For years I've watched friends play golf.  From the sidelines, it's enjoyable but not much fun.  One day, I was watching a golf tournament on TV and saw a female caddie.  I suddenly had a lightbulb moment: I can't play golf, but maybe I could be an occasional caddie.

My friend "Steve" is an avid golfer who likes to walk the course, so I asked him if I could be his caddie.

"What?!?  Did you say you want to carry my golf bag?" Steve said.

Two weeks before the big event, I did extra reps of exercises to strengthen my back muscles.  When the day came, I was good and ready.

The Big Day

Steve, his golf buddies, my back brace, and I are on the golf course.  The sun is shining; there is a slight breeze; and the group ahead of us is not playing slowly. It's a great day for golf.

Because Steve walks the course, he carries the bare minimum in his golf bag: 14 clubs, golf balls, tees, extra gloves, golf towel, umbrella, rule book, scorecard, two small pencils, couple of quarters for markers, one bottled water, a banana, and a couple of energy bars.

My intention is to carry the golf bag and the paraphernalia that probably weighs 22 pounds for 9 holes or more.

After Steve hits his first tee shot, I pick up the golf bag.  We start walking the course.  I'm not a real caddie and as a result, I don't help with strategy or yardage.  But I do give Steve the appropriate club that he asks for, wipe off the dirt or grass from the club, and rake the bunker.  Hole after hole I'm enjoying myself because I'm playing golf vicariously through Steve.  Everything is peachy.

However, as the day progresses I noticed that it's getting warmer.  It must be at least 85 degrees with no breeze.  What happened to the breeze?

Somewhere between the 6th and 7th holes, there is a tectonic shift.  An earthquake is coming.  My forehead starts to sweat under the golf cap. Small drops of water are forming at the temples.  The strap of the golf bag is digging into my shoulder.  The muscles of my calves are cramping up. And I have periodic shortness of breath.  

Steve is having a decent day on the golf course, so I don't want to interrupt.  Now I'm schlepping around a golf bag full of rocks.  Every time Steve looks over to see how I'm doing, I force a smile and give him two thumbs up.

It's the 8th hole.  I don't know how I got here.  After Steve finishes the hole, I decide to say something before I collapse on the golf course.

"Steve," I whispered, "do you have a moment?"  Steve comes over.  "I've got bad news.  I'm not cut out to be a golf caddie.  It has nothing to do with you.  I'm quitting because this job is killing me."

"You can't quit now," Steve joked, taking the golf bag from me.  "We've got the back nine to play."

"Yeah, well, the back nine is going to have to live without me."

"You know, Bev, it's too bad you're quitting because one of my golf buddies wants you to carry his bag.  You might have a career as a golf caddie."

"Very funny, Steve.  I'll keep that in mind.  Right now, I'm going to the clubhouse."

"Feel better.  See you at the clubhouse in a couple of hours."

If Only 

If I had powerful muscular legs, the stamina of a long distance runner, and the strength of steel, I could have made it to the 9th hole and beyond.  But, alas, I didn't.  So there went my career as a golf caddie.

I'm back to being a spectator, unless I have another lightbulb moment.




Image Credits: Micah Taylor via photopin cc
gamene via photopin cc