March 25, 2008

Tiger Tries Caddieing

What would it be like if Tiger carried the bag for golfers like us?

So sometime toward the end of the year, after he's lost a tournament or two, Tiger Woods is going to caddie for one of us. The question is: Can He Who Is Without Peer handle the pressure? This is no ordinary promotion, after all. This is a collision of worlds.

There's little doubt Woodsie (with our apologies, Stevie) has some experiences to draw upon. He has played the occasional pro-am so he has some familiarity with players of our caliber under the gun, so to speak. Clearly, Woods could handle these duties with a player of, let's call it, talent. Can he, on the other hand, find success constrained, as he will surely be, by the limitations of a player who will have the ability of a red-eyed tree frog? Imagine the physique of Tim (Lumpy) Herron. Strip away any mental capacity for the game. Deduct all hand-eye coordination. Forgo any athletic skills whatsoever. In short, leave only the swing of Charles Barkley, add a pack of Kools and two pints of Guinness. Now, deal with that, Woodsie.

While we're at it, let's get a few things straight at the outset. Being a caddie for someone like us has certain, uh, requirements.

Take, for example, the dress code. We'll expect you to wear one of those baggy white overalls with our name written large on the back on one of those official tear-away Velcro strips. The overalls should be sufficiently voluminous to house a pair of sumo wrestlers and a small, vicious dog. If you think we're interested in seeing even one of your carefully crafted muscles, you're very much mistaken. This is not about you, remember. And besides, ripped, to us, is when the number of pints consumed can no longer be counted on the fingers of one hand.

We'll expect you to show up on time, but none of that 6 a.m. nonsense. (Refer to ripped, above.) This is a whole new ballgame, Woodsie. You be there at 8 o'clock sharp, we'll be there at 10. We'll expect you to bound up to the car like Bambi and take the clubs and the Igloo Playmate Pal cooler from the trunk with a disposition as agreeable as Mr. Rogers.

We, on the other hand, may have a head full of screaming gremlins. The boss is a stretch version of Kim Jong-Il; the twins are extortionists-in-training; the significant other has her lawyer, who, by the way, edited the Harvard Law Review. We're really not interested in your energy drinks or your oceanfront estate. The closest we come to water is when we deploy an entire set of saucepans to catch the leaks in the upstairs bedroom when it rains.

On the course, we understand you are accustomed to a certain amount of strategic banter when it comes to determining exactly the shot you want to hit. We could care less. Do not presume to club us. We understand you have nine ways to hit every club in your bag. Our variations, on the other hand, are infinite. By experience and temperament, you simply are not equipped to deal with the permutations of ball flight our swing is capable of producing.

If the wind shifts, don't even think about backing us off. A club or two, one direction or the other, is irrelevant. The kindest thing you can do is allow nature to take its course. It may be as unpleasant as watching someone suffer from the flu, but we don't need your advice. We need your compassion.

Lastly, could you sign this for our cousin in rehab?