Growing up, the 1996 comedy Happy Gilmore was on high rotation in my household. Somehow, the story about an angry, terrible hockey player with a penchant for golf managed to tick the boxes for the whole family: There was me, a precocious eight-year-old who had an uncanny obsession with Adam Sandler, my two older brothers who didn’t even like golf and my parents, who were probably just happy my brother’s fixation on Ace Ventura was over.
