TL;DR: “Stick,” Apple TV+’s golf-infused dramedy, stars Owen Wilson in what feels like a cross between a low-key redemption arc and a gentle road trip with daddy issues. It’s solid, charming, and quietly watchable—but never quite hits a hole-in-one. Final Score:

The Sweet Spot Between Redemption and Regression

Let’s get one thing out of the way: I don’t like golf. I’ve never played it, never watched it with anything approaching genuine curiosity, and even the video game versions make me feel like I’m trapped in a polite purgatory. So when Apple TV+ dropped Stick, a half-hour comedy-drama about a washed-up golf pro finding meaning again through mentoring a troubled teen, I entered with the kind of expectation normally reserved for airport novels and hotel room art. And yet, somehow, I stuck with Stick.

Owen Wilson plays Pryce Cahill, a man whose name sounds like he should be selling artisanal maple syrup, not triple-bogeying his way through an existential crisis. Pryce is a former golf prodigy, a man who once flirted with greatness before flaming out spectacularly in front of a national audience. Now, he teaches golf to the semi-rich and semi-delusional, hustles local bars with his buddy Mitts (played with gravelly resignation by Marc Maron), and shuffles around the remnants of his former life like a man perpetually surprised that rock bottom has a basement.

Owen Wilson, Patron Saint of Washed-Up Whimsy

It would be easy to shrug this off as another gently used sports redemption story. But Wilson’s presence saves Stick from sinking into the swamp of forgettable streaming content. He’s perfected a certain brand of low-frequency charm—equal parts surfer wisdom and midlife melancholy. Here, his Pryce is less a caricature and more a man trying to un-knot years of disappointment with whatever tools he has left, even if they’re mostly rusty clubs and half-remembered swing techniques.

When he meets Santi (Peter Dager), a teenage prodigy with a swing smoother than my last five therapy sessions, Stickfinally tees up its emotional core. Santi is all bottled frustration and bravado, sneaking into the country club to hit balls like it’s a form of rebellion. He’s clearly gifted, and Pryce sees in him not just talent, but the slim chance to rewrite his own legacy.

Found Family, Found Footing

If Stick feels like Ted Lasso in golf cleats, that’s no accident. The show leans hard into the found-family dynamic: Santi’s fiercely protective mother Elena (played with steely warmth by Mariana Treviño) insists on chaperoning the tournament road trip; Mitts reluctantly signs on as RV driver and emotional ballast; and somewhere along the way, a sacked bartender named Zero (Lilli Kay) jumps aboard to complete this ragtag sports commune.

But where Ted Lasso elevated itself through sharp writing, cultural tension, and unexpected pathos, Stick is content to play it safe. It offers life lessons in tidy aphorisms (“You can only control your swing” becomes the show’s emotional thesis) and resolves conflict with the soothing predictability of a dad-hug. It’s never boring, but it rarely surprises.

The Golf Problem (or Why We All Kinda Miss Football)

Here’s the thing: golf, for all its zen meditativeness and metaphorical potential, is a tough sport to build television around. It lacks the cinematic flair of football or the primal energy of basketball. You can dress it up with drone shots and percussive editing all you like, but in the end, it’s a guy hitting a ball into a hole far away. That low-stakes aesthetic seeps into the show itself, which never quite finds the kinetic drive to match its emotional beats.

And yet… there’s something comforting in that low tempo. Stick is the kind of show you watch with a blanket over your knees and a mug of something warm in your hands. It’s a show for Sundays, for end-of-the-day decompressing, for quiet nods instead of belly laughs. It’s honest, and often lovely, but it feels like it’s missing that final burst of creative energy that could have made it sing.

The Verdict

By the time the RV pulls into the final tournament, and Pryce’s inevitable emotional climax arrives (you’ll see it coming a mile away, but you won’t mind), Stick has gently worked its way into your good graces. It’s never trying to be a masterpiece, and maybe that’s part of its charm. In an era of loud prestige television and ironic antiheroes, Stick is a soft-spoken meditation on regret, mentorship, and second chances.

But like a good swing with a bad aim, it doesn’t always land.