Brother Rick

We've all seen the Geico commercial where the Tiger Woods caveman, dressed in his plus fours, slams his golf cart into others parked at the tee, springs into a preposterous stretching routine with driver wedged behind his back, and then inquires of his playing partners, “so, we playing the tips?” I hate to say it, but minus the sartorial splendor, that’s my brother Rick. 

Spend any time with Dr. Rick and you soon understand that he seems to know a little bit about everything. Which is how much he knows about golf. An engineer by profession, Rick would appreciate the Bryson DeChambeau approach to the game - in the end, it’s all just angles, vectors, and mechanical repetition don’t you see. Art is for painters. 

As golfers go, Rick is a pretty good engineer. He hasn’t broke 110, legitimately, in decades. But yes, he’s the guy who has to play the back tees and by the way, any man who doesn’t is a female body part. A golfer deceives himself boasting of pars and birdies not struck from the championship tees. 

Rick’s Tour-Tees-Only obsession would be harmless self-flagellation were it not for its natural progression to his understanding of golf protocol and etiquette. One need only study Kevin Na or Jim Furyk to appreciate the proper way to prepare for your next shot: while your playing partners wait 75 yards ahead of you at the regular tees, first, stare down the fairway for a while, analyzing contours or something. Next, take a dozen practice swings. Then, look up to ensure that no one is moving or talking anywhere within five holes. Now, a few more practice swings. At this point, you are ready to address the ball for a period not to exceed the time it takes to read the Sunday New York Times front to back. Finally, pull the trigger and dribble your drive pin high to your playing partners waiting to tee off. Repeat.

For guys like Rick who are pretty sure they read something about the sanctity of “you’re away,” the concept of “Ready Golf” is no less abhorrent than Mickelson slapping at a moving putt. From a position 100 yards ahead and off the fairway, I’ve watched Rick, stuck in a pine tree jail with no shot, wait hands on hips until all carts came to a complete stop before starting his routine. Only after catching up to the group three shots later are we allowed to proceed towards the green. 

This anecdote doesn’t really have a point other than to offer up my brother as the poster boy for “while we’re young.” Sure, we could try to school him, maybe conduct an on-course intervention, perhaps get Dr. Phil involved. Then again, he doesn't play much anymore, he’s a pretty good dude, and he’s my brother, so I guess I’ll just let it slide. Besides, he doesn’t listen to anyone anyway.