A Caddie's Confidence
A reflection on the source of—and reconnection with—the confidence of my youth
The Hagakure by Yamamoto Tsunemoto, a sacred text of Japanese bushido or the Way of the Samurai, was an unexpected source of inspiration during my morning quiet time. It reminded me of a story from my caddie days and the confidence I possessed in that job. In the passage that got my gears turning, Tsunemoto wrote:
"...if one is invited by a man of high standing, it is not good to be nervous beforehand as you will be unable to converse properly at the start. Instead, one should feel genuine gratitude for the opportunity to meet, and embark with feelings of joyous anticipation."
I received an invitation from a man of high standing one sunny afternoon. Mr. Vernon Armour was one of my favorite members at the Old Elm Club. He was a good player and an even better loop. He was down-to-earth and engaging, in spite of his family background and life experience — what would today be called "elite." I always felt that he was genuinely interested in me, and I developed a great affection for him. I caddied for him many times, and we had a solid rapport. As I got older, I also became a good player. He was aware of my ability and gave me respect for it — golf is egalitarian and meritocratic like that.
We were standing on the tee of the par-3 17th when Mr. Armour walked up to the bag and asked me for the yardage. I gave it to him, and he asked if he should hit the 9-iron. I'm not sure if it was the effect of the heat after carrying two bags all day or the cocksureness of surging hormones, but I responded with a question: "Are you going to hit it twice?" The other players burst out laughing. Mr. Armour was known for trash talk, and he always got as good as he gave. I handed him the 7-iron, which he took with good cheer, and he proceeded to knock his ball on the green. I breathed a sigh of relief.
That, however, was not the end of it. Mr. Armour threw a ball down on the ground, turned to me, and — with a playfully challenging stare — said, "I suppose you could hit the 9-iron on from here?" His tone implied an unspoken smartass at the end of the question that I readily inferred. I confirmed that I could, and he made the universal gesture to step right on up. Down went the bags and out came the 9-iron. I stepped up and promptly knocked the ball on the green — but not closer than Mr. Armour's. Another sigh of relief. Much back-slapping and merriment ensued.
Looking back with fondness on that moment, I do not recall feeling any hesitation. No excuses about being tired from hoofing the bags. No self-consciousness about making a fool of myself. No concern about having overstepped my bounds. There was only self-assurance about meeting a challenge issued in the spirit of friendly competition and camaraderie. As I contemplate my return to home and work, that caddie's confidence is a quality I wish to bring. But where did it originate?
Hints to the answer are found in The Hagakure, in the passages immediately before and after the one above. Tsunemoto made the simple but powerful statement: "Being organized keeps you a step ahead of others." A good caddie keeps up; a great caddie is a step ahead. I had a genuine desire to be great at the job, born from my gratitude for the opportunity to spend my days in such a beautiful place, immersed in the game I love, getting paid to do it.
From that gratitude flowed a work ethic that served me well. I took direction from the senior caddies, observing their strengths and best practices, and finding ways to improve upon their performance. I paid attention to the details, trusting that at some level they would be noticed and appreciated. I helped the other loopers in the group and gave nudges when necessary. And I tried to anticipate the needs of my players without being overbearing. A great caddie leads — absent authority — through skillful and subtle influence, never infringing on his players' agency.
I can see now that my confidence was a byproduct of my competence, which I intentionally developed. When I stood on the first tee, I had no doubt that I could handle the day's adventure. But there was one more essential piece that made moments like the one with Mr. Armour possible — the joy of service.
My preparation gave me the ability to render high-quality service, but it was my investment in the success of my players that made the biggest difference. I truly wanted them to have their best round ever. I worked hard for them, celebrated their successes, and was steadfastly at their side during rough patches — silently bombarding them with the expectation that their next shot, hole, or round would be a rebound. I didn't know it at the time, but I was losing myself in loving service to them. Tsunemoto had something to say about that too:
"There are some men who wish to be called heroes, but as they think only of their own honor and reputations, they inevitably fail. They offer remonstrance thinking of it as a meritorious deed of service, but it leaves them open for condemnation, and then ruin. There are many examples of this. They fail because the root of their intentions is not sincere. A warrior who surrenders body and soul, thinking only of how to make things better for his lord, will also find the right course of action..."
I have now interacted with people from all of society's strata, in fair weather and foul, and I've come to understand that they are all just people — doing their best to make what they can of each day. My job is to help them in any way that I can, confidently employing my skills and experience with an authentic investment in their success.
As the exit door nears, I'm thinking about work and career. I'm preparing to have a job and be back in the workplace among high-performing professionals. I'm practicing my craft of writing and preparing for the forms that a public commitment to expression might take in the future. I feel gratitude for the opportunities that I know await me.
If I am prepared and my motive is to give loving service in every role I'm assigned, then complete confidence is completely natural and appropriate. That is the state of mind, action, and being that I intend to bring to my work and career — a reclamation of my caddie confidence infused with the samurai spirit, brought to a new first tee, 30 years on.
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