Pride
Playing with a PGA Tour golfer was a first for me. I have typically been one of the better players in my friend groups, and on my high school and club college teams, I had become accustomed to being one of the best. And I loved it. Mark Wilson and I had become good friends helping build Young Life in Elmhurst together. I hoped to impress him with my game. Impress five-time PGA Tour winner Mark Wilson… right.
I’m a recovering praise junkie.
Back in the day, compliments and success would send me soaring. That dopamine hit after a job well done, a well-delivered joke, or a flushed golf shot felt amazing. Failure and criticism sent me crashing back down to earth. First tee boxes and 18th greens were both my stages and my nightmares. I ran through every outcome and reaction before I hit a shot. Applause. Laughter. Whispered swing critiques. Looking into where my addiction came from revealed a lot to me.
“I’m a recovering praise junkie.”
I only remember bits of graphite flew into the air, as my Taylormade Burner 3 wood wrapped itself around my golf bag and the shaft snapped in half. My approach hooked into the river left of the 9th green, along with it my chances of shooting a respectable front nine. How my 3 wood found itself flying at my golf bag is still a mystery to me. My dad thinks it was out of anger. I claimed it slipped from my follow through. I was 15… you be the judge. Now as a former golf club engineer, throwing and breaking clubs is blasphemy to me. (I’m also convinced there are only two types of golfers when it comes to club care: either you don’t clean your clubs meticulously after every shot and leave your woods banging around in your bag with no head-covers, or you treat them better than your car.) The 15-year-old me cared a lot more about breaking 80 than the $300 dollar shaft replacement. I’m sure I even blamed an expensive club rather than myself. My priorities early on needed some rearranging. So did my golf swing.
It was the first playoff hole to get into the Illinois State Championship my senior year of high school. “Now on the tee from Riverside Brookfield, Jack Kemper!” My entire body weight was shakily supported by my Mizuno CLK 3 hybrid. Bending over I could barely get the tee into the ground. The big left miss was always lurking for me. Being first of the six guys playing for one spot, I had the opportunity to put the pressure on and set the stage for the rest of the playoff holes. Big left miss … re-tee … double bogey. Not even close. I was too sad to even cry.
Newspaper photo of Jackson from his high school golf days.
Lots of things have changed. For one, I’ve learned to live within my physical limits a bit more. I mostly hit a fade now and don’t own a hybrid, maybe due to the PTSD of how many tragic rope hooks I hit at the least opportune times. I also have more realistic expectations, a mentality that affords for the occasional poor shot, and a willingness to accept what comes. I also play way better golf and enjoy it a lot more. Those facts are more connected than I care to admit.
When you live and die by the praise of others, and your identity is rooted in your performance and other’s opinions, a gust of wind can change who you are. Especially in golf. I have lived it.
My self-worth isn’t so fragile anymore, but I still love a good compliment. I’m recovering, remember? What changed for me was realizing that I cared way too much about what they think. Who’s they? Anyone that I gave control over my identity and emotions to.
Now I’m rooted in things that can’t change: God, my wife and family, my friends, my love of golf. Those are the only things that last or matter. As we grow older and realize what truly matters and what doesn’t, I’ve found it easier to accept a bad shot or a bad round, and that I don’t need the validation from golf or life that I once craved. Those bad moments on the golf course are an important opportunity to be humbled, and to recenter myself and my self-worth. It’s also easy to be humbled by playing with someone like Mark Wilson.
Jackson caddying for Mark Wilson on tour.
I never would have guessed in that first round we played together that Mark shot 4 under. He wasn’t in this other stratosphere of zen focus, he was just one of the group. Walking between shots, talking with us, really listening to what we had to say, and even hitting a bad shot or two. Now that I’ve played many rounds of golf with Mark, caddied for him in the American Express tournament on tour, and had him caddy for me in a tournament. Whether he almost breaks the course record, or misses the cut, or carries my bag in an amateur event, I’ve learned that the experience and time together is way more important than the result.
Eventually one day, I won’t be able to play golf someday, my clubs will rust and break, and my accomplishments will be forgotten. All that matters for my next round of golf is that for a few hours I get to play a game that I love, with people that I love, and that Mark Wilson doesn’t care what I shoot.