G and me upright (for the moment) on the first green in Killarney under darkening skies, the pin already doing a backbend.
So, so sorry. I’m back.
I got hungry, went to the fridge, opened, stared, but couldn’t remember what I went for, and boom, a year goes by. I’m not alone, right? You’ve done that, I know it.
But now I’ve wandered back.
And, again – the blog.
Here we are.
The bit I’m leaving out is that I got lost. At least a part of me did. Different than ‘opened-the-fridge’ lost. A bigger sense, the more threatening sense, the ‘will he ever come back’ sense, the ‘quasi-identity’ sense.
My 10 year-old player decided it was time to take a break from golf.
Or, actually.
We’d recommended it. And got no pushback.
Can’t lie – it broke a part of my heart.
A thread was broken from my dad. That same thread from the other direction, this 3 year-old boy that relentlessly tried, hour after hour, day after day, until he had game.
And then I was his caddy.
But.
Last summer was rough. Turbulent, even if glorious at so many points. Lots of good golf, for sure.
But the simple love of the game, this thing that can’t be faked, was draining in the hole being dug. Obliterated by human complexity. The storms of mind and emotion.
So a break – the first since he began playing – was in order.
Done.
For a while.
Or for good.
Maybe.
Then. After some relief. And after some mourning.
I felt like I inherited a mansion where nobody else would live or visit.
I became a caddy without a player.
A cowboy without a horse.
A spatula without a pan.
An astronaut on a spacewalk without a spacecraft.
I didn’t know how the absence of my player/horse/pan/spacecraft would affect me, or even that it would. Initially, sure, a little pocket of relief, relief from the tournament pressure and management.
But then. After some weeks, it got existential.
Who was I now with Sundays gifted back?
How long would this last?
Would my player return?
Would I return?
Would I do something?
Or let it ride and wait it out?
Preach or shut up?
And then, later, now. Here we all are.
Hunkered down. Quarantined. Alone. I’m out from under my rock. But under a rock with family. Or not.
Or.
Floating, all of us, in the same boat named ’180 Day Weekend’. Possibly to be renamed ‘The 3 Year Weekend’.
It’s starting to have that existential feeling.
What’s going on?
Who are we, will we be – that is, if it’s up to us who we’ll be in the aftermath?
And given my caddy-void of the last months – a tiny scale of the lockdown – I feel like I was warned. I was given a test run. I might have some experience.
Graham and I played a round in Killarney, Ireland last year. A course that’s hosted the Irish Open. On the first tee, we’re facing 4+ hours of 50mph winds with 75mph gusts. Rain on and off, sometimes torrential. It was our one chance to play.
Now, you and us, here we are on that same first tee. Crap weather, no way out. No idea what the course is, or what’s ahead.
Okay.
Here we go.
A 4-iron to keep the ball low.
And just try to maintain balance against the storm.
Beautifully said. Golf is keeping me sane in this topsy turvy world. I hope it offers you comfort, too. Hi and kisses to all!
Great read! I’m experiencing similar feelings as the boys are playing more tournaments with no caddies allowed. Hope you guys are all doing well!
I can’t tell you, Joe, what a joy it is to share the current existential angst with the Buddha on the Bag. Even if he’s off the bag, or in the hiatus bag, or he’s got it all in the bag — I really can’t tell.
I wake up in the early morning and first thing, I stare — not into the refrigerator (but I do know what you mean) — but rather into the computer monitor at the grim numbers, the grim COVID numbers, the new grim BLM numbers, the grim numbers of senseless death and suffering — protesting police brutality met by police brutality. And then there’s the tanking economy and the antithetical Dow Jones average, the rudderless national leadership…
And I see you, looking towards the end of your 180 Day Weekend (or possibly ‘The 3 Year Weekend’), while I simultaneously begin my fourth month of Sundays wondering if when it’s safe to go out again will I be able to make ends meet, be able to buy toilet paper. When we come out of this, will we have come together to make a more just, fair and sustainable world for all sentient beings?
Recently Cornel West counseled Anderson Cooper, “We cry because we are not numb on the inside.”
Such commiserable, aching, joyous centering in your truth-telling prose/poetry, Joe.
Fortunately we can Zoom and sing as we cry. Not that I Zoom, but you know what I mean. So… here we go. Again. A 4-iron to keep the ball low. And just try to maintain balance against the storm. Alone together.