No. 33: Who’s a Stick?
Dear Pards,
Long-time reader, first-time write-in. Loved your recent column on tertiary issues (not a baby dunker), and it made me think of a fun discussion had in the men’s grill the other day with a few buddies.
What’s a stick? No, not the kindling for a bonfire, or the pile of them learned on the back of the bus in middle school. A golfing stick. I play at a scratch and still don’t feel like one. Yet some of my buddies would put me in that class. To me, it’s one of those ex-college guys with 64s painted on their ceiling and a gear nowhere near the handlebars of my bicycle. But maybe I am one?
At the end of the day, it doesn’t matter, but I'm curious to hear your thoughts.
-Curious in Cincy
Dear Curious,
I have seen this question floating around certain circles in the golfing world. By all accounts, it's subjective, as are most things in this nuanced world.
One of the many things that impressed me during my caddie days was watching a professional stripe a persimmon — or an orange (not) plastic kids club — after just one or two calibration swings.
For me, it’s the ceiling and raw talent more than the floor. I hate to bring the Supreme Court and porn back into this, but oftentimes you just know it when you see it.
It also goes hand in hand with humility. The self-proclaimed stick is most likely a vanity cap who sees their L.A.B. putter as salvific.
All that said, I’d encourage you not to overthink it. After all, comparison is the thief of joy, and the more we try, the further away we get.
Sometimes the sign of a stick is simply the one who can shoot 71 on the day when their Whoop score is 12, and they’re playing with senior flex rentals and open-toe Birkenstocks.
P╞r╠℮P.S. The stamp at the top of the newsletter is Roaring Gap Club, by Dave Baysden. It is also a sneak peek at September’s mail club, which will be sent out shortly.
For those of you following my ridiculous chase for the course record at a six-hole short course down the street from my house, I did shoot -5 off camera last Saturday with four other humans and a yellow lab as my witness. If you live in NC, it’s worth every bit of your time to throw on your open-toed sandals and check out Old Field.
My real job has taken up most of my time lately. Which is great for feeding my family, but not so great for finding the time to write and think and dream about a mail club centered around an absurd game. Maybe those two things will someday overlap.
Until then, it’s not too late to sign up for the 6th edition of the mail club, going out shortly.
We’re still showing up. Even on the days when time seems to win by 11 shots. Regardless of where I’m standing.
Thankful you’re here.
