the greatest game

There are two versions of every courageous act. There is the one we read about later, the one that gets chiseled into the granite of history. In this version, the protagonist is resolute, their jaw is set, and their eyes are fixed on a distant, noble horizon. Every step is imbued with purpose, every decision a clear-eyed calculation on the path to victory. History flattens the terror, smooths over the doubt, and presents the story to us as a clean, inevitable arc. It’s a fine story, but it has the unfortunate side effect of making us feel that such courage is the province of a different species of human, a breed apart from the rest of us who can’t even decide what to have for dinner without a flicker of existential dread.

Then there is the second version of the story, the one that is lived. In this version, the protagonist is battling an undiagnosed case of acid reflux. Their hands are clammy. The horizon is not distant and noble; it’s a terrifying fog, and the only thing they’re focused on is not tripping over their own feet on the very next step. The internal monologue is not a heroic soliloquy, but a frantic, sputtering negotiation: Just get through this next minute. Don’t make a fool of yourself. Why did I ever think I could do this? 

These are the thoughts I have when assembling a piece of IKEA furniture whose manual is longer than five pages. Frankly, the furniture usually ends up looking more courageous than I do. But the point is that courage, in the moment it is being lived, rarely feels like courage at all. It mostly feels like survival.

And this is a vital and often missed piece of wisdom about the nature of “building character.”

You see, we look at the great figures of the past and see monuments. But they were not monuments; they were men and women, breathing and uncertain, who simply chose to take one more step. 

And if we are to glean any practical lesson for our own lives—for the everyday business of raising a family, holding a job, and being a decent neighbor—it is this: Courage is not a feeling you wait for. It is a decision you make, a practice you perform, one shaky step at a time. 

There is perhaps no finer story to illustrate this homespun truth than that of a 20-year-old amateur golfer who, in 1913, found himself standing in the rain, facing giants. Yes, we’re going to talk about golf. Stay with me. 

To understand the stage, you must first understand the gods who walked upon it. In 1913, the world of golf belonged to Great Britain. Its two reigning deities were Harry Vardon and Ted Ray. They were not merely golfers; they were archetypes. Vardon was the master stylist, the inventor of the overlapping grip that still bears his name, a man of such fluid grace that his swing was considered the Platonic ideal of the form. Ray was his foil: a massive, brawling Channel Islander, a pipe-smoking powerhouse who hit the ball with what seemed like brute, elemental force. They were titans, touring America like conquering heroes, and the U.S. Open, held that year at The Country Club in Brookline, Massachusetts, was meant to be their coronation.

Into this grand narrative walked the scrawny, young Francis Ouimet. He was a ghost in this world. He had grown up in a modest house directly across the street from the 17th hole of The Country Club. For years, he had watched the wealthy members play on the manicured fairways, a world as distant to him as the moon. He learned the game as a caddie, absorbing its rhythms and secrets through observation and imitation, practicing in cow pastures with worn-out clubs. He was an amateur, a former schoolboy, a 20-year-old who worked in a sporting goods store. When he entered the U.S. Open, it was not with the expectation of winning, but with the hope of simply acquitting himself well on his home turf. He was an afterthought.

His caddie was even more so. In fact, he was a 10 year old.  You can’t make this stuff up. Eddie Lowery, a scrappy local kid, decided he would play hooky from school to carry Ouimet’s bag. Just consider that image for a moment: the two British gods of golf, seasoned, world-famous professionals, striding the course with their experienced caddies, and then there is the small local boy, with a yet smaller boy, barely tall enough to hand him a club, whispering encouragement in his ear. The scene is so improbable it borders on the absurd.

The tournament was a brutal, rain-soaked affair. The course was a muddy quagmire. Vardon and Ray, as expected, battled their way to the top of the leaderboard. But somehow, impossibly, the amateur from across the street was keeping pace. He wasn’t doing it with heroic, theatrical shots. He was doing it with consistency, with a kind of quiet stubbornness. He was simply playing the hole in front of him. One shot, then the next. While others faltered in the miserable conditions, he endured. When the final round was over, the unthinkable had happened: Francis Ouimet was tied with Harry Vardon and Ted Ray. A three-way, 18-hole playoff would decide the champion.

This is the moment where the historical version of the story kicks in. David slays Goliath. The American underdog topples the British empire of golf. It’s a wonderful narrative, but it’s not the most useful one for our lives. The more useful story is to imagine what must have been going through Francis Ouimet’s head that morning.

He was not thinking about changing the face of American golf. He was not contemplating the class implications of an amateur caddie defeating the polished professionals. He was most likely thinking, Don’t embarrass yourself. He was probably focused on the simple, terrifying task of hitting a small white ball in the right direction while the whole world watched.

We’ve all been there, albeit with lower stakes. I remember trying to learn how to bake sourdough bread during that period a few years back where it seemed to be a civic requirement. The online tutorials showed artisans with flour-dusted aprons, calmly folding dough with the serene confidence of Zen masters. My kitchen, by contrast, looked like a cartel deal had gone horribly wrong. Flour was everywhere. The dough, a sticky, malevolent entity, clung to every surface and seemed to mock my efforts. My internal monologue was not one of courageous culinary exploration. It was a stream of low-grade panic: This is a disaster. Just throw it out. Order a pizza. No one has to know. The courage wasn't in feeling like a master baker; it was in scraping the goo off the counter one more time and shoving the monstrous thing into the oven anyway. The resulting loaf had the density of a collapsed star, but the act was complete.

That, on an infinitely grander scale, is the courage of Francis Ouimet. His bravery wasn't a state of being; it was a sequence of actions. It was the decision to get out of bed. The decision to pick up the club on the first tee. The decision to focus on his grip, his stance, his swing, and nothing else.

In the playoff, as the rain continued to fall, he fell behind early. But he didn’t crumble. He stayed with his process. He and little Eddie, walking together, created a small bubble of focus in the midst of a historic spectacle. The turning point came on the 17th hole, the very hole he’d looked at from his bedroom window his entire life. He needed a birdie to take a decisive lead. It was a long, treacherous putt on a wet green. The pressure was immense.

What does one do in a moment like that? 

The historical version sees a hero steel his nerves. 

The human version sees a young man falling back on his training. He had done this a thousand times before in his mind, in the cow pasture, in his dreams. He wasn't trying to win the U.S. Open with that putt. He was just trying to make a putt. He focused on the line. He focused on the speed. He took the putter back and followed through. The ball tracked toward the hole, teetered on the edge, and dropped in. The crowd roared. Vardon, the gentleman champion, could only watch in admiration. Ouimet would go on to win by one stroke. It remains the greatest upset in the history of the sport.

The wisdom here is not "believe in yourself and you can do anything." That’s a flimsy Hallmark card sentiment.

Ouimet’s victory wasn’t born from a sudden surge of heroic feeling. It was born from thousands of quiet, unglamorous moments: the caddie loops where he studied the course, the solitary practice sessions, the choice to concentrate on the mechanics of his swing instead of the magnitude of the moment. He broke down an impossible task—Beating the two best golfers in the world—into a series of possible ones: Hit this fairway. Get this on the green. Make this putt.

I hope this isn’t crushing news, but we’re not all meant to win the U.S. Open. I realize that most of you are probably still groaning that I chose to write this piece about golf. So let me double down with another golf metaphor: most of our lives will be lived far from the roar of the crowd, but we all face our own 17th hole. It’s the difficult conversation you need to have with a loved one. It’s the decision to leave a secure but soul-crushing job to start something new. It’s the daily, grinding effort of caring for a sick parent or a struggling child. It’s the moment you have to stand up for what is right in a small meeting at work, when it would be so much easier to stay silent.

In these moments, if we wait to feel courageous, we will wait forever. The feeling of fear and inadequacy is not a sign that you should stop; it’s a sign that what you are doing matters. The lesson from Francis Ouimet is to take the focus off your own churning stomach and place it on the task at hand.

Don’t focus on the narrative: "I am having a life-changing conversation."

Focus on the task: "I will say this one true thing, calmly and with love."

Don’t focus on the narrative: "I am launching a bold new career." 

Focus on the task: "I will write this business plan. I will make this one phone call."

This approach replaces the paralysis of fear with the momentum of action. It is the courage of the craftsman, not the warrior. A carpenter doesn't feel brave when he picks up a hammer; he just knows how to hit a nail. He focuses on the task, and the house gets built. Our character is the house we build, one small, deliberate, and often frightening action at a time.

Francis Ouimet’s story is a gift because it demystifies courage. It doesn't ask us to become fearless monuments. Instead, it validates our own trembling humanity. He and his 10-year-old caddie didn't set out to inspire a nation. They just set out to play a round of golf, one shot at a time, and in doing so, they left us with a very liberating truth.

Courage and fear aren’t opposites. They’re dance partners. 

The frantic beat in your chest, the dryness in your mouth, the internal monologue of doubt—these aren’t signs of cowardice. They are the physical and emotional soundtrack of a courageous act. They are proof that you are standing at the edge of your own comfort zone.

So give yourself permission. Give yourself permission to feel the fear. You are allowed to be terrified while you make the brave phone call. You are allowed to have doubts while you start the new chapter. You’re allowed to have your hands shake while you reach out to help someone else. Courage does not live in a quieted heart; it lives in the feet that decide to take the next step anyway, while the heart is still hammering away.

For those of you non-golfers who made it this far in the piece, well done. For everyone else, when you next step onto that first tee, remember this kind of courage. And please, please feel free to leave the plaid pants at home. It’s 2025.

John

Thanks for reading The Mayfly Letter.

Your support allows me to continue doing something I truly love.

John Conrad