If you want experience in pleasing people, work at a golf course. A golf course provides the perfect environment to please the best and worst retirees America has to offer. We outdoor operation attendants are expected to submit to every demand of a golfer even if it is an impossibly early tee-time.

I knew none of this when I first started to work at a country club in Plymouth last summer. Despite my lack of knowledge in golf, I was proud to get the job. I was told that the course was regarded as one of the finest in Massachusetts, and was designed by a world-renowned architect. Despite my nervousness, I was confident for my first day on the job. It was a clear, sunny spring day, and the course looked as impressive as any course you may see on the Golf Channel. Unfortunately the parking lot was not as tranquil; Cars, people, and bags were everywhere. I remembered that today was the annual Travis Tournament: the biggest event of the summer.

The staging area was an island of commotion and excitement in the serene course. Dozens of men were busy conversing about the latest movie they had seen, or the prospects of the Red Sox this season. They bragged about their handicaps while lighting their cigars and sipping their cool beers. Meanwhile blue-clad attendants struggled to load golf carts with bags before sprinting to the parking lot to pick up more. I quickly rushed to their aid, helping to load the carts. Soon, I became increasingly confident with my work as I had personally loaded nearly five carts. I was a master of efficiency within the whirlwind of chaos.

Eventually, the tumult died down and the assistant pro appeared with a microphone. He welcomed the participants and wished them luck before the convoy of carts journeyed to their holes. A wave of relief washed over the attendants as our work was done for now. I was then asked to pick the driving range which had become littered with balls. A kid around my age began to give instructions on how to drive the picker and what to pick, but I assured him that I knew what I was doing. I hopped into the picker, turned on the ignition, and put my foot to the petal.

My confidence grew at the first roar of the engine. With great precision and skill I swept dozens of balls into the crates. However, when I reached the end of the range, I noticed a few balls lying on a grassy embankment. I dismounted my machine and trekked to the embankment with my hand picker. Two clean white balls lay in the verdant grass. Although it was odd that all the other balls were yellow, I promptly picked up the balls and journeyed back. As I reached the picker, I heard the hollars and heavy footsteps of a man behind me. I stopped dead in my tracks and turned around. I was greeted with a flush-faced man who proceeded to berate me for taking his ball. I stammered out an apology and removed the ball from the picker. The man snatched it and then stormed off to his group. I later discovered that I had spoiled a perfect hole for the club manager. After that day, I vowed never to return to work with such hubris. I also learned that color makes a big difference when it comes to golf balls.