Ever watched someone on the EuroDov Tour stripe a drive, chunk a wedge, melt down over a three-putt, or casually win another trophy — and thought:

“Who does this guy REMIND me of?”

Well, we’ve finally answered the question nobody asked but everyone secretly wanted to know.

Below you’ll find every EuroDov Tour player matched with a professional golfer from history — based on style, mentality, strengths, weaknesses, swagger, emotional temperament, and occasionally pure chaos energy.

This is NOT scientific.
This is NOT statistical.
This is DEFINITELY not fair. But it is accurate in spirit — and very funny.

Ladies and gentlemen…

Welcome to: “EuroDov — The PGA Multiverse Edition.”

Enjoy — and if you disagree with your comparison…well… play better.

Alan Duncan → Sergio García

When Alan is in rhythm, he swings a golf club like it’s a natural extension of his own body — pure, athletic, reactive golf. The sound of impact is heavy and sharp, the trajectory is piercing, and for several holes at a time, he looks like he could beat anyone.

But like Sergio, Alan’s true battle isn’t with the swing — it’s with the brain. You can almost see the storm clouds gather above him after a bad bounce or a misread putt. Eyes widen. Head cocks. A sigh escapes. The emotional dialogue begins.

Yet when he channels that emotion into focus rather than frustration, Alan plays tournament-winning golf. That duality — genius and chaos — is what makes watching him compelling. Just like Sergio, you never quite know which version is going to show up — but either way, it’s entertaining.

Ally Greenshields → Dustin Johnson

Ally plays golf like he’s just wandered onto the course while looking for his car… and then casually hits it 310 down the middle. There’s no strain. No drama. No visible intensity. It’s like nature just gifted him a swing.

He embodies that Dustin Johnson energy of “hit it far...find it...hit it further.” And he does.

But the resemblance isn’t just physical or mechanical — it’s emotional. Ally’s internal emotional line is perfectly flat. He doesn’t get rattled, doesn’t get overly excited, doesn’t brood, doesn’t overanalyse… he simply plays.

When he smiles or reacts, it feels completely genuine — just a guy enjoying being outside launching rockets. And like DJ, you can’t help but feel that if he ever fully harnessed the mental approach of a killer, he could dominate.

Callum McNeill → Jim Furyk

Callum’s swing would never make a golf textbook — but it might make a documentary. It’s unique to him. Unmanufactured. Untampered. Everything about his motion screams: “This is what my body does naturally — I’m not fixing it.”

Just like Furyk, the beauty lies in the repetition, not the aesthetics. It comes back to square at impact more reliably than many prettier swings.

And the Major win he owns? That seals the comparison. Callum doesn’t need approval — he needs results. And he gets them.

Golf history is full of players with “perfect” swings who never won a thing.

Callum — like Furyk — wins anyway.

Daniel Peck → Rickie Fowler

Daniel steps onto the tee like a golfer who understands he’s part athlete… and part brand. Clean outfits, well-chosen colours, slightly extra on the details — he always looks like a player.

Then he hits the ball, and people double-take. “How is that ball speed coming from that frame?”

His swing is coiled and explosive — like Rickie at his best — and he’s fun to watch because he plays with personality. He takes on shots, hunts flags, and brings energy to the round.

Even when he’s not winning, he’s still noticeable — the way Rickie was always on TV even when he wasn’t in contention. Style matters. Swagger matters. Daniel has both, and the results to back them.

David McColgan → Rory McIlroy

David is the Tour’s gravitational centre. The one everyone watches. The one whose results define what “good” looks like. Rory’s shadow looms over every course he walks onto — and David carries that same leader’s aura.

He isn’t just long — he’s effortlessly long.
He isn’t just accurate — he’s confidently accurate.
He isn’t just competitive — he’s expectant.

He knows he can win. Others know he can win. And that belief transfers into pressure — but pressure he thrives under.

When David is trailing by one or two late in a round, there’s a hush. A feeling in the group. A sense of inevitability.

“Oh no… he’s coming.”

That’s Rory energy.

Denis Duncan → Tommy Fleetwood

Denis plays golf like he’s painting a picture with the clubhead. The tempo is smooth and measured, like the metronome beat of Fleetwood’s iconic rhythm.

Both players radiate composure. You rarely see Denis rattled, rarely see him forcing a swing or lashing at a shot. He’ll take his medicine when needed, plot sensibly, and take chances only when warranted.

But there’s also that persistent thing that haunts both Denis and Tommy: the near-miss. The “almost.” You can sense that they have the game to win more often — but sometimes the cold putter or a hesitant decision holds them back.

Still — when Denis catches fire, he plays golf that feels poetic.

Greig Baxter → Bubba Watson

Watching Greig hit a golf ball is like watching someone bend physics. He sees angles nobody else sees. Others might aim straight — Greig might aim 30 yards left and curve it around a bunker like he’s negotiating a deal with aerodynamics.

Bubba never had a swing coach. Bubba never tried to be conventional. He simply created shots.

Greig is cut from that same artistic cloth. He’s playing jazz while others are reading sheet music. And when he’s cooking, he produces moments that make partners laugh and shake their heads in disbelief.

“That should not have worked…but it did.”

Jim Robertson → Lee Westwood

Jim is the wise head of the Tour — the experienced campaigner who understands the chess of golf. He knows when to be bold and when to be boring. And boring, in golf, is often brilliant.

Like Westwood, Jim doesn’t rely on raw power — he relies on intelligence. He plays to his strengths, protects his weaknesses, manages risk like a financier.

And there’s another similarity to Westwood: the dignity of the man. Respected. Uncontroversial. A pleasure to play with. A gentleman competitor.

He may not overpower a course — but he’ll quietly dismantle it.

Kevin Brannan → Adam Scott

Kevin’s swing is the kind that younger players try to copy. It’s a motion built on lines and planes and symmetry — visually perfect enough to be used in coaching demos.

And just like Adam Scott, when Kevin is on, it seems effortless. You can practically predict the ball flight the moment the club reaches halfway down on the downswing.

Both men exude aesthetic confidence — they look like good golfers before they even hit the ball. And their Major wins aren’t accidents — they are the inevitable statistical outcome of executing the game properly.

Paul Gowens → Bernhard Langer

There’s something unshakeable about Paul. He walks onto any tee box looking like he’s already solved the course in his head.

Langer made a career out of being mentally tougher than the field — and Paul has that same quiet steel. He rarely self-sabotages. Rarely forces something reckless. Rarely looks uncomfortable.

If golf tournaments were decided by psychological resilience, Paul would be the runaway world No. 1.

He’s the guy who plays chess while others play darts.

Richard Mair → Colin Montgomerie

Richard is the golfer who treats fairways like highways and rough like lava. Middle… middle… middle… nothing fancy… nothing flashy… nothing dangerous.

Montgomerie carved out a legendary career from consistency — and Richard feels like his spiritual descendant. He doesn’t do drama. He doesn’t do trickery. He does percentages.

If you’re playing alongside him, you’ll swear he’s not doing anything special — until you look at the card at the end. He beat you by three. He never took a risk. He never blinked.

Golf, Monty once said, is about relentless accumulation. Richard agrees.

Scott Gowens → Tony Finau

Scott has that modern athletic-golfer presence — powerful, rangy, fluid. His best golf looks outright dangerous. He can torch a par 5 and render a mid-iron obsolete.

Like Finau, Scott is adaptable — some days a bomber, some days a shot-maker, some days a scrambler. The potential is huge — and the unpredictability is part of the fun.

Both men have that easygoing personality — friendly, positive, good company — but you can tell there’s a competitor ready to unsheathe the sword when the moment arrives.

Stevie Orr → Ernie Els

Some people attack the golf ball. Stevie embraces it.

His swing is flowing, stretching, unhurried — the embodiment of Ernie’s “Big Easy” style. Watching Stevie hit a ball is almost meditative. The tempo hypnotises, the movement breathes.

And like Els, when he’s feeling loose and confident, he plays golf that looks like casual domination — hardly trying, yet producing excellence.

It’s golf as poetry.

Stuart Allan → John Daly

Stuart doesn’t hit golf balls — he detonates them.

His distances are not just long — they are comical. Stupefying. Demoralising for his playing partners.

Like Daly, he plays with personality — slightly wild, very likeable, immensely fun to play with.

There’s an underlying sense that Stuart doesn’t just love golf — he loves the experience of playing golf with other people. He’s the guy who turns a group into a memory.

Stuart Sutherland → Jason Day

Stuart’s game is built on talent and touch — when he’s dialled in, he looks polished and elite. He’s one of the few players capable of going low when things align.

Like Jason Day, he brings warmth and approachability. He’s never too intense, never too insular. He chats, he laughs, he lifts spirits.

But also like Day, his season can oscillate — brilliant one week, subdued the next. The game is there. The trick is summoning it consistently.

Stuart Anderson → Keith Mitchell

Stuart rides emotional momentum. When he believes — he plays great. When doubt creeps in — the wheels can loosen.

That’s not a criticism — it’s a human trait. Keith Mitchell is the same: when confidence is high, he looks like a top-10 machine. When it dips, it affects the strike.

The comparison highlights the challenge and beauty of golf: the battle is internal, not external. Stuart’s ceiling is high — and the key to reaching it lies entirely in self-trust.

Graeme Connor → Hideki Matsuyama

If the approach shot were the only shot in golf, Graeme would be a tour legend. His irons cut through air like fired arrows.

But like Matsuyama, the driver and short game can run hot or cold — sometimes wildly so.

What makes this comparison most fitting is the sense that improvement in just one area could unlock something special. Hideki finally sharpened the short stuff — and won the Masters.

Maybe Graeme’s version of that leap is still ahead.

Craig Miller → Matt Kuchar

Craig is a grinder in the truest sporting sense — a player who doesn’t need to hit it mile-long or shoot fireworks to stay competitive.

He survives. He endures. He scrapes. He claws.

Like Kuchar, Craig always seems to walk off the course having got the absolute most from his round. There’s grit there, and a dash of sneaky competitiveness.

You don’t notice him beating you — until suddenly… he has.

In the end…

This Tour isn’t just a competition — it’s a cast of characters. Each player brings something distinct — swagger, artistry, composure, chaos, charm, intelligence, or raw power.

In their own ways, every one of them has a touch of a pro — a golfing ancestor in the sport’s great lineage.

If you don’t like your comparison?
Change the swing.
Change the mindset.
Or embrace the truth.

Because in the Multiverse… his is who you are.