Relax. You care, but no one else does

While you tell your sad story, your buddies are thinking about theirs

I’m not much of a math guy. I’ve had a phobia about numbers most of my life.

But I do have an equation that’s a particular favourite: pain + time = comedy.

We’ve all had incidents and accidents that are literally and figuratively painful. But weeks, months, or years later, we find ourselves recounting the story with glee.

Last summer I got hit by a golf ball—a line drive from about 50 yards. I could have been really hurt, but the ball hit me in the forearm and all I got was a nasty bruise. I remarked that “I dodged a bullet, but I couldn’t dodge a golf ball.” Well, I thought it was a pretty good line.

This comes to mind after two incidents at last week’s Bay Hill Invitational. In the second round, Tommy Fleetwood made a “disastrous TEN”—as proclaimed by Golf Digest—after rinsing three approach shots in the lake fronting the sixth green, and he missed the cut.

On the same hole Saturday, recent PGA Tour winner Jake Knapp hit two drives balls in the water and then his third tee ball out of bounds on his way to a “shocking 12,” according to Golf Digest.

Despite the calamities that Knapp and Fleetwood suffered, and how the media and social media feasted on their foibles, both gentlemen will be fine. In fact, I’m sure they’ll use the stories as comic fodder for their next corporate schmoozfests. The mortals in attendance will love hearing how golfing gods succumbed to double-digit disasters just like them.

It’s a reminder of an indisputable fact when we have a blow-up hole of our own or shoot a million. That is this: no one cares.

You care. A lot. The tremendous amount of caring you do contributes to your big numbers. But the fact is: No one cares.

The wags around the bar might insert a few needles into your backside as you tell your tale, but they’re not listening. They’re thinking about their own golf nightmares.

We think what happens to us is big news, but it’s not. We’re just not that important, and neither is our golf game, nor much of anything that we do or say.

Ok, having an affair, embezzling from your company, wrapping your car around a tree after over-serving yourself—lots of people would care.

But most of what happens to most of us is no big deal. Nevertheless, most of us catastrophize. We attach our identity and image to events and our achievements, bad or good.

If we do something that we consider a disaster,  we deduce, “I’m a disaster.” If good, then “I’m good.” The trouble starts with “I am” and its cousins that include “I’m bad … I’m like this … I always … “

This is what the psychology folks call attachment. When we’re in the throes of attachment, it’s like being flung from side to side on a ship tossed on stormy seas. You may not throw up, but you feel sick when your identity and self-image are rising and falling with each wave.

When we identify with and aspire to be, say, a good golfer, we assume an identity. We do this because we’re passionate, and we desire those things we identify with. “Unfortunately, our wants our insatiable,” writes Thanissaro Bhikkhu, a Buddhist monk, in Tricycle magazine. “As the Buddha said, even if it rained gold coins, it wouldn’t be enough to satisfy our sensual desires.”

He goes on to say, “When you define yourself, you limit yourself. This idea may seem counterintuitive. Part of your sense of who you are revolves around the abilities you develop to get past the limitations standing in the way of getting what you want.”

How to get over my nonsense, my ever-changing picture of myself as a golfer: up, down, up, face down, immobilized, up, up, down. Remembering no one cares whether I shoot 72 or 92 is a good start.

Even if I shoot even par, it’s inconsequential. Damn right I’ll feel pretty good, like I’ve accomplished something, and someone might buy me a beer and give me a fist bump. But the next day, it’s just another round.

It’s much the same when it goes the other way. In April 1989, I played in my first Golf Writers of America tournament in Myrtle Beach, S.C. In preparation, I swung a George Knudson training device that I got for Christmas all winter. It had a molded rubber grip, a short shaft and a metal weight on the end.

I was about an 11 handicap, and considered myself a ‘student of the game.’ When I got to Myrtle Beach, I discovered that I had grooved a duck hook. In the first round of the tournament, I think I shot 112. I was embarrassed. I went straight to the range after the round for some panic practice. Eventually, an irritated looking fellow wandered over, and asked my name. Then, “where’s your scorecard?”

Like a reluctant schoolboy handing his disappointing report card to his father, I surrendered the card. A few minutes later, I went into the clubhouse bar and found some guys I had befriended earlier. Like writers do, we regaled each other with stories. My duck hook tale got a good laugh. We had a blast. Of course, we did.

As we held court in the bar, my priggish self-righteousness and pride were a bad memory. Eventually, standing in the bar, the truth occurred to me:

“No one cares.”

Of course, they don’t.

If you are interested in golf coaching or in my Commit to Freedom workshops on improving commitment and accountability in your organization, please send an email to tim@oconnorgolf.ca.