The Bones of the Bet: Why Golf Isn’t Golf Without Stakes?

Quota: You vs. Yourself (and Everyone Still Beats You)

Where you set a goal, miss it by three, and still blame the greens.Quota is golf’s version of “let’s see how delusional we really are.” Here’s how it works:

You take your handicap, subtract it from 36, and voilà—that’s your quota. Now go earn it.

Points are awarded like Stableford (Bogey = 1, Par = 2, Birdie = 4, Eagle = 8), and your job is to hit or beat your number. Most of the time, you don’t. But don’t worry—neither does anyone else. That’s the fun.

It’s a great equalizer: scratch guys need to be perfect, 20-handicaps just need to exist, and everyone has something to gripe about by the turn. You’ll hear phrases like “that’s my quota hole” or “I just need three more on the back,” followed immediately by a topped tee shot and a profanity-laced club toss.

Perfect for groups of varying skill levels, light wagering, and heavy denial.

Before there were wolf games, Vegas formats, or shady side bets involving post-round lunch tabs—there was Best Ball. The godfather of team golf wagers. The format that launched a thousand excuses and at least three passive-aggressive car rides home.

Best Ball is simple: two teams of two, best score counts. That’s it. But somehow, it turns into a mental chess match with emotional fragility on full display. Your partner makes a birdie? Great—you did your part by not making an 8. Your partner makes double? 

Guess what: you’re now expected to save the hole, the match, and your friendship with one nervy 6-footer you haven’t made all year.

It’s the original team trust fall wrapped in scorecard anxiety. One guy's booming drive and another’s silky wedge suddenly feel like a PGA pairing—until someone blades it into the pond and you’re “dormie 3” with no idea what that means but a growing sense that brunch is about to get awkward.

You play Best Ball because you believe in teamwork—until you don’t. And that, friends, is why it’s the most honest format in golf.

High/Low is what happens when you want to test friendships and basic math skills at the same time. Two teams, two players each—low score counts for one point, high score counts for another. That’s right: everyone’s swing suddenly matters, even Chad, who hasn’t hit a fairway since Memorial Day.

It’s the rare format where your partner’s 97 can actually cost you more than just dignity. You can birdie the hole and still lose if your teammate is out there curating a triple bogey disaster with two lost balls and a “foot wedge” no one saw. (But we did, Chad. We always do.).

This game rewards balance, punishes solo heroics, and guarantees that someone will utter, “We would’ve won if I had literally anyone else as a partner.” 

It’s part strategy, part support group, and all passive-aggressive scoreboard watching.

High/Low: because why let one guy ruin the hole when both of you can?

Ah, Nassau—the classic three-part wager that’s destroyed more group chats than politics or fantasy football. It’s the holy trinity of betting: front nine, back nine, and total score. Simple, right? Until your buddy presses on 15, doubles down on 17, and somehow owes you $38.75 and a hot dog.

Nassau is the OG hustle. It lulls you in with its “friendly wager” facade, then hits you with enough mid-round math to make you forget what hole you’re even on. Is it worth going for the green on a 240-yard par 4 with water left? Absolutely—because you’re down two and pride is on the line.

Best part? You can lose the round but still win the bet. Or win the round and still owe three different guys money. It’s chaos. It’s camaraderie. It’s passive-aggressive accounting at 5:45 p.m.

Nassau: for golfers who love the game, the gamble, and just enough financial ambiguity to make things interesting.

This isn't your grandpa’s weekend Nassau—this is High-Low-Junk-and-Everything-in-Between, the unhinged buffet of golf betting where every shot has financial implications and every friend becomes an accountant mid-round.

Here’s the deal:

• High/Low: Best ball from the best duo vs. worst ball from the same duo. If you're the low and your partner is the high, congrats—you just carried. Again.
• Junk: Birdies, sandies, greenies, barkies, polies, backwards putts, emotional breakdowns—anything is fair game if you can name it and someone else is dumb enough to bet on it.
• Everything in Between: Presses, autos, net skins, that guy who insists “we round down on bogey juice,” and your buddy Venmoing you $1.37 because he holed a Texas wedge from 60 feet.

It’s organized chaos. It’s beautiful. It’s why you forgot to bring your actual scorecard but have 4 side games written in Sharpie on a beer-stained napkin.

If your group chat includes the phrase “what were the stakes again?” and someone keeps referencing a “carryover from July,” congratulations—you’ve officially entered the arena. 

Golf isn’t about score. It’s about math, manipulation, and milking every par for $3 and a fist bump.

Play well. Or just win junk.

If you’ve ever wanted to play golf and simultaneously destroy friendships, Wolf is your game. It’s part strategy, part ego trip, and part psychological warfare—with just enough math to make the cart girl question what you're even doing.

Here’s how it works: each player takes a turn as the Wolf and gets to pick a partner—or go full lone-wolf mode against the field. Sounds simple… until your “friend” skips you for someone with a hotter tee shot, and now you’re out here plotting revenge by the turn.

The alliances change every hole. The trust evaporates. The side-eyes intensify. And by hole 12, you’re realizing that being chosen last in middle school was just a warm-up.

Wolf turns your casual round into Survivor: CNY Fairway Edition. It’s a game of shifting loyalties, bold moves, and that one guy who goes solo way too often “just because he feels it.”

In the end, no one really wins Wolf. But everyone gets a story—and a mild grudge that lasts until the next tee time.

Ah, the three-player round—nature’s way of saying “someone’s getting screwed today.” When you’re one golfer short of a foursome and too stubborn to cancel, you bust out the Three-Man Points Split—aka Golf’s most polite knife fight.

Here’s the setup: three players, one hole, and a constant shuffling of first, second, and third place. Points are usually split like this—6 for the hole, divvied up 4-2-0, 3-3-0, or 2-2-2 depending on ties and tantrums.

Every hole becomes a delicate ballet of ego, strategy, and the desperate hope that nobody else birdies while you chunk your 8-iron into a bunker. It’s democratic, it’s brutal, and it always leads to someone shouting, “I thought we were doing net!”

Perfect for when your fourth bails last minute and you still want the thrill of competition with the added bonus of awkward math and passive-aggressive silence on the ride home.

If you’re playing for money, keep it small—or be prepared to Venmo your pride by the 19th hole.

Welcome to Skins, the original chaos engine of golf betting—where it doesn’t matter if you triple 6 holes in a row as long as you hero one par-3 with a knockdown 8-iron and a prayer.

Here’s how it works:
Each hole is worth a "skin" (read: cold, hard cash or beer or Venmo shame). Tie the hole? That skin rolls over. Next hole? Now it’s worth two. Suddenly that tap-in par on 14 feels like a mortgage payment.

Skins rewards greatness, punishes mediocrity, and completely ignores consistency. It’s the only game where one hole can erase a day’s worth of bogeys, shanks, and regrettable swing thoughts. And let’s be honest—you’re only here to win one skin and talk about it for three hours.

Bring your wallet, your short game, and your ability to say “that wasn’t good enough” with just enough smugness to make someone three-jack the next green. Skins isn’t just a game—it’s a mindset. 

One hole at a time. One grudge forever.

In Golf Poker, birdies are nice, but a full house beats your pure swing every time. This isn’t about low scores—it’s about stacking up poker hands based on what you do out there on the course… and maybe a little creative scorekeeping.

Here’s how it works:
Each player builds a five-card poker hand over 18 holes by hitting certain “milestone” shots—par gets you a card, birdie gets you a face card, eagle? That’s an ace. But here’s the twist: trash like sand saves, long putts, or hitting a tree and still making par? 

That might just earn you a wild card. The rest? Up to the degenerates you’re playing with.

The end result? A brutal blend of chance, chipping, and chirping. You could shoot 89 and walk off with the pot. You could shoot 71 and lose to a guy who had five beers and a royal flush. It’s gloriously stupid—and dangerously addictive.

Play Golf Poker if you want to gamble, laugh, and be personally offended when your flush loses to a guy who topped two drives but made a sand save on 17.

Ah, Vegas—the golf bet that turns teammates into frenemies faster than a missed gimme on 16. You and your partner are locked in a beautiful, chaotic union where both your scores are mashed together into one horrifying 'Franken-number.'

Example: You make a 4, your partner makes a 5? That’s a 45. But if you birdie and they double? Congrats, 47. Hope you brought cash and patience.

Scoring flips fast in Vegas. There’s drama on every tee box and passive-aggressive comments flying like tee shots into the woods. The beauty? Every hole resets the rollercoaster. The nightmare? Every hole resets the rollercoaster.

Want to up the ante? Add presses. Or flips. Or the infamous “double after birdie” clause. (You’ll regret it.)

Play Vegas when you're feeling lucky… or when you want to find out just how strong your friendship really is. Because in this town, what happens on the course definitely doesn’t stay on the course.

Where being first, being closest, and being last actually pays off.

This one’s for the foursome that wants to keep it light, unpredictable, and just a little passive-aggressive. Bingo, Bango, Bongo awards points in three simple, beautifully stupid ways:

• Bingo: First player on the green? Boom — point.
• Bango: Closest to the pin once everyone’s on? Another point.
• Bongo: First to hole out? Yep, point.

Low scores? Who cares. Handicap? Irrelevant. It's all about random glory and pretending like that topped 9-iron was actually “strategic.”

Perfect for when you’re golfing with your in-laws, nursing a hangover, or just want to win something without being good. Strategy? Minimal. Fun? Maxed. Drama? 

Oh, it’s there — especially when someone three-putts just to steal Bongo.

Where Bogeys Are Fine and Pars Are Sexy

Because sometimes you deserve points just for not imploding.

Stableford flips traditional scoring on its head. Instead of counting strokes like some joyless accountant, you rack up points based on performance:

• Eagle: 4 points
• Birdie: 3 points
• Par: 2 points
• Bogey: 1 point
• Double or worse: 0 points — your shame is its own punishment

It’s the perfect format for aggressive players, recovering hackers, and anyone who's ever walked off a green saying, “Well at least I got a point.” You can tank a hole (or three), bounce back with a heroic par save, and still walk away with dignity.

Best played with your high-risk buddies who swing for greens they have no business aiming at. No blowup hole can ruin your day, unless it’s witnessed by the beer cart. And even then… you’ve still got points on the board.