British Open 2025: The incredible story of Ryan Peake, a former gang member and convict—and the most unlikely golfer competing at Royal Portrush

When the ball disappeared, Ryan Peake’s arms went up, and a primal roar came out—an explosive release after many hard years questioning if this moment would ever come.

Before teeing off in the final round of the 2025 New Zealand Open, Peake, 31, had received encouraging calls from his coach Ritchie Smith and PGA Tour player Min Woo Lee, both assuring him he was “already a winner” regardless of the outcome, but Peake had journeyed too far for mere moral victories.

The significance lay not entirely in the win nor its rewards, like a DP World Tour card and a spot at the British Open at Royal Portrush. That made eight-footer allowed Ryan Peake to finally outrun the shadows of his past.

A DECADE EARLIER, PEAKE CONVINCED HIMSELF prison was the natural evolution of his choices, privately relishing how it might elevate his street cred. With shoulders that strained doorframes and fists that could rewrite futures, he says the physical threats of incarceration hardly registered. Besides, his gang’s presence inside promised protection in numbers. Yet on Day 1 of his five-year sentence, the system dismantled Peake with bureaucratic precision—first through the ritual humiliation of a shower where guards catalogued his nakedness with clinical indifference, then draped his once-intimidating frame in fatigues so oversized that the fabric engulfed his massive wrists, like a child swallowed by his father’s wardrobe in a parody of manhood.

Many prisoners spend their first week in crisis care for suicide prevention, but Peake, then 21, entered general population where his fellow bikers, or “bikies,” operated. The guards marched him to a 16-square-foot cinderblock cell that reeked of its previous occupant, the floor littered with trampled debris nobody had bothered to clear. Dinner was served through a slot—a tinfoil-wrapped disappointment containing rice and what Peake would later describe as “the tiniest bit of chicken I’d ever seen.” The delivering guard said, “Enjoy it because it’s the best meal we’ve got this week.” Perched on the edge of a mattress the compression of which held the stories of others, Peake cradled the foil plate as his gaze climbed to the lone object on the wall, a cracked mirror colored with graffiti. The fractured reflection bore little resemblance to the man who was once one of his country’s most promising golfers.

The fluorescent lights went out on a timer as the cell plunged into darkness. Peake didn’t sleep much that first night, a single thought encircling his mind: “What the hell have I gotten myself into?”

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A SECOND CHANCE: Former gang member Peake served five years in prison for assault.

WREN STEINER

STORIES ABOUT RYAN PEAKE EVOKE COMPARISONS TO folk heroes. “Ryan was always a precocious talent,” says Bevan Dagg, captain of Lakelands Country Club in Perth, Australia. “He filled in one day for a seniors interclub match at 12. He beat someone 8 and 7.”

“We were playing an Australian Interstate series event at Royal Perth Golf Club,” says 2022 Open champion Cameron Smith. “Peake rocked up with a big, wide brim hat with corks on it and a fly screen because there were so many flies. He played in it all day.”

“We’re having a practice round for an Australian amateur event at Hartfield Club,” says coach Ritchie Smith. “We’re throwing balls everywhere, in bad lies, getting a feel for the greens. Maybe you’ll see a chip in or two over a practice round. That day, Peaky had 14.”

Ryan Peake is the son of a bricklayer who transitioned to greenkeeping after masonry wrecked his body. His father and grandfather played golf on the weekends, and when young Ryan asked to join them, his first few swings left them transfixed. “It was easy. Felt like a natural talent,” Ryan remembers. “Everyone was looking at each other going, ‘Oh, he’s pretty good,’ and I enjoyed it.” By his 10th birthday, Ryan had his own clubs and had begun lessons at Lakelands. Within a few years, his bedroom shelves bowed under the weight of trophies.

Despite lacking discipline during practice sessions, Peake’s talent was sufficient for junior golf. He generated astonishing power with a quick, compact swing—imagine a left-handed Jon Rahm merged with a lumberjack’s swipe. He played with abandon, prioritizing spectacular, improbable shots over course management, and thrived on competitive pressure. He was distinguished by both his physical prowess and an inclination to not defer to golf’s stuffier traditions.

“As a teacher, you care for all your students. But, boy, I loved Peakey because so many golfers … they are all sort of the same,” Ritchie says. “Peakey? He was his own self, treated everyone great, the most lovable guy. Some of the kids coming up act like golf is a job and shut people out. Peakey never let golf get in the way of humanity.”

‘It’s a tough life, being a bikie. I think they saw an opportunity for one of their own to better themselves.’

By his early teens, Peake was dominating prestigious tournaments and representing Australia alongside Cameron Smith in junior team competitions. At 17, he competed as an amateur in the Australian Open, and just a year later, impressively finished 10th at the PGA Tour Australia’s WA Open. Despite these triumphs, Peake struggled with golf’s inherent solitude. Though Lakelands provided a semblance of community where his talent earned him recognition, the age gap with most members left him adrift. He battled depression. To this day, he can’t explain its catalyst, only its presence. Lacking peer socialization, Peake says he stood out among classmates with his adult-like demeanor and was a target for bullying at school. The harassment grew so severe that his father routinely escorted him home. When he finally retaliated against his chief tormentor, the teasing ceased—but the depression persisted.

“Life’s hard,” Peake says, both looking at his past and present. “Seems like nothing ever goes right—and when things do start to go right, there’s always something that’s going to start to go wrong.”

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During his teenage years, Peake began frequenting neighborhood gatherings where he observed the fierce brotherhood among street crews. What captivated him wasn’t their revelry but their solidarity—a stark contrast to the seclusion of golf.

On paper, the Rebels motorcycle gang presents itself as a fraternity. Its constitution describes a non-profit devoted to Harley-Davidson enthusiasts who embrace freedom, counter-cultural values and brotherhood. However, Australian authorities have implicated several of its members in the past of criminal activity, including drug trafficking, weapons distribution and assaults.

On weekends, Peake would spend time in their man-cave garages filled with cars and bikes, pool tables and punching bags. Repeatedly, he probed about membership possibilities only to be dismissed with amusement. “Just enjoy being part of the clubhouse furniture,” they told him.

“I wasn’t letting anyone in the golf scene understand what scene I was into on the outside,” Peake says. “I wouldn’t even go out with my parents because I didn’t know who I was going to bump into. That’s when it became all so tiring … I just lived two lives, you know?”

Peake turned professional in 2012 at age 19—a gambit born from the belief that financial stakes might ignite purpose. Instead, it extinguished what little flame remained. His combination of raw talent and audacity supported by lackadaisical practice habits didn’t translate in the professional ranks. Though he survived cuts on Australian mini-tours, meaningful success eluded him. His depression deepened in a sport defined by its psychological rigors and inconsistent rhythms. Later that season, his competitive nadir arrived at Australasia Tour Q-School—an experience Peake describes as “the loneliest week of my existence”—when he failed to make the cut at Victoria’s Peninsula Golf Club. Upon returning home to Western Australia, he drove to the practice facility and stayed in his vehicle for 30 minutes, psychologically incapable of stepping onto the grounds. When he finally summoned the strength to pop the trunk, a realization jarred him: his clubs were missing, and more disturbingly, in the haze of his depression he had no idea where he left them. Golf had once been his release from the world, and now it had become another weight. “That’s when I knew it was over,” Peake says.

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SAFE SPACE: Peake learned the game at Lakelands C.C. in Perth, Australia.

WREN STEINER

Peake was crushed by his failure of those who had invested in him—his parents, coach and the Lakelands members whose support now felt like an unbearable weight. He drank—a lot. His once-athletic 200-pound frame ballooned toward 300, a physical manifestation of his internal collapse. He ricocheted between manual labor jobs—working in mines, plastering walls, laying bricks and mixing concrete.

Amid the wreckage of his former aspirations, one light emerged. The Rebels’ leadership had relented, and at age 21, Peake received his full patch signifying membership. “Where I was at that stage in my life, it was the only thing that brought me comfort,” Peake says. “I felt like I belonged.”

Peake acknowledges the stigma surrounding the Rebels. He doesn’t defend every action in the club’s history but insists it bears little resemblance to Hollywood portrayals of biker gangs. He refuses to criticize those who sheltered him during his darkest hours, but he pauses, contemplating that pivotal decision to join and its consequences.

“My life had fallen into depression. I lost all self-esteem. I didn’t know who I was, lost all direction in my life. What happened … I can’t say it was just one night, one mistake. It was years of build-up.”

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PEAKE WAS NEVER ONE TO BACK DOWN FROM A FIGHT. But two years into his Rebels membership, in November 2014, he found himself in far more than he’d bargained for.

Peake alleges that a person in his neighborhood made a threat to the Rebels. Peake and his friends were at a barbecue when they heard the man was home. “I will be honest with you, mate, we went over to have a conversation, to let him know if he didn’t knock it off, he was going to get punches to the head. That sounds harsh, but this person lived the same lifestyle as us, and the only way you can get through is to speak that language.” Peake and his associates approached the man’s residence when suddenly the garage door ascended. According to Peake, the man reached for a “brown object” tucked into his waistband. Peake delivered a preemptive kick, after which his companions joined the assault, one wielding a baseball bat. The confrontation resulted in multiple severe injuries to the man, including fractures to both arms and skull. (The victim did not respond to interview attempts made by Golf Digest, and his name is redacted from the public record for this case.)

Weeks later while working at the golf course, Peake spotted three unmarked police cars in the parking lot and knew they had come for him. Peake surrendered, concerned they might have forcibly entered his parents’ home searching for him. In the holding cell, he encountered a police officer he recognized—a former junior golf competitor. The officer gave Peake a look of disappointment and said, “What the f are you doing here?”

Peake received a five-year prison sentence for assault. He implicated no one else in the crime.

Hakea is an overcrowded maximum-security prison. A 2024 inspection conducted by the Australian Health Inspector concluded it had one of the worst conditions in the country: excessive confinement periods, inadequate access to fresh air, single-occupancy cells housing two inmates, restricted availability of showers and clean attire, infestation of cockroaches and rodents—conditions characterized as “cruel, inhuman, or degrading.” The facility has elevated rates of self-harm and suicide among its population.

His first week, Peake approached a corrections officer to request transfer to another cell. Unaware of the hierarchical deference expected from inmates toward prison staff, Peake responded to the guard’s derision with choice words. This transgression marked his first collision with the dynamics governing prison life. “The next day, I was in the shower, and suddenly I had 20 officers surrounding me,” Peake says. They dragged him to the detention unit, with nothing in the cell but a piece of paper and pen for the prisoner to write an apology note.

For his first year, Peake refused his mother’s visits to Hakea, unwilling to expose her to its harsh realities. His father couldn’t be held back. “I could see the disappointment in his eyes,” Peake says, “just wondering how his son went from a golfer to this.”

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FORMER PHENOM: At age 17, Peake was competing on national stages.

WREN STEINER

As hard as those visits were, they were also an inflection point. Rather than just play cards, Peake committed to becoming someone his parents could be proud of upon release. He disciplined himself physically, shedding accumulated beer weight. To change the prospect of more manual labor, he pursued studies for electrical certification. To his fellow inmates who were interested, he offered crude golf instruction in their limited time outdoors. He wrote letters of apology, including one to Ritchie Smith expressing remorse for squandering his talent.

Time moves slowly inside, Peake says. His focus was on stacking days together until they became weeks, and weeks until they became months. In 2017, two-and-a-half years into his sentence, the prison televisions broadcast Cameron Smith claiming the Australian PGA Championship. When some inmates discovered this was Peake’s friend and former teammate, they needled him about resuming his career upon release. Peake dismissed this with a laugh. Perhaps he’d play socially again, but the pro dream was dead.

Shortly after, Peake received an unexpected letter containing only Ritchie Smith’s name and contact information.

“I’ve made some crappy phone calls in my life, but this was the most nervous I’ve ever been,” Peake says. “He’s one of the best coaches in the world, and I’m just some bikie in jail … But as soon as I heard his voice, I was calm. He’s the most chilled-out person in the world.”

“I had lost touch with Peakey after he left golf and didn’t know what happened to him,” Ritchie says. “That’s not the person I knew. I called because I was genuinely worried about him. He’s a good kid. He just fucked up.”

They started speaking regularly. Peake talked about trying to learn a trade for when he got out, but Ritchie had another suggestion. “I said, ‘What about giving golf another go?’ I felt like this guy needed something to look forward to, something where he could be his best self.”

Peake was interested, but first he had to make things right with the Rebels.

Membership in an outlaw motorcycle club is understood as a lifelong commitment. Those attempting to leave have faced violent repercussions and worse. Peake felt confident that his closest supporters would back him, but knew there were others in the hierarchy who would need to be persuaded. Peake determined that if Ritchie Smith—famous for coaching Minjee Lee to three women’s major wins—still recognized potential in him, the effort was justified. He requested a formal meeting with Rebels leadership inside the prison. “I said, ‘I know this sounds stupid, but this coach teaches some of the top-ranked golfers in the world, and he thinks I can still make it as a professional. I want to take this path.’ I was worried because I didn’t want them to think I was disloyal, but I felt like I owed it to all the people around me, and myself, to try.”

To his surprise, he never received so many handshakes and hugs in one sitting. His youth might have had something to do with it, or maybe the Rebels saw what Ritchie saw. “It’s a tough life, being a bikie,” Peake says. “I think they saw an opportunity for one of their own to better themselves. They were all telling me this could be my last chance. Go earn it.”

Having maintained a good disciplinary record, Peake petitioned for relocation to a minimum-security facility for the final year of his sentence, which was approved. Geared toward reacclimating prisoners to work, Peake would be allowed as much as 12 hours outside the prison under supervision. He could hit balls, visit home and simultaneously undergo rehabilitation for a shoulder injury.

“I was up front, let him know what we are facing,” Ritchie says. “Making it as a pro, this is 1,000-to-1 shot. But if you’re willing to give it a try, so am I.”

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PEAKE HADN’T PLAYED FOR SOME TIME BEFORE HIS arrest, so when Ritchie accompanied him to a driving range session during his first week of release, Peake hadn’t struck a golf ball in six years. Though his swing appeared rusty, Ritchie was unconcerned. “His skill was never golf. He was so natural, I knew that would come back,” Ritchie says. “We were more worried about the mental side of things, reintroducing him to competition.” Within the first three months of the program, Peake returned to Lakelands for a club tournament. With family in attendance, he delivered a bogey-free 66. Despite the bittersweet necessity of returning to confinement after delivering a brief winner’s speech—“Enjoy your night, boys. I’m going back to prison”—the experience provided further motivation.

“To that point, my only real confidence came from Ritchie. Like, he’s not going to waste his time on me if I’m a charity case; he’s too busy for that. He could have made a call to make sure I was OK in jail and be done with it,” Peake says. “But that 66, it was the first time I thought, Hey, maybe I’m not completely lost.”

When he was released from prison in May 2019, Peake returned to Lakelands to work on the greenkeeping staff. Ritchie brought him around his other students, feeling they could help fill the void of belonging Peake had experienced with the Rebels. Soon Peake was holding his own against players with Australian tour cards. “He was getting under par pretty easily,” Ritchie says. “My main concern was making sure it was a joy. That’s how the burnout started in the first place. The game will come in time. Let’s just make sure he’s having fun doing it.”

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Says Peake while part of the Rebels: “I didn’t know how to be a person. The only way I can explain it is, I felt like everyone was a sheep and I was a lion.”

Meanwhile, Peake’s transition to life beyond prison walls continued. Incarceration had imposed a rigid structure—designated times for showering, meals, recreation and sleep. His regained liberty brought the paralysis of choice.

“I was freaking out. So much had changed in five years. Everyone had a cell phone now in Australia. I’d get lost because roads were different. I’d go to the grocery trying to order food to make a chicken and salad. There were like 50 different brands, plus free-range, organic. It used to be just a five-dollar pack. I’d buy a can of tuna because it was easier. I didn’t know how to be a person. The only way I explain it is, I felt like everyone was a sheep and I was a lion.”

Though those in Peake’s orbit had witnessed transformation.

“Ryan had a much clearer perspective on life and a genuine desire to make better choices. He was grateful to be given a second chance,” says his mom, Michelle. He began a relationship with a woman named Lee. While his golf prowess resurged, he progressed from local competitions to mini-tour events, with Ritchie observing remarkable advancement at six-month intervals. Though his technique remained somewhat unrefined, his dedication to practice intensified, and his formidable power persisted undiminished.

Ritchie was impressed with Peake’s psychological resilience. “He exhibited no fear of [poor] performance. Having confronted true darkness in life, a golf tournament loses its intimidation factor.”

Peake acquired a van and traversed Queensland, competing in every available tournament while supplementing his income with occasional temporary employment. By 2023, he secured partial status on the Challenger PGA Tour of Australasia before earning full playing privileges for the 2024-’25 season. Several near victories preceded his journey to the New Zealand Open.

That life-changing week began in jeopardy. Peake’s criminal record trapped him in immigration limbo in Australia for hours, threatening both his tournament entry and his plan to propose to Lee during the trip. “I was standing there with my backpack on with a ring in it, thinking, Well, this isn’t going to happen this trip, either,” Peake recalls. Finally cleared, he reached the Millbrook Resort late Tuesday, squeezing in just one practice round before the competition began. After a Friday 64 put him in contention, he took Lee on a helicopter ride that evening and proposed. She said yes.

While Lee had to go home early, she was Peake’s first call after the triumph. He quips he’s grateful he proposed when he did: “I might’ve had to spend a little bit more money on the ring.”

Peake still squirms when discussing the New Zealand Open. He harbors no illusions about its standing in golf’s hierarchy—while it attracts decent talent, the field depth pales against truly premier tournaments, but it came with the ultimate reward of a spot in the Open Championship at Portrush. His discomfort intensifies given his subsequent performance; in his blunt assessment, “I haven’t broken many eggs” since that victory. Yet in rare, quiet moments, Peake allows himself to contemplate that win, and not for its material rewards.

“Deep down, my biggest worry was running out of time,” Peake says. “I started to know I was good enough to do it. I just didn’t know if I’d get the chances to prove it.”

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WORKING ON STABILITY: Peake cashed $335,000 NZD for his win at the 2025 New Zealand Open.

WREN STEINER

PEAKE ACKNOWLEDGES HIS PREVIOUS TRAJECTORY toward self-destruction. While recognizing the compelling nature of his narrative, he understands its distinctiveness stems from misjudgments, and the exceptional golf he now plays cannot erase the anguish he inflicted upon those who love him. While he isn’t exactly remorseful about the violence that put him in jail, he is about the decisions that led to it. “I get why people reach out that are struggling in life now, but to be honest, it’s not really something that I can help them with. I’ve still got my own struggles,” Peake says. “It’s cool to see I give someone hope, but at the moment, I’m still trying to find my feet and get myself back out there.”

Those around him have seen him do the little things. A lifelong member at Lakelands was fighting cancer, and the end was near. The week he passed, Peake visited him for three hours and gifted him the 18th green flag from the New Zealand Open.

“Ryan deserves to be seen for the person he is today,” says his father, Mel, “dedicated, resilient and ready to make a meaningful impact in the golf world.”

If the idea of playing in the Open hasn’t really settled for him, Ritchie Smith explains it might be because Peake’s worried that he will be a distraction. “He still hasn’t come around to the idea that he is one of the boys,” Smith says. “He doesn’t realize he’s such a good bloke that everyone will want to be around him.”

Peake recognizes the opportunity before him. Among all major championships, the Open holds particular significance in his dreams because links golf is the closest to the type of golf he plays in Australia. Still he remains adamant that this achievement does not become the culmination of his story. “If this is where it ends,” Peake says, “I’ll merely be remembered as the former outlaw biker who competed at Portrush.”

Peake’s goal is clear—to be known for who he is, rather than who he was.

Is it the British Open or the Open Championship? The name of the final men’s major of the golf season is a subject of continued discussion. The event’s official name, as explained in this op-ed by former R&A chairman Ian Pattinson, is the Open Championship. But since many United States golf fans continue to refer to it as the British Open, and search news around the event accordingly, Golf Digest continues to utilize both names in its coverage.

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British Open 2025: The incredible story of Ryan Peake, a former gang member and convict—and the most unlikely golfer competing at Royal Portrush

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