32 players and ties make the cut at the Cedar Rapids Open in Cedar Rapids, Iowa. I posted an underwhelming 1-under through 36 holes at Hunters Ridge Golf Course, finishing my second round on the cut line in the morning tee time wave. With the wind blowing and the pins tucked, this meant I’d be watching the leaderboard all afternoon with hope and trepidation.
“When will you know if you made the cut?” My wife asks on the phone.
“It’s going to be close. Probably not until the final group comes in,” I reply.
Hours later, the sun is low in the sky, there are three groups on the course, and four players who can move the cut. 1-under is T29, so I (and everyone else at 1-under) just need one of them to shoot even par or worse. Two of them finish under par for the day, leaving the final two players at 1-under in the last group. If only one of them breaks par, I get to play one more round and recoup my entry fee. If both players shoot under par, I’ll be heading home empty-handed, having spent nearly $2,000. Pros and gamblers call this “sweating the cut.” I’ve sweated the cut on nearly every tour in the world, but sweating the cut at the Cedar Rapids Open is not where you want to find yourself.
The most agonizing sweat came at the Australian Open at The Royal Sydney Golf Club in 2016. I landed in Australia without a work visa, and was told the government would withhold 51% of my earnings if I chose to compete without obtaining one. Instead of playing a Tuesday practice round, I flew to New Zealand and spent a night at Auckland airport, waiting for the Aussie government to issue me the work visa (you couldn’t be in the country while your visa was being processed — a law that changed a month later).
New Zealand is one of the world’s most spectacular places and I spent my night there sleeping in a maroon booth at an airport sushi joint. I made it back to Sydney in time to play 9-holes late on Wednesday, and opened the tournament Thursday with some shaky golf. By the end of the first round, I steadied the ship and went to work in Round 2, determined to make the expensive flight to Auckland worthwhile. I birdied my last hole of the second round to shoot 3-under, and thought I’d made the cut. There were Red Vines in the scoring area that tasted sweeter than normal as I signed my card. My score looked safe for the weekend, and I welcomed the congratulatory texts from friends on the other side of the world.
Another pro and I went to Icebergs, a famous bar and swimming club overlooking Bondi Beach, and watched the conclusion of Round 2 on TV. We thought we’d secured a weekend tee time having shot the same opening round scores, until tournament coverage made us order a stronger spirit from the bar. The wind was calm and scores had fallen in the afternoon wave. Suddenly, we were on the cut!
As we refreshed the leaderboard furiously and ordered another drink, it looked like the impossible was about to happen. A 36th hole birdie in the final group sealed our fate. There would be no paycheck and my work visa – and all the hassle to get it – was worthless. The $20 cocktails suddenly tasted like tears.
Back to Cedar Rapids.
The tiny hotel room at the Sleep Inn smells like buttered popcorn and trash. I sit with the window open and my laptop in front of me awaiting the final group’s scores. The old air conditioner is set to low, and hums in the background. The thin walls allow the sound of hallway doors slamming to pass into my room. I could have taken this as an ominous sign.
If I had just made that last 15 footer, I think, or hit a better chip on 14, or layed up on 2, or…on and on. It’s easy to identify all the places you could have saved shots after a round, but now, all I can do is stare at the screen. Then the final leaderboard is updated and the cut is drawn above my name. The final two players break par, and with it, my heart.
My wife calls and my 4-year-old is on the phone with her.
“That sucks, hon. It’s just really hard sometimes,” she says.
“What’s wrong, Mommy?” asks Miles.
“Daddy didn’t make any money this week, buddy,” I say.
“Oh no, Daddy! You have to make money so we can go to the LEGO store so they don’t go out of business!” Miles says.
It stings to laugh, but I do.
“We’ll make money next week and go to the LEGO store after. Don’t worry, they won’t go out of business,” I say, perhaps projecting concerns for my own business prospects.
I know this disappointment well and try to remain positive, but when your credit card statements start to weigh too heavily on your bank account, every missed cut digs a little deeper.
There’s a pro caddie named Greg Richardson. Everyone calls him “Pooh.” We first met at the Final Stage of Q school in 2017 where Pooh was looking for a bag. There aren’t many successful caddie auditions held in the parking lot at Final Stage, but Pooh was there early and worked the lot hopefully. “I’ve done my fair share of parking lot pimpin’,” Pooh says.
I’ve never asked Pooh how the nickname came about, but did confirm it is spelled with an h. It would be a stretch to say he resembles Winnie-the-Pooh; he’s a tall black man who looks like he has no trouble getting a heavy tour bag around a long course. Pooh also looks like he knows his way around a good bakery, but his dad bod is well-earned. There’s a picture of his 5-year-old daughter on his phone, and I can’t help but consider how difficult it must be to support a family as a caddie on these circuits. Pooh’s pro also missed the cut at the Cedar Rapids Open, and Pooh’s apartment lease expired in the middle of the event with all his belongings inside.
Pooh loves golf, video games, science, and Neil deGrasse Tyson. He uses words like “neurodiverse”, and has a Harry Vardon quote, “Never despair!” in his Facebook bio. He’s curious, patient, and often surprises me in good ways. He considers how to keep his players relaxed after a few bad swings. He’s been practicing this by going to open mic nights and improvising a comedy routine.
On his way to Cedar Rapids, Pooh went to a busy Waterloo dive bar on an open mic night. He was the only black guy in the room, something he is not unfamiliar with. Pooh took the stage and looked around, studying the faces of the audience before he spoke.
“I’m going to guess you haven’t seen a dude who looks like me up here lately,” he says, pausing for effect. “I’ll give you a moment to let your eyes adjust.”
After some ice breaking laughs, the rest of the set went well. Pooh workshopped some on-course material for me hoping it might keep his player loose in a tense moment.
Pooh’s curiosity and humor keep him hopeful. Spending time with him this week lifted my spirit.
Never despair. There are other cuts to make and LEGO stores to save.
The most agonizing sweat came at the Australian Open at The Royal Sydney Golf Club in 2016. I landed in Australia without a work visa, and was told the government would withhold 51% of my earnings if I chose to compete without obtaining one. Instead of playing a Tuesday practice round, I flew to New Zealand and spent a night at Auckland airport, waiting for the Aussie government to issue me the work visa (you couldn’t be in the country while your visa was being processed — a law that changed a month later).
New Zealand is one of the world’s most spectacular places and I spent my night there sleeping in a maroon booth at an airport sushi joint. I made it back to Sydney in time to play 9-holes late on Wednesday, and opened the tournament Thursday with some shaky golf. By the end of the first round, I steadied the ship and went to work in Round 2, determined to make the expensive flight to Auckland worthwhile. I birdied my last hole of the second round to shoot 3-under, and thought I’d made the cut. There were Red Vines in the scoring area that tasted sweeter than normal as I signed my card. My score looked safe for the weekend, and I welcomed the congratulatory texts from friends on the other side of the world.
Another pro and I went to Icebergs, a famous bar and swimming club overlooking Bondi Beach, and watched the conclusion of Round 2 on TV. We thought we’d secured a weekend tee time having shot the same opening round scores, until tournament coverage made us order a stronger spirit from the bar. The wind was calm and scores had fallen in the afternoon wave. Suddenly, we were on the cut!
As we refreshed the leaderboard furiously and ordered another drink, it looked like the impossible was about to happen. A 36th hole birdie in the final group sealed our fate. There would be no paycheck and my work visa – and all the hassle to get it – was worthless. The $20 cocktails suddenly tasted like tears.
Back to Cedar Rapids.
The tiny hotel room at the Sleep Inn smells like buttered popcorn and trash. I sit with the window open and my laptop in front of me awaiting the final group’s scores. The old air conditioner is set to low, and hums in the background. The thin walls allow the sound of hallway doors slamming to pass into my room. I could have taken this as an ominous sign.
If I had just made that last 15 footer, I think, or hit a better chip on 14, or layed up on 2, or…on and on. It’s easy to identify all the places you could have saved shots after a round, but now, all I can do is stare at the screen. Then the final leaderboard is updated and the cut is drawn above my name. The final two players break par, and with it, my heart.
My wife calls and my 4-year-old is on the phone with her.
“That sucks, hon. It’s just really hard sometimes,” she says.
“What’s wrong, Mommy?” asks Miles.
“Daddy didn’t make any money this week, buddy,” I say.
“Oh no, Daddy! You have to make money so we can go to the LEGO store so they don’t go out of business!” Miles says.
It stings to laugh, but I do.
“We’ll make money next week and go to the LEGO store after. Don’t worry, they won’t go out of business,” I say, perhaps projecting concerns for my own business prospects.
I know this disappointment well and try to remain positive, but when your credit card statements start to weigh too heavily on your bank account, every missed cut digs a little deeper.
There’s a pro caddie named Greg Richardson. Everyone calls him “Pooh.” We first met at the Final Stage of Q school in 2017 where Pooh was looking for a bag. There aren’t many successful caddie auditions held in the parking lot at Final Stage, but Pooh was there early and worked the lot hopefully. “I’ve done my fair share of parking lot pimpin’,” Pooh says.
I’ve never asked Pooh how the nickname came about, but did confirm it is spelled with an h. It would be a stretch to say he resembles Winnie-the-Pooh; he’s a tall black man who looks like he has no trouble getting a heavy tour bag around a long course. Pooh also looks like he knows his way around a good bakery, but his dad bod is well-earned. There’s a picture of his 5-year-old daughter on his phone, and I can’t help but consider how difficult it must be to support a family as a caddie on these circuits. Pooh’s pro also missed the cut at the Cedar Rapids Open, and Pooh’s apartment lease expired in the middle of the event with all his belongings inside.
Pooh loves golf, video games, science, and Neil deGrasse Tyson. He uses words like “neurodiverse”, and has a Harry Vardon quote, “Never despair!” in his Facebook bio. He’s curious, patient, and often surprises me in good ways. He considers how to keep his players relaxed after a few bad swings. He’s been practicing this by going to open mic nights and improvising a comedy routine.
On his way to Cedar Rapids, Pooh went to a busy Waterloo dive bar on an open mic night. He was the only black guy in the room, something he is not unfamiliar with. Pooh took the stage and looked around, studying the faces of the audience before he spoke.
“I’m going to guess you haven’t seen a dude who looks like me up here lately,” he says, pausing for effect. “I’ll give you a moment to let your eyes adjust.”
After some ice breaking laughs, the rest of the set went well. Pooh workshopped some on-course material for me hoping it might keep his player loose in a tense moment.
Pooh’s curiosity and humor keep him hopeful. Spending time with him this week lifted my spirit.
Never despair. There are other cuts to make and LEGO stores to save.
0 Comments