If your golf game is anything like mine, you are well trained in searching for missing balls. When I am playing with my buddies in a friendly round we certainly give a valiant effort to find those ProV’s but at the end of the day, after a short search, we tend to just go in the bag and take a friendly drop as we end up claiming the ball was totally in this vicinity and the ground must have swallowed it up.
This past Monday, the circumstances were completely different. A buddy from The Club asked me to caddie for him in a qualifying event at another club. I happily agreed. How hard could it be to hang with my bud and haul his sticks around? I carry my own bag all the time. Have caddies every now and again and we have a blast out there. Game on!
In our group were two other guys. Solid players. One guy carried his own bag. The other poached a caddie last minute from the club we were playing. It became clear early in the round he was along for the ride and only interested in getting his cash at the end. On the 6th hole, and as the match was heating up, there were three errant tee shots. I stood behind my guy and the two other players in the tee box. The other caddie was busy on his phone. I watched each shot like a hawk and we proceeded up the fairway, all three players a bit nervous about finding their balls. I assured one of the other guys in the group he did not need to retee. I knew where the balls were. Sure enough, because of my concentration and having physical markers where each ball landed we located all three balls. Each golfer was relieved and appreciative of my ball finding skills.
On the following hole, a par 5, I had a long walk up the fairway and a lot of time to process what had just occurred on the previous hole.
You know what is so odd about everything I just recapped? It encapsulates so much about the male psyche.
This past Easter, my kids are outside at the butt crack looking for eggs. My wife tells them there are 24 eggs and that once they each found 12 they were done. Remember, boys, we now live in an equitable world where everyone gets a trophy. The kids were great. They found 11 eggs each and are searching around trying to locate their final last one. My wife whispers in my ear, “where are the other two eggs?” How am I supposed to know the answer to that one? Don’t you love questions like that from your wife?
Because I want to play golf later that day (remember, boys, always keep your eye on the prize, it is always about the “g” word) I don’t say to her how am I supposed to know which freaking eggs they have found and thus, using deductive reasoning, have no idea which ones they haven’t?! So I embark on my own little covert hunt. I cannot find those last two eggs for the life of me even though I was the one who hid them. 24 eggs shouldn’t be that hard to remember where they are located. Well, long story short, I never did find those eggs and probably never will. But how come, when the pressure is really on, I can find three errant tee shots? How is it that I am able to remember the details of every single one of my 82 swings of the club on Saturday? Every single one.
Oh and another thing here about the male psyche. How is it that when we are at The Club and see a group coming up 18 while we are on the terrace having some sweet hydration following the round we know exactly who, from 350 yards away, each guy is? You know when you return home from work and your wife asks you if you notice anything different? She’s all excited and doing some kind of pose and all you are thinking about is the fastest way to your hydration and the next time you get to play the “g” word? You blurt out, new curtains? No, those have been there for two years. Sorry sweety no, I don’t notice anything different. Then she acts weird for a while and it is annoying and you feel like a jerk and then two hours later she says do you like my haircut?
Man, us dudes are weird. Or maybe golf really is the greatest game on the planet and deserves our full attention, 100% of the time. Nothing else compares.