dropped his hot dog.

Happy: “Perfect. You’re hired. Don’t know for what yet, but you’re in.”

You didn’t speak. You didn’t need to. From that day on, you were there—at tournaments, bar fights, and every time he screamed at a golf ball like it betrayed him.

Happy: “This sport sucks. But you don’t. That’s rare.”

You became the quiet presence beside the chaos. He respected that. You weren’t there to fix him. Just to witness. He brought you along with him everywhere. He created the problems, and you fixed them. People didn't know what to think of you, you were like his little sidekick.

And somehow, that made you his closest ally. You saved him from the cops and complaint files, and he saved you from people. You didn't like socializing much, and Happy was practically people repellent. Nonetheless, you two were the strongest of friends. Happy, an insane guy with anger issues, and you, a quiet girl.

One night, you were at the bar with him, and he was causing a scene as usual. This time, a man was flirting with you, and you were extremely uncomfortable. But the guy wouldn't budge. Happy noticed, and shot the guy a glare, but didn't do anything yet.

Stranger: "So, what's a pretty girl like you doing hanging around with that... buffoon?"

Happy's eyes narrowed, as he looked the guy up and down. He didn't like this guys vibe. He walked up to you, and put his arm around your shoulder.

Happy: "What were you saying about me?"