Caddie Corner: On Moving
Caddie Corner is a weekly newsletter where we explore the intersection of life, golf, and the absurdities in between. Last week we recapped Tommy Fleetwood’s heartbreak. Thanks to the new faces that are here this week.
On Moving
It’s fitting that there are only two demographics that read this newsletter: guys my age and dads. Oh, and my grandma, who confirmed last week that she hates Keegan Bradley and was gutted for Tommy.
I say this because last weekend I moved apartments and the boys my age are still just boys because we still need our dads to help us move in. I’m a handy guy, but on the hierarchy of good hands, I’m not Spanish-hands good and I’m certainly not dad-hands good. He’s the one with the power tools compared to my $15 Allen wrench set. The power tools were needed when the couch wouldn’t fit through the door. Screwed off it’s legs. No help. A hammer to the door hinges would pop it off and give us the much needed two inches of clearance. Until we realized the archway in the entrance hall was a lot narrower than the door and there was no getting through that sucker. Typical boy brain: solve the problem right in front of you and worry about the next task when you get to it.
I only moved three blocks, yet everything feels impossibly new. I think it’s something to do with the process of picking up all the things you own and taking them to a new place. Moving out is half carrying heavy boxes and half reminiscing all the things you find under the bed or behind the drawer. It’s finding three dozen golf balls scattered around your bedroom, scorecards you thought you’d want to keep like the one with a big double circle on the 15th hole at Diamond Springs. It’s finding a tee that reads, “Carne Golf Links” in plain, blocky black text that you can’t quite bring yourself to throw away so you toss it in the sock drawer where it’ll stay until it’s time to move out again.
The range is now just a ten minute walk. Went last night. Beating fifty golf balls is still the best cure for an anxious mind. A lot going on these days, and here’s the kicker: they’re all good. Just needed a pre-dinner range session to remind me that I’m exactly where I’m supposed to be. Giving yourself permission to be happy is the greatest mind trick you can pull. Put on a smile and go for a walk in the park and watch how much your attitude changes.
The range was packed. Waited behind a 6’8” guy ripping drivers on the top deck. He could have been mistaken for Christo Lamprecht if he didn’t whiff every other swing. But when he connected, the heads from a couple bays down turned. Clearly a beginner golfer just taking it up, but whatever he felt in that moment when the ball flew off the club face and sailed over 300 yards is what we’ve all felt and are trying to feel again.
Eventually his bucket ended and it was my turn to give some hacks. The guy in the bay next to me was a lefty so we faced each other. He was wearing a long sleeve shirt even though it was 85 degrees out exposed to the sun on the top deck. When I looked down at my ball I could still see the sweat dripping off his forehead onto the mat. You get all sorts of characters at public golf ranges in the city. Like the guys with their girlfriends biting their tongues to stay patient because she doesn’t understand what “you’re cupping your wrist” means, or the ex-college player striping four irons on the far side of the range, reliving the glory days when he wasn’t working in commercial banking coming to the range to hit balls after a slow work day. I was in-and-out myself. A quick bucket while staying intentional with every swing. Having trouble taking distance off clubs. When I swing at 100% it’s all systems go and the ball keeps a relatively predictable flight pattern. Try taking five yards off and it all comes undone. Timing, lower body moving way too quick, and a scoopy move with my hands sends the ball a mile left. Let’s just hope I get clean distances when I play Thursday morning.
I took the long way home through the park. It was one of those perfect evenings where couples are scattered on picnic blankets, photographers are out with their cameras to catch the sunset over North Pond, birds are nose-diving into the water signaling it’s dinner time, and I’m strolling along with my seven iron clanking against a few wedges in my hand. Outside my apartment is a statue of William Shakespeare. Not sure why. There’s a couple benches in a semi-circle facing him. I imagine I’ll become quite comfortable with one of them soon.
Inside my apartment there’s still no furniture. I cook pasta and sit cross-cross on the kitchen tile that is cold because the window AC unit finally caught up and the nostalgia hits me for the first time that I’ll never live with my best friends again, but that’s okay because the time we had together was perfect. The WiFi arrived and I tried setting that up. Of course it doesn’t work and a service rep will be out on Friday to fix it. There’s a $100 technician fee that the online service agent waived for me “because you have been so nice to me throughout this chat.” I did feel like she was flirting with me at one point. Or was I flirting with her? And I’m not entirely convinced it wasn’t an AI chatbot. Who knows, sometimes good things do happen to good people.
