Eric and Jack Surwald

Lyrics

NORTHRIDGE TAKEOVER Heavy bass • dusty drums • sinister piano [Intro — spoken] Yeah… Eric Rakestraw. Jack Serwall. Y’all had a nice little tournament. Then we pulled up. Team Ramrod, motherfuckers. [Hook] Rakestraw! Serwall! Coming for the crown, Northridge knows when the boys touch down. Eagles and birdies, fucking shit up, Make the whole damn field say, “Those boys too much.” One match, two match—line ’em up quick, Came to Northridge, made the course our bitch. Big putts dropping, hear that cup talk back— Ramrod in the building, put the trophy in the bag. [Verse 1] Eric on the first tee, coffee in his hand, Starter checks the sheet like, “Well, there goes the plan.” Jack says, “Who we playing?” They point across the box, Two boys stretching like that’s gonna help their odds. Driver head covered till the money gets discussed, Then he peels it off slow—“You boys playing with us?” First one down the middle, second tight against the pin, They were talking in the parking lot; they ain’t talked since. Rakestraw rolls a twenty-footer, walking halfway through, Jack’s already laughing—“That’s another one on you.” They ask, “Was that good?” Eric says, “You tell me.” Ball rattles in the cup—now the whole damn green empty. No breakfast ball, no “I wasn’t ready,” Hands getting shaky while the boys stay steady. Two up through three, let the scoreboard speak, All that clubhouse chatter got quiet this week. [Hook] Rakestraw! Serwall! Coming for the crown, Northridge knows when the boys touch down. Eagles and birdies, fucking shit up, Make the whole damn field say, “Those boys too much.” One match, two match—line ’em up quick, Came to Northridge, made the course our bitch. Big putts dropping, hear that cup talk back— Ramrod in the building, put the trophy in the bag. [Verse 2] Par five, Jack looks over—“Think I’m going in two.” Other team lays up; Jack waves as he plays through. Long iron climbing, lands soft, takes a hop, Now they’re standing by the bunker watching eagle putts drop. Eric’s got a wedge with the grooves worn clean, Throws it past the flag, brings it back across the green. Somebody says, “Lucky.” Jack says, “That makes eight.” Funny how that luck keeps showing up all day. They brought matching polos; we brought a problem, Every time they find a birdie, one of us tops ’em. Cart speaker knocking, pencil wearing thin, Another little circle, another hole we win. By the back nine, nobody’s asking for a press, They’re checking on the lunch menu, hoping this ends. Shake hands early, boys, appreciate the round— We’ll be at the bar when the next team comes around. [Bridge — crowd chant] Who brought the birdies? WE DID! Who made the eagle? JACK DID! Who sank the dagger? ERIC! Who wants the next match? SEND IT! [Final Hook] Rakestraw! Serwall! Coming for the crown, Northridge knows when the boys touch down. Eagles and birdies, fucking shit up, Raise a middle finger, then raise that cup. One match, two match—line ’em up quick, Came to Northridge, made the course our bitch. Last putt falls and the whole crowd knows— Team fucking Ramrod. That’s how it goes. [Outro — spoken] Leave the pin in. We ain’t gonna be here long.