A Message to My Playing Partner

Dear Playing Partner,

I hope this message finds you well.

I do trust that you remember me from our round last Friday morning, even though we didn’t talk much—or, well, you didn’t say much. I fear I talked too much, but I was admittedly nervous to be playing with you. Your ads are on TV non-stop right now, and I have seen you pictured with nearly every celebrity, so pardon me if I was a little nervous around you. Plus, you’re constantly reinventing yourself every year or so into a bigger and better you, which is intimidating in its own right.

I have been around famous people in the past, so I understand they operate differently than maybe someone like me, but what you did was befuddling.

You didn’t hit a single shot the entire day. Not one.

In fact, you were more active in between shots than at any other time. You let your handler, if that’s the proper term for him, hit ever single shot. I have to ask – why? He was awful. One tee shot could miss 50-yards right, while the next even further left, yet you stayed in the cart the entire round and let him play. Does he even like golf?

Look, the purpose of this letter is not to get petty, but the cart seating arrangement really bothered me. I was fine for you to sit in the little cubby on your side, but your handler kept putting you in between us on the seat, which was annoying because you would slide around when I hit the gas. You didn’t take up much space, I know, but I was worried I’d sit on you and crack your face.

But here’s what really irked me.

When we were all on the 10th green and I was about to hit my putt, why did you yell an instrumental song at the top of your lungs for what must’ve been 20-seconds straight? It was catchy and repetitive, I’ll give you that, but it was like the same five-second song four times in a row. From that moment on, the dynamic between you and your handler was different.

When we got back to the cart, your handler did something to you that made you hum off and on the rest of the day. You two have an interesting dynamic. Anytime you would hum or light up, he would immediately reach for you, hold you up to his face, and slowly rub one finger over your belly while looking you directly in the eye, never once breaking eye contact. These are the times when neither of you would answer any of my questions. I just wanted someone to talk to.

Did you tell your handler to stop talking to me? Again, I understand you are famous and have a lot going on in your head at all times—more than anyone could fathom, frankly—but you and your handler didn’t say a single word to me the entire back nine. You are awfully quiet for someone who knows almost every language on the planet.

Once I realized that you were just going to sit in the cup holder and hum the entire back nine, I tried to strike up conversation again with your handler, but he wouldn’t take his eyes off of you. I was practically shoulder-to-shoulder with him for the last two hours, but the two of you pretended like I didn’t exist.

Everything was okay on the front nine. Your handler told me about his wife and kids, his job—hell, we even talked about some of our favorite courses and moments in golf. But everything changed when you cried out from the cart when we were on the 10th green.

Did you feel left out? That’s how I felt the rest of the back nine, and it hurt my experience. Every time I asked your handler a question I would look over to hear his response, but he was poking you in the belly again, sometimes really fast with both thumbs, which caused you to hum even more. I could’ve had a better conversation with the steering wheel of the cart, and maybe I should have.

Nonetheless, the purpose of this letter is not to say that you ruined a round of golf I had been looking forward to for weeks—you did, to be clear—but I have a bigger concern. I fear that as you gain in popularity, you will ruin rounds for so many more golfers all around the world.

This game offers a rare point of connection for people that is almost completely extinct, especially after your rise in idolization. What other activity puts people, both friends and strangers, together for four hours with no way to escape? Air travel, maybe, but you can always put in headphones and ignore your seat mates. A round of golf is a sacred time where a group of four people can be outside together, away from their problems, enjoying each other’s company.

So I beg, Mr. iPhone, please let all of your handlers go off the clock during their time on the golf course. If they’ll zip you up in their bag, ignore your hum, and talk to their fellow playing partners, then this game might just be the last bastion of uninterrupted, genuine human connection.

Sincerely,

Jeremy

P.S.- You distracted me roughly 70 times while I wrote this letter, so I am not immune to your magnetic pull.