So, I’ve been spending a good bit of time mulling over Nelly Korda and Tiger Woods. You know, just trying to get a handle on what makes them so darn good. It’s not like I’m planning on going pro or anything, but you see these folks at the top of their game, and you can’t help but wonder, right?
My whole “practice,” if you can call it that, was basically me trying to break down their magic. I sat there, watching videos, reading whatever I could find. I was trying to pinpoint that one thing. Is it all in the swing? The mental game? The way they walk the course?
I started making a list in my head, all the things that seemed to matter:
- Raw talent: I mean, come on. Some people just have that gift, seems like they were born holding a golf club.
- Hard work: Okay, talent’s one thing, but the hours these two must have put in? Unbelievable. Day in, day out. That’s not something you just wake up with.
- Mental toughness: That stare. That focus. When they’re in the zone, it’s like nothing else exists. That’s gotta be built, not just given.
- The team around them: Coaches, family, caddies. Nobody gets to that level completely alone, I figure.
- A bit of luck too, maybe? Right place, right time, avoiding career-ending stuff.
And the more I dug into it, the more I realized it’s not some simple recipe. It’s not like baking a cake where you just follow the steps. It’s a whole messy, complicated stew of everything, all bubbling together. You can’t just pick out one ingredient and say “That’s it!”
How do I reckon I know this? Well, this whole thing dragged up a memory from way back. It’s a bit silly, but stick with me.
Years ago, I got really into competitive sandwich making. Yeah, you heard me. Local fairs, community cook-offs, the whole shebang. And there was this one guy, let’s call him “Marty the Maestro.” Marty was the Tiger Woods of sandwich construction. His creations were legendary. People would line up just to see what he’d come up with.
So, I did what I’m doing now with Korda and Woods. I studied Marty. I watched him slice his artisanal bread with surgeon-like precision. I noted the exact angle he fanned out his deli meats. I even tried to find out what brand of mustard he used – turned out it was some obscure stuff he had imported. I bought the same fancy knives, the same cutting board, everything. I practiced layering cheese like it was a life-or-death situation.
And you know what? My sandwiches got better. They were pretty decent, actually. But Marty? He still wiped the floor with everyone. He just had this… this feel for it. He’d add a pinch of some spice nobody else thought of, or pair ingredients in a way that sounded crazy but tasted divine. It wasn’t just the technique; it was something more, something you couldn’t write down in a manual.
I found out later he’d grown up in his family’s deli, been making sandwiches since he was tall enough to reach the counter. It was in his blood, but he also experimented constantly. It was his passion, his art.
So, when I look at Nelly Korda teeing off, or think about Tiger in his prime, I see that same kind of thing. Sure, there’s incredible skill and dedication you can try to analyze. But there’s also that indefinable spark, that unique blend of person, passion, and circumstance. It’s not something you can just copy and paste. It’s their own special, hard-earned, and maybe even a little bit magical, mess.