From the back of a cop car
How I watched the 2025 Masters
Welcome back to Caddie Corner, a weekly newsletter where we talk the golf-adjacent. This is the week many of us have been waiting for. Let’s take an extra minute over our morning coffee to remember that.
“Officer, this isn’t my first time in the back of a cop car.”
Tried fleeing the scene. No way out. Temporarily insane probably holds up in court. Well past the point of madness. Could you blame me? Straight to solitary confinement for this lad.
Ball in the left rough. Should have an angle. Is that 7 iron in his hand? Just don’t lay up, again. At this moment, I’m not in police custody. Not yet, at least. I was privileged to watch the worst shot in the history of worst shorts (sans Monsieur van de Velde, sorry). Ball inexplicably in the water at thirteen. Give him a thousand golf balls and he doesn’t miss there. Give me a thousand and I might not either. Mouth dry. Happening again. I’m in the back of an Uber streaming the back nine on my way to the airport. I’m sweating, two layers shed after the thirteenth. I was fortunate to see the bogey on fourteen. Then I saw the big drive on fifteen.
That’s the last thing I remember. Everything else a blur. There was a screech that sounded too cartoonish to be real, like the sound we used to make with our bikes down the big hill in the neighborhood, seeing who could make the longest tire mark. Except these tire marks ended in the back of my Uber’s car. Back windshield shattered. Golf travel bag in the trunk the only thing between me and a car’s front bumper.
I yelled some profanities. Clutched my lower back. You’ve got to be kidding me. The phone in my left hand so Tom could watch from the seat next to me had vanished, thrown somewhere across the car at impact. Never did see that second shot into fifteen live.
Moments before, the words were just out of my mouth after Rory bogeyed 14. I turned to Tom and said “life is fickle.” He laughed. I’m not scared to admit that I can be dramatic at times. Little did I know how truly fickle life could be. Suddenly Rory throwing away the grand slam was the last thing on my mind.
Tom got out of the car first. He’s the kind of guy that seems to always to be in control. That one friend that’s just a little too good at dancing at weddings and talking to strangers at the bar. A real cool cat. Tall, dark, and handsome as the British ladies would call him. By the time I open my door, Tom’s already helping the driver from the other car out of his vehicle. Leg turned at a nasty angle. Arm bleeding. Definitely broken. My phone’s nowhere to be found. Still on, probably, hidden somewhere under the driver’s seat showing the most iconic shot in Masters history.
Ambulance called. What exit of the highway are we on? No I’m not from here. Police statements taken. Yes, we need to get to the airport. Another trooper asked us if we needed a ride. I asked if he had room for two travel golf bags and he popped his trunk to show off an AR-15 in a case. Not today, bud. Tom piled in the back with both bags even though I’m substantially the smaller of the two. He’s that kind of friend.
The cop tried making small talk. I’m self-aware enough to know he was checking up on my sanity. Crash probably looked pretty bad when he pulled up. Asked my name which I proudly answered correctly. Maybe I looked pretty bad when he pulled up too. Little did he know my hands weren’t shaking from the collision. They were shaking from the four hour car crash of a round I was watching, now from the front seat of a cop car speeding down Highway 101 in San Francisco with the lights on. An internal battle that went the full ten rounds. Blood everywhere. Final knockout punch with 14 years of burden behind it.
Adrenaline wearing off. Now actually sick to my stomach. We flew through security and ran to our gate that had already boarded. Out of the corner of my eye I could see green and yellow hues from the TVs in the terminal bars. Too sick to even look. I filled up my water bottle at a filling station that offered “regular”, “still”, or “ambient” water because why not in San Francisco. I chose ambient, obviously. Beeline to the bathroom. Nervous stomach and adrenaline and now I’m anxious about being anxious. Sitting on the toilet as my phone starts vibrating in my pocket. Tom waiting for me when I get out.
“He did it.”
For those that have been here awhile, you know how unapologetic of a Rory fan I am. A little too young to be a true Tiger fan. It was always the chubby kid from Ireland for me. I’ve spent the last 48 hours in disbelief that he actually won. Last week I wrote a piece on why I thought he never would. Of course, it was all a hedge against my emotions. How many times could I allow myself to be heartbroken by someone I’ve never met? Too emotionally invested.
Interestingly enough, Rory said the same about his own golf. For years he admitted to holding himself back because he didn’t want to feel the disappointment again. And who can blame him? We are all victims to self-preservation in our lives. Scared of heartbreak. Scared of commitment. Scared to fully show ourselves to others because what if they leave? Scared to be in contention down the stretch because what if I have to make another four footer? And what if I miss?
This year, Rory has repeated over and over that he is “as resilient as anyone else.” Not that he can hit it farther than anyone or that his swing is the most aesthetically pleasing thing to look at save for Adam Scott’s. His super power isn’t that he can hit an 8 iron from 195 yards on hole 17 a million feet in the air. His super power is that he’s a resilient mother *insert the profanity I yelled after the car crash.*
At this stage in my life, everything is in flux. I think that’s just called your 20’s. I have my goals. I’m ambitious. I have a vision for what I want my life to look like and spending my days in Parisian cafes writing novels as the sunset hits those white-grey buildings isn’t just going to happen. I think that’s why we need heroes. Even if he was talking to Poppy, it applies to us all—never give up on your dream and if you keep working hard, you can achieve anything.
It’s the never giving up part that most people latch on to. But for me it’s a pause to ask myself: how hard am I working? How comfortable have I gotten? How little am I putting myself out there out of self-preservation? Am I working as hard on my dreams as Rory is on his? Certifiably no. So as I watched the green jacket ceremony from the middle seat of an airplane headed back to Chicago, the eyes started to accumulate precipitation. Cabin temperature must have dropped. Goosebumps all over. The feeling sinking in. He did it. And so can I.
Left Over Thoughts
Guys… can we just… okay? Geez, what a day. My grandma said she was “absolutely exhausted” watching it. She might be the only bigger Rory fan than me.
There’s something so captivating about the mental battle. It wasn’t Rory vs Bryson or Rory vs Rose. It was Rory vs his mind.
Very cool that everyone watching on Sunday was hyper-aware that they just witnessed history. That doesn’t happen often. Yet we all felt the same thing. Not just a “where-were-you” moment. Something bigger than that. Call your dad and tell him you love him kind of moment.
I need to hear from you
Does this open the flood gates? How hungry does he stay?
Overall thoughts. Give me your takes. Where were you? Who were you with?
Shot of the day?
Not for the faint of heart. The only thing missing was my 2 sons.
Next time you go golfing:
*60° bent back down to a 56 after the crash.*