My ego took a seat...

In the hierarchy of golfers, the Sunday Bag is a statement.

It says: "I am athletic. I don't need to carry 14 clubs, a change of clothes and two dozen pro v1s to get around this course. I can walk five miles across undulating terrain without breaking sweat."

Carrying is the preserve of the player. It is the unspoken rule of the subplot: Old guys push. Young guys carry.

I am 25 years old. I am in the prime of my life. And yet, recently, I have been walking the fairways with the internal grimace of Quosimodo.

The Prematurely Ageing Spine

Here is the cruel truth about my physiology: on the outside, I look like a standard, healthy young man. On the inside, my lower back appears to be made of papier-mâché and regret.

I tried to deny it. I played the role of the rugged purist. I’d sling a single strap bag over my shoulder on the first tee, chest out, looking cool. But by the 12th hole, the facade would crumble. My athletic stride would devolve into a burdened shuffle. I wasn't marching; I was eroding.

I found myself playing the Lad’s Gambit on the back nine. You know the move. You hit a shot, and instead of hoisting the bag properly, you do that tragic, stooped drag - hauling the bag by the handle like a moody teenager dragging a school bag, because the thought of engaging your core one more time makes you want to cry.

I realised then that I was fighting a war I didn't need to fight. I surrendered to the dark side.

The Walk of Shame

I arrived at the course for the first outing with The Pram. Setting it up in the car park was an IQ test I nearly failed. There was a lot of clicking, unfolding, and frantic locking of wheels while looking over my shoulder to make sure none of my mates drove past and saw me.

I wheeled it to the first tee. I felt ridiculous. Pushing a contraption usually associated with retirement communities. It was a visual oxymoron.

But then, I hit my drive. And then... I just walked.

I didn't hoist. I didn't grunt. I just pushed.

The sensation was weirdly intoxicating. I was walking down the fairway without 30 pounds of equipment trying to compress my spine into dust. My arms swung freely. I could check my phone. I could look at the scenery.

By the 9th hole, I noticed something strange: I wasn't sweating.

By the 14th hole, where my swing usually turns into a desperate chop because my legs have gone, I was still making a full turn. I felt... athletic.

By the 18th, I realised the horrifying truth: The old guys were right. They had been right the whole time.

The Death of Cool

I have to apologise to the push cart mafia. I mocked you. I called you furniture movers. I laughed at your little brake pedals. But now I get it.

Yes, I have committed social suicide. The group chat is going to have a field day when they see the photo. I have lost the aesthetic of the rugged golfer. I look like I’m taking my clubs for a walk in a stroller.

But I try to cradle some self respect. I haven’t bought the umbrella holder. Nor the GPS cradle. And I am not currently browsing Amazon for a clip-on fan and a phone mount. But… I’m not ruling it out.

There is a melancholy in admitting that my carrying days are over before I’ve even hit 30. It’s an admission that perhaps I am not the Spartan warrior I thought I was. I am, apparently, a man who enjoys comfort.

But let them laugh. Let the other players hoist their bags and ruin their posture in the name of vanity. I’ll be over here, cruising down the fairway with fresh legs, a stable spine, and a sandwich resting in my custom-bought accessory net.

I might look like a grandma, but I’m playing better than I ever have.

Now, if you’ll excuse me, I need to go see if they make a heated mitten attachment.