An Imposter in the Light
Reflections on Pursuit and the Masters
An imposter removed his mask in the valley left of the third green. For a time, a hand held it in place. But he needed both to secure it. They were busy. Loosely wrapped around the taut grip, they pulled backward. A second later, the ball lurched forward, seeking a bite of grass. Would it ever stop?
The pretender concealed himself all week. Neither a threat to order nor the yearning for a storybook ending. His own story, scarcely considered or uttered aloud, cast aside. He scored quietly, steadily, sneakily, while the swaying light cast shadows beneath the giants of stardom and perennial performers. The breath of the chasers never prickled his neck. Their footfalls fell well behind. It was the many weeks’ theme of the budding year. Why would this Spring Sunday be different?
Alas, the shroud of the everlasting thought: who was he to hold off those better destined for the theatre?
The questions faded behind the trail of the ball as it shot into the bank. His eyes never grew wide as it disappeared over the rim. Why should they?
Those who witnessed it greenside would later recall that they knew it would find its mark. It was destiny. They declared the imposter a genius, a ready-star, a savant. Even as they harboured the welling bubbles of hope that his ball would eventually find deep shallows. They lied. The imposter did, too. It was not his moment; he knew. He was unworthy of its legacy. But then, whoever was worthy? Whoever fit the oversized arms, shoulders, chest of a jacket tailored for titans?
Scottie Scheffler won a golf tournament that was not his to win. He won it by cunning, by guile, and by a serene focus on his eternal status—a terminal condition. A condition by many names, but none of them fear.
Normal men fear. Normal men live their dreams in their sleep. Ambitious men chase their dreams in the light of day. Winning men accept their fate and do what they must. As self sabotages self and fear pulls at those on the precipice, the winning man strolls the fairways alone and does what he must: he plays his shot as only he can.
That Scheffler avoided the fate of his competitors was no small feat, but it was the manner that was exceptional. He accepted it. His desire to win was clear; his will to win unquestioned. But it was his humility that slipped on the green jacket. What he failed to see was that he was incomplete without it. A happy failure of confidence in a different truth: that he was quite enough.
We mortals strive and strain towards the markers that the world lay down for us. We forget that those who lay the markers are also those who doubt we could ever reach them. The doubters are always correct, but most correct about one thing: we are never ready for our moment when it comes. The moment does not knock. It pushes on the door as we hesitate to reach for its handle. The door to the arena does not lock. What we know of our own capability keeps our hands tied behind our backs. Who can accept the unknown and unbind his hands? Who has the courage to take a step—and then a few more? In the presence of the present, the outcome cannot matter. We are to accept that the future comes for us without our asking.
Indeed, will is often enough to mould the future into our making, but the failure of will is the harder fall. Does any will remain to lift us up after such an expenditure? Will peace find your hard and defeated heart? Mr Scheffler found his peace in the moment, from his Intervenor and the sure love of his family. We must redefine confidence to ensure its inclusion in such a surety. Know thine enemy. It is not the visage of failure hunting us; it is success and its reign of terror. Success halts the comfort of pursuit and sends us on a forlorn search. We accept with open arms the goals of others—any goal that will have us—readily forgetting the truth that we can define the value of our path for ourselves. Yes, the world will do it for us, but it is bent on our failure. Our pursuit must begin with the plan, with the setting.
What will Scottie Scheffler pursue next? There are the obvious mountaintops left to climb. May he pursue them in the same confidence that saw him to the summit of the Masters Tournament: that he was always enough—that we all are.
Post-script:
I, a mortal pleasantly reminded of mortality, share a kindred spirit with the subject of this essay. For several years, I've longed to start any something. I've longed to connect with others, to create a place to express ideas and discuss quandaries. I believe it flows from the most essential longing: to push the mind beyond the boundaries of my present comfort. On the bottom-side of that comfortable stasis is an unquenchable thirst. I know it's there—no matter how often I feign material contentment. And I feared it. I wailed. I turned myself down over and again, but now I know I must not.
As we grow older the barriers turn to mist, or they become solid rock. It is our perception that builds or dissolves. This newsletter is a conscious effort to dissolve the barriers that I have constructed. I think many are similarly afflicted. I think many of us have much to share, people to love, minor legacies (or major, who’s to say?) to build, but are only too scared to reveal our thoughts to light, for fear that they might grow.