Alright, let me tell you about trying to catch that US Open playoff. It sounds simple, right? Sit down, turn on the TV. Yeah, not quite how it went down for me.
I’d decided earlier in the day, definitely watching this one. Heard it was going to a playoff, the tension was building. Perfect Sunday evening plan. First, had to get the chores done. You know how it is. Took longer than expected, naturally.
Finally, settled onto the couch. Grabbed some chips. Remote in hand. Then the dog starts barking like crazy at absolutely nothing outside. Had to get up, check the yard, calm him down. Missed the first hole completely.
Trying Again
Okay, back to the couch. Just as they’re showing the replay, my phone rings. It’s my brother. Now, normally great to chat, but his timing? Impeccable, in the worst way. Spent ten minutes hearing about his car trouble while frantically trying to follow the action with the sound off.
By the time I got off the phone, they were walking to the third tee. I felt like I was already behind, scrambling to catch up, just like my whole week had been feeling, honestly. Always playing catch-up.
Here’s what I managed to actually see properly:
- One guy hit a great shot out of the rough.
- Another guy missed a short putt. Ouch.
- Lots of walking. Seriously, so much walking.
- The crowd reactions.
It wasn’t the full, immersive experience I wanted. More like catching glimpses through a foggy window. Saw the final putt, thankfully. Saw the handshake. But the build-up, the hole-by-hole drama? Mostly lost in the shuffle of my own little life chaos.
It made me think, though. These golfers, under that insane pressure, they need absolute focus. One shot at a time. Me? I couldn’t even manage one hour of focused TV watching without getting pulled in five different directions. Maybe that’s the real difference. Not the skill, but the ability to just shut everything else out. Something I’m definitely still working on.
So yeah, I “watched” the playoff. Sort of. It happened. I was there. Ish. Just another Sunday, really.
