Bryson DeChambeau Mocks Matt Fitzpatrick on IG Live After Ryder Cup!

Bryson DeChambeau Mocks Matt Fitzpatrick on IG Live After Ryder Cup!

I love this kind of match, right? I love the uh the smasher of Bryson full swing straight up in the air at the green pumping the crowd up as best he can. The most insane comeback in golf history wasn’t just about birdies and bunkers. It was a war fought swing by swing with Bryson Desambo clawing back from humiliation to rewrite golf’s history books. But what really fueled his rage and how did it change everything for Team USA? Stay tuned. I’ve got the full details. [Applause] We’ll be hitting the second shot first most of the day. The stage was set in New York September 2025. The air thick with swagger and grudges. Team Europe captained by Luke Donald strutdded into Beth Paige Black holding a 125 lead eyeing their first Road Rider Cup win since the miracle at Medina. Team USA under Keegan Bradley needed a miracle of their own and fast. The rivalry wasn’t just about golf anymore. It was geopolitical theater. Live golf defectors, bruised egos, and online taunts turned fairways into battlefields. At the center of it all, Matt Fitzpatrick, England’s meticulous tactician, versus Bryson Dshambo, America’s musclebound meme factory. Bryson called Beth Paige our fortress. While Fitzpatrick responded, “Accuracy wins wars. Oh, the foreshadowing.” Fans poured in, “40,000 strong, flags waving, beers spilling, heckles flying, USA!” Chance roared every time Dambo grunted through a 320 yard drive while European fans countered with slow mocking claps. By the time both men reached the first tea at 11:25 a.m. ET, the energy was riotous. Cameras caught Bryson flexing for the crowd, Fitzpatrick pretending not to notice. The entire Rder Cup seemed to hang on their dynamic. Power versus precision, chaos versus calm. But behind the polite golf smiles, both men knew this wasn’t about strokes gained or fairways hit. This was about national pride, redemption, and humiliation. All about to explode on American soil. From the first swing, Fitzpatrick played like a man on a mission or a man possessed. His opening birdie on the par4 first hole sliced through Bryson’s bluster like a scalpel through stake. By the third, Dashambo three putted from 40 ft, gifting Fitzpatrick another. The Englishman’s lead grew to two up, then three, then four. By the sixth hole, it was five up. The kind of lead golf historians whisper about. Beth Paige Black, usually a carnival of sound, began to sound like a funeral for American hope. Every Fitzpatrick fairway hit was a dagger. Every Dshambo missed putt, a groan from the bleachers. Commentators compared Fitzpatrick’s rhythm to surgical precision. He wasn’t showy. He wasn’t loud. He was lethal. Dshambo, meanwhile, kept swinging like he was trying to win a long drive contest, not a RDER Cup match. On hole seven, the contrast reached comedy. Bryson sprayed his drive into a bunker. Fitzpatrick calmly played from the same trap to 10 ft and drained the putt. Five up. The British tabloids could already taste the headline, “Fits magic destroys the beast.” Yet in the crowd’s booze and Bryson’s clenched jaw, there was something dangerous brewing, the faintest pulse of defiance, Fitzpatrick might have been dismantling him technically, but emotionally. Bryson was beginning to rage. And if history has taught us anything about Bryson de Shambo, it’s this. Rage, when mixed with 350 yard drives and a home crowd ready to combust, can turn humiliation into history. By the eighth hole, Bryson looked broken, his cap low, his smile gone, his body language screaming, “Make it stop.” The crowd, once his army, started murmuring. But then golf’s chaos engine clicked. Fitzpatrick, for once, flinched, am 9-footer for par on eight. Desambo finally took a hold. One spark, one roar, one glimmer of hope. “Bry, son. Bry, son,” they chanted, voices resurrecting his confidence. The ninth hole became a cinematic pivot. Bryson’s drive flew 350 yards dead center. Fitzpatrick blinked. A wedge, a roll, a birdie. Three down. He fist pumped like he just won the tournament. Something shifted. The crowd fed him and he fed right back. For the first time all day, Fitzpatrick looked human. Beth Page turned feral. Flags waving, chance booming, commentators screaming about a possible resurrection. Desambo’s datadriven mind melted into pure adrenaline. He wasn’t calculating anymore. He was feeling. And as he approached the back nine, momentum had swung. Fitzpatrick still had control technically, but the match had become theater. A fist fight disguised as golf. Bryson started talking to himself, talking to fans, even talking to Fitzpatrick. You hearing that? They’re with me. Fitzpatrick just smiled that small infuriating smile. The one that says, “You’re still losing.” But by whole 10, the Rder Cup narrative was changing. USA once written off was stirring. Desambo’s energy bled into other matches. Captain Bradley started fistp pumping again. Suddenly, it wasn’t just a match. It was a movement. And the man once booed for joining Liv was becoming unbelievably the American hero of Beth Page. Then it happened. The explosion, the back nine began and Bryson Desambo turned from statistical sideshow to spiritual awakening. Hole 11, a par three carved into the chaos became his baptism. A seven iron to 8 ft birdie. The crowd detonated. Two down. Someone screamed. Hole 12. Driver wedge 6-foot birdie. One down. Now Fitzpatrick, so cool for so long, started blinking faster, pacing slower. The rhythm was gone. Desambo, sweating and grinning like a man possessed, waved his cap to the crowd. They fed off him, drunk on the drama. Fitzpatrick, meanwhile, was entering golf’s crulest nightmare, watching perfection dissolve. On the 13th, Desambo sent a missile over the bunkers, found the green, and rolled a 10-footer for birdie. Fitzpatrick matched him barely. The duel had turned into a symphony of defiance. Stat sheets later showed Desambo gaining plush 3.2 strokes putting over four holes. But this wasn’t math. This was theater. Keegan Bradley was fist pumping from the team box. The US bench howled. Beth Paige, a cathedral of noise, had flipped from despair to delirium. Hole 14 nearly became the tipping point. Fitzpatrick hold from 15 ft for par, staring down Bryson as the American missed from 12. But it didn’t matter. The energy was irreversible. Commentators whispered about a comeback for the ages. Desambo was no longer fighting Fitzpatrick. He was fighting fate. And fate at Beth Page had a red, white, and blue paint job. By the time they reached 17, even the air felt electric. The scoreboard glowed all square. Fitzpatrick’s five-hole cushion had evaporated like mist. Desambo, red-faced, and defiant, had clawed his way from the abyss. The par 317th, short, brutal, famous for ruining careers, was about to write history. Fitzpatrick hit first, a dart that landed 20 ft short. His putt lipped out so dramatically it could have been scripted. The gasp from the crowd was cinematic. Desambo stepped up, eyes unblinking, crowd dead silent. A smooth roll dead center. The place exploded. Bryson screamed, “Let’s go.” and leapt like a man liberated from gravity. All square heading to 18. A duel turned resurrection. The 18th hole was chaos incarnate. Fitzpatrick left rough. Bryson short in the bunker. Two terrible lies. Two impossible hopes. Desambo blasted to 10 ft. Fitzpatrick chipped to six. A hush. Fitzpatrick missed. Bryson missed. The match hald. The scorekeepers scribbled in disbelief. Half point each. But what a half point. It didn’t win the cup, but it resurrected the soul of American golf. Europe would still lift the trophy, but no one was chanting Europe. They were chanting Bryson. The comeback was complete even without a win. Fitzpatrick looked hollowed, staring into the gallery. Bryson tossed his ball into the crowd like a rock star throwing a mic. Golf had just witnessed lunacy disguised as legacy and everyone loved it. When the dust settled, when the roars faded into post-match interviews and champagne soaked selfies, one truth remained. Bryson Desambo had rewritten the writer Cup’s script. Europe won the 2025 Cup 14.5 to 13.5. But the moral victory belonged to the man who refused to stay buried. From five down humiliation to hald heroism. Bryson’s Sunday was an emotional rebirth, the kind that turns athletes into folklore. At 2:45 p.m. ET, the match ended in a tie. The moment every future Rder Cup documentary will slow down to black and white. Fitzpatrick, ever the gentleman admitted he just wouldn’t go away. Keegan Bradley called him our heart. And for once, Bryson wasn’t the divisive villain. He was the embodiment of American fight. The storylines multiplied like memes, Fitzpatrick’s falter, Europe’s nervy triumph, Bryson’s vindication after years of LIIV ridicule. Even Luke Donald, victorious captain, conceded that match changed the energy of the whole day. Indeed, it did because for three delirious hours, golf forgot its rules, its decorum, its polite claps. It became pure theater. In the aftermath, social media crowned it the most insane comeback in golf history. Bryson, eyes wet, told reporters, “I love my country.” Fitzpatrick, understated as ever, replied, “Pressure defines us.” And in that single contrast, raw heart versus cold control, the sport rediscovered its drama. So yes, Europe kept the cup, but Bryson Desambo, he kept the moment. And that’s how one man turned humiliation into legend. Bryson didn’t just fight Fitzpatrick. He fought doubt, ridicule, and his own demons. But there’s still more beneath the roar. Unseen tensions, rivalries, and moments that changed the Ryder Cup forever. Hit subscribe because this saga is just getting started.

Bryson DeChambeau Mocks Matt Fitzpatrick on IG Live After Ryder Cup!