Disclaimer: This post deals with a tale of two great individuals and their equally impressive ascents to the height of their profession and the total dominance of their art. Those looking for analysis regarding the game unfolding on a field in Minnesota should look elsewhere. This is about another game: the game we play with our own legacy.
On Wednesday afternoon, after finishing my Wednesday responsibilities— washing the Founders’ cars, studying the breaks on the practice green out back, steaming a few V.I.P’s (Very Important Pullovers), and scouting out the next great 19th hole for happy hour— I sat down at my desk, fired up the computer machine, opened ESPN on my browser, and felt a little tingle in my spine.
For a moment I thought that maybe I’d caught a wayward fume of something dank from the vape shop next door. But no…not this time. As I stared at the title card of this year’s Super Bowl, the sight of the Patriot and the Eagle triggered some sort of deja vu. What I felt was an experience even more breathtaking than the diggity-dank, my friends: it was nostalgia. I realized I was looking at my own fate come full circle.
Bear with me here.
Thirteen years ago the same two teams made it to that hallowed final game of the NFL season. In the years since, we’ve witnessed one of the greatest and most artful ascents to dominance in history. Something so magical it seems scripted. A conspiracy of greatness. An underdog story. A nobody from nowhere becoming the unimpeachable GOAT.
In that same span of years, we’ve had the pleasure of watching Tom Brady develop a decent career, too. And it took me until this week to realize it, but all this time the careers of Mr. Brady and myself, near mirror reflections of one another, have traced a perfect circle back to this Sunday.
So I pause to reflect. Sitting at my desk I had a muggy flashback of a much younger Caddie just barely aware of his gifts. There was the time they ran out of Lone Star at the bar and I made the switch to Coors. It happened seamlessly. I didn’t miss a beat. You had to be there. Or the time I caddied up-and-comer Trent Warmburger setting a record on the Volcano Palms course on Golden Tee at the Deep Eddy Cabaret. I orchestrated his round and set him on course for a sparkling career.
So imagine my pride on February 4th when I watch old man Brady on TV after all these years, still slinging beauties downfield, unfazed by deflate-gates and the ravages of time, etc.. And myself, 13 years further along, countless rounds caddied, the Founders’ sanity and the very weight of the company resting on my shoulders. Who’s to say which of us (me or Tom) has had the more impressive ascent to dominance?
Well I have, obviously. But this Sunday I’ll take a moment and raise a can to Mr. Brady.
Recognize greatness in others gentlemen (even if their greatness is less great than your own greatness).
As for the game: go Eagles. I always like to see an upstart and fearless team take on an old dynasty. (Also, I want the Eagles to win just so I can see more videos like this.)
Vegas has New England at -5, but don’t sleep on the underdog.
Be the ball, Criquet Caddy out.