You probably never heard of Scottie Scheffler. That’s all right. Until a few days ago, neither did I. (And I usually know this type of stuff.) Scheffler is the number one golfer in the world. He is worth close to $100 million, and that’s before any real estate, nursing home, or ABA investments. Just from hitting a little round ball.
Like me, you probably shrug your shoulders hearing that, thinking, “Another athlete who thinks that the world was created for his sport and it’s the tachlis of everything he lives for.” But a news conference he gave after his latest win opened his life—and his perspective—to the world. And for me, it was a vehicle to rethink these days and what we were meant to live for, and our Torah perspective on life.
With microphones in his face and another championship under his belt, Scheffler, fresh off the high of winning, started reflecting. Not on his win, but on what it all meant. And he said:
“You get there, and all of a sudden, you’re number one in the world…and then you’re like, ‘What’s the point?’ I love the work. I love playing. But does it satisfy the deepest parts of my heart? Absolutely not.”
He went on to say that the feeling of victory lasts about two minutes. Maybe less. After that, the questions begin again: Can you win the next one? Can you stay on top? Can you do it again? He intoned that the most important question was really, “How is the family?”
And that’s why I wrestle with why this is so important to me, because, you know, I would much rather be a great father than I would be a great golfer.
In front of millions who were watching this great, victorious golfer, he openly admitted that he wrestles with why he wants to win so badly. Probably to the consternation of all the golf executives out there, he openly said that “when it’s all over, it doesn’t really change anything.”
That’s when it hit me.
This guy made it to the top. Not the top of a local league, not the top of a minor sport. He is the best in his field. Admired, praised, paid handsomely, surrounded by fans and cameras. And yet, he wonders aloud: What’s the point?
And that, in a strange and unexpected way, made me think about the Three Weeks.
Indeed, everything we do has to have a point. There is nothing that we do—or should be doing—without a point. Without a tachlis.
The tefillah of Rav Nechunyah Ben Hakanah talks about us and them. He says that we both work. But we get s’char and they don’t. The Chofetz Chaim famously asked, “Did you ever see a worker who puts in the effort and does not get rewarded?” The Chofetz Chaim answers that it refers to the fact that a failed enterprise receives no reward for the effort, whereas Torah study is rewarded even if the talmid does not figure out the sugya.
Perhaps Mr. Scheffler added another teretz. You can earn money, receive fame, and be adulated. But at the end, what’s the point? There is no real satisfaction. There is no real accomplishment.
In our world, there is always reward. Because there is always greatness achieved through the work and through the effort. Because in our world, we know the point.
We’re not trying to win trophies that go dusty on a shelf. We’re not chasing headlines that get replaced the next day. Every step of growth, every page of Gemara, every moment of chesed—it means something. It builds something. We’re not just aiming for a title.
There is a tachlis. It’s called Olam Haba. And in this world, it means kiddush Hashem, and bringing Moshiach, and the rebuilding of the Bais Hamikdosh. With every proverbial (and I said proverbial) golf stroke, we’re rebuilding a Bais Hamikdosh.
The world out there lives for moments. Moments of fame. Moments of excitement. A win, a contract, a title. But in our world, we live for a mission.
Anu ameilim veheim ameilim. Anu ameilim umekablim sochor.
They work hard, too. No one is denying that. But as Scottie Scheffler himself admitted, when you hit the goal, there’s often nothing waiting for you on the other side but a hollow echo and a new deadline. And then it’s, “What’s for supper?”
In our world, there is reward. Not just in Olam Haba, but even here. Because our labor is tied to eternity, not fanfare. There’s no green jacket when a boy finishes a masechta. No red carpet when one chooses patience over yelling. No champagne when a bochur closes his phone and opens a sefer.
But there is a point. It’s called eternity.
And during these Three Weeks, when we mourn the loss of the Bais Hamikdosh, that message becomes clearer than ever. Because we’re not just mourning what was, we’re investing in what will be.
Every posuk of Eicha, every paragraph of Kinnos, every tear or even sigh over the churban, is another tiny brick in the rebuilding. When we say that the Bais Hamikdosh will be rebuilt through our mitzvos, it’s not poetry. It’s reality.
We’re not training for a championship that will leave us empty, wondering, “What’s next?” We’re preparing for a tachlis. A coronation. A time to end all time.
Scheffler’s line, “If this ever affected my family, I’d walk away,” exclaimed the antithesis of our dogma. What we do is our family. Our efforts are all for the future of our nation. We know that the greatest titles don’t come with trophies. They come with terms like “Totty” and “rebbi” and “baal chesed” and “eved Hashem.”
But what struck me most was his description of his letdown, the empty feeling of success and adulation over nothing. Because there is no concept of “golf lishmah.” There is only the concept that Rav Meir said: Whoever occupies himself with Torah lishmah merits many things. Not only that, but he is worth the whole world.
The person who toils in Torah not to be the best, not to impress, not for rankings or praise, but because it’s Torah, he’s the one who truly “has it all.”
And often, those people don’t even realize how great they are. Because they’re not chasing greatness. They’re chasing emes. They’re not trying to be known. All they want is to know. They are the Rav Akiva Eiger and the Nesivos, jumping out of the wagon to pull it for the honor of each other.
It’s during these weeks that we remind ourselves: We are not aimless. We are not wandering. All that we do should have—and hopefully does have—a point.
Just saying.
