Why a Crying Baby Is Like a Bad Round of Golf

I’m not a very good golfer. I mean, I’m not awful. Even though I didn’t play a single round this year, I’m fairly certain I could still scramble through 18 holes in about 100 strokes, mixing in the occasional long, crooked drive with a plethora of chunks, mishits, and weak putts.

And every once in a while, something amazing happens on a golf course. Something remarkable and special happens. I hit a fantastic shot.

Have you ever hit a fantastic golf shot? It’s really something. For my money, it’s the best feeling in all of recreational sports. It’s nice to watch a three-pointer swish through a hoop, nice to watch a softball go over a fence, nice to notch a PR in a road race. But a smooth, high arching golf shot that lands like a gum drop on the green? Good Lord, it’s sweet. And it’s often unexpected.

Like most hackers, my swing is terrible. I’m just as likely to top the ball as I am to dig out a five-pound chunk of the Earth every time I use my club. (The result from these two very different actions, interestingly, is quite similar.) I leave my putts short, slice when I try to draw, and draw when I try to slice. I’ve never really learned how to hit a shot out of the sand and I consider it a successful hole when I don’t have to “get creative with that tree to get a bogey here.”

So when that fantastic shot leaves my club, it’s so damn sweet. Once every round or two, I’ll stare down the flagstick from 150 yards and get a feeling like something great is about to happen. The club feels like part of my body as I slowly draw it back and hit the ball squarely. My follow through is perfect, as the ball elevates and hangs in the air. It hangs and hangs, as I watch with a huge smile on my face. Seconds later, the ball drops 10 feet from the hole. I finally exhale, look around, replace my divot, and tip my cap to my playing partners like it’s just another day at the office. (Inside, I’m attempting to quiet the voice telling me to quit my job and try to qualify for the U.S. Open.)

Nice moment, right?

When you’re struggling on the golf course, though, it’s the exact opposite. When you’re having a bad round and hitting everything in the woods, the water, or the sand, life is awful. You feel helpless. You suddenly start thinking about the presentation that’s due on Monday and the argument you just had with your wife. You think about how you should have been a firefighter or a lawyer and you start to notice that your jaw clicks when you open it. In short, everything is lousy.

You might be wondering what all of this has to do with the cute baby at the top of the post. Where’s the connection?

That helpless, lousy feeling hit me the other day. I was in my living room instead of a golf course, and Bridget was in the kitchen making a pie. My arms were filled with my adorable daughter, who refused to stop crying. She wasn’t hungry, didn’t need a diaper change, and didn’t have gas. She wasn’t bored, sad, or hurt either. She just cried. And cried and cried and cried. I tried walking around with her, doing squats with her (she loves that), and bouncing on the ball with her (she loves that, too). Nothing worked. I just let the piercing cries wash over me like a relentless, driving rainstorm.

I felt like I was golfing and hitting ball after ball after ball into the middle of a pond. It was brutal.

Finally, mercifully, she settled down and fell asleep. And then, like that smooth, buttery 8-iron, something happened. The corners of her mouth started to turn, her eyes started to squint, and she smiled. And I smiled. And I realized I’d play 1,000 rounds of terrible golf to see her smile again.