The golf world, often a sanctuary of fairways and measured swings, erupted into a firestorm of controversy in late November 2025 when influencer and former pro Paige Spiranac found herself at the center of cheating allegations during the high-stakes Internet Invitational. The Barstool Sports-hosted event, which pitted social media stars against each other for a $1 million purse at Payne’s Valley Golf Course in August, drew millions of views for its blend of trash talk and tee shots. But it was a single moment in the final round – Spiranac brushing down tall fescue grass near a teammate’s ball – that ignited a backlash so fierce it left the 32-year-old grappling with tens of thousands of death threats and a temporary retreat from social media.
The incident unfolded on camera during the finale, where Spiranac, teamed with Good Good Golf’s Malosi Togisala and Barstool’s Frankie Borrelli, squared off against opponents Brad Dalke, Francis Ellis, and the late Cody “Beef” Franke – whose untimely passing in October added an emotional layer to the tournament’s legacy. As Togisala prepared his shot from the rough on a par-5, footage captured Spiranac stepping into the grass and flattening it with her foot, seemingly to clear her stance. Opponents called her out immediately, leading to an on-course confrontation that reduced Spiranac to tears. “I didn’t know you couldn’t do that,” she stammered, insisting it was an innocent mistake to identify the ball and avoid interference. Her team ultimately lost on the 18th hole amid separate scrutiny over Togisala’s rangefinder use – dubbed “Slopegate” – but the damage was done. The clip went viral, amassing over 2.7 million YouTube views and spawning endless memes, with critics branding her a “cheat” and questioning her professional credentials.
Spiranac, who turned pro in 2016 and now boasts 4 million Instagram followers through her golf tips, playing lessons, and unapologetic glamour, vanished from the public eye for nearly two weeks. The silence was deafening for a personality known for her bold takes on everything from LIV Golf to LPGA prize money. When she resurfaced on November 25 via a raw Instagram Stories Q&A, her statement was as concerning as it was candid: an admission of ignorance about a rule she’d unwittingly broken, coupled with a raw recounting of the vitriol that followed. “I am painfully, painfully embarrassed that I did not know that rule,” she confessed in a video, her voice steady but eyes betraying the toll. “But I would never intentionally cheat. In all my years of playing golf, I have never been accused of cheating.” She elaborated that the USGA rulebook – a 160-page tome of minutiae – had tripped her up, likening it to distinctions even pros debate, like loose impediments versus growing grass. “I’ve seen pros shimmy back into a tree and move a branch – that’s fine as long as you don’t break it,” she added, pointing to perceived hypocrisies.
The “concerning” edge to her words stemmed not just from the vulnerability – a rarity for the self-assured Spiranac – but from the harrowing aftermath she detailed. “The hate I received was the worst I’ve ever gotten in 10 years online,” she revealed, estimating “tens of thousands” of death threats flooding her DMs. Messages ranged from “vile” personal attacks to explicit calls for harm, pushing her to consult lawyers about restraining orders. “It got to the point where I was like, ‘Do I need security?'” she shared, crediting her support system – family, friends, and a tight-knit circle – for pulling her through. Spiranac emphasized the irony: With cameras everywhere and a million dollars at stake, “to blatantly cheat would be insane.” She owned the infraction – brushing grass down is prohibited under Rule 8.1, which bars improving conditions affecting a stroke – vowing, “I’ll never do it again.” Yet, she lamented the disproportionate outrage, especially as her team lost anyway, framing it as “karma” in the eyes of detractors.
Her defense drew a mixed chorus. Teammate Frankie Borrelli, on Barstool’s “Fore Play” podcast, backed her unequivocally: “I totally don’t think she was trying to do anything to help us win… The footage doesn’t look the best, but do I think she was improving the lie? No.” Golf instructor Jonathan Yarwood echoed this on X, calling the backlash a “joke” and praising Spiranac’s integrity: “All she is doing is identifying her golf ball. It’s allowed. No grass was broken.” Critics, however, were unrelenting. Influencer Kinny Games dismissed her claim as “absolute and utter crap,” arguing no pro would miss such a basic rule, while others accused her of playing the victim to salvage her image. The divide highlighted golf’s purist underbelly, where influencers like Spiranac – blending sex appeal with sport – often face amplified scrutiny.
In a plot twist that softened the narrative, revelations emerged on December 2 from Ellis himself, on the “Son Of A Boy Dad” podcast. Despite clashing with Spiranac during the match, he disclosed she’d anonymously donated her entire $15,000-$16,000 day-two skins winnings to Franke’s family foundation – without fanfare or expectation of credit. “She just told payroll, ‘Send it to Beef’s family,'” Ellis marveled, calling it “a significant amount of money” and “impressed that it would never have gotten out if I hadn’t told it.” Fellow competitor Roger Steele matched the gesture, but Spiranac’s quiet act – aligning with her history of charity, like raising $20,000 for anti-bullying via auctions – shifted perceptions. Golf Digest hailed it as the “real story” behind the noise, with X ablaze in praise: “Absolute legend,” “The real MVP.” NUCLR Golf amplified the news, garnering over 1,000 likes and reframing her as resilient rather than ruined.
By early December, Spiranac had pivoted to lighter fare, teasing her 2026 calendar with sultry signing-session photos and cheeky posts poking fun at the drama – like a meme captioned with a winking reference to “improving lies.” The gesture underscored her trademark blend of defiance and allure, turning adversity into engagement. As the Internet Invitational’s inaugural run cements its place in creator golf lore – honoring Franke with its prize – Spiranac’s saga serves as a cautionary tale for the digital age. In a sport built on honor, one misstep can cascade into chaos, but her unfiltered defense and hidden kindness reveal a competitor more human than headline. For Spiranac, the fairway ahead looks clearer: Swing hard, own the rough, and let the ball – not the trolls – decide the score.
