Q School - The Ampersand November 2025

The Ampersand Unplugged brings you an audio version of our November 2025 edition of The Ampersand, read aloud by the author. This month’s piece reflects on mentorship, service, and the quiet wisdom of those who help carry the weight for others. 

Through stories of caddies, a day spent looping for his son at a golf tournament, and the lasting influence of a beloved mentor, Adam explores the value of perspective, humility, and walking alongside others as they navigate their own fairways. 

You can find the full written blog on our website here.

Want to stay connected with us?
Follow us on our LinkedIn!

Transcript

SPEAKER_00 0:01

Okay, we are back in the studio recording our podcast as part of the Ampersand Unplugged season five, where I am waiting patiently for my partner in crime and uh brainchild of the Ampersand Unplugged podcast, Kiara Tyler, who is still on Mat Leave, to return from Mat Leave. So sort of in a twist on a season of reruns, I am uh filling the space by reading the Ampersand newsletters of the past several months, uh, during which time we were unable to uh load the audio version onto the website platform that we needed to use when we merged with Amrop Rosen. So this is the uh November edition. I am recording this in late February of 26, uh, but this is the November 2025 edition. And um, you know, every once in a while a theme starts following you around. Um I don't go looking for things like this, it just sort of keeps tapping me on the shoulder. And and for me, it's this one um started in Scotland last August. I had the privilege of playing some extraordinary golf courses, and like most people who go over there, I looped with caddies. At first, I thought of it as a part of the experience. Blind t-shots and pot bunkers, and wind you can't quite feel, and greens you can't quite read. But what struck me wasn't just their coarse knowledge as much as their presence. Caddies are in the service business, but the very best ones don't feel transactional, they're they're steady, they're measured, they're gracious, they don't hover, they're honest, but they don't bruise your ego. Um, they know when to speak and when to stay quiet. They carry more than a bag, they carry weight. And I came home thinking there was something in that metaphor, but I couldn't quite find the thread. And then uh back in uh the fall of 2025, I lost a mentor and a friend, Quincy Smith, uh Q, 83 years old Parkinson's. If ever you've had someone in your life who steadied you without ever announcing that they were doing it, you'll know what I mean. Q was technically a managing partner, but in hindsight, he behaved more like a master caddy. He let you swing the club, he let you hit the shot, but he was always there, offering perspective, calming the moment, reminding you that no matter how sideways things felt, they were never quite as catastrophic as you imagined. It turns out that um in the spring of 2025, I had the chance to caddy uh for my son, Jacob, at an Alberta amateur qualifier in single-digit temperatures, sideways rain, the whole prairie symphony. And standing there on the T-box, not as a player, but as the guy carrying the bag, I could almost hear Q's voice in my head. Calm, slightly amused, telling me to say less, to let the kid play his game. And that's when it clicked. This piece isn't really about golf, it's about service, about mentorship, about consulting, about parenting, about the quiet art of walking alongside someone without taking over, about carrying weight without uh claiming the glory. So today's episode is about caddies, the literal ones and the metaphorical ones, the people who make others better without needing the spotlight. And inevitably it's about Q. Let me read it to you. Dear friends and colleagues, ever since returning from Scotland in late August, I've been writing a newsletter in my mind about caddies. While no doubt a perk on top of the perk of playing many of the best golf courses on earth, caddies over there aren't as much of a luxury item as you might think. In addition to helping you navigate blind shots over berms and bunkers, they offer insights about golf, certainly, but also about life. They are, after all, in the service business, and while I am under no illusion that our time together was anything more than transactional, I choose to believe there was something deeper to the connection. I hadn't put pen to paper on this topic because until now I have been unable to tether it to anything worth writing, let alone reading. Until now. A friend and mentor of mine, Quincy Smith, known to most simply as Q, passed away recently, succumbing to Parkinson's disease at the age of eighty-three. And it was his passing that finally gave shape to what had been swirling around in my brain, the quiet nobility and understated wisdom of carrying someone else's bag. Proverbially, if not literally, Q never looped for me in the golf sense, but he did in countless other ways that mattered. Quincy was one of those rare figures, whose presence lent weight and perspective to everything he touched. Humorous, humble, and wise, he had that glint in his eye that always seemed to say, Don't worry about it, no one cares that much. During my two stints at the law firm, first as a practicing lawyer and later in an at times polarizing professional development role, I spent countless hours in his office, learning mostly by osmosis, watching as he practiced the always thankless and often dark art of managing lawyers. Though he was the managing partner in title, on reflection he carried himself more like a grizzled caddy than a commanding captain, guiding with quiet confidence, letting you hit the shot, but always there to offer perspective when it was needed, and conveying through deed and word that no matter how bad it was, it was never that bad. I hadn't realized how much of Quincy had quietly rubbed off on me. But earlier this year, standing on a freezing cold tea box in Strathmore, Alberta, readying myself not to play but to loop, as us prose say, I could almost hear his voice in my head, gravelly bemused, and unhurried, reminding me to stay calm, say less, and keep perspective. The kind of patience Q had modeled for years without ever naming it. You see, I had been asked caddy for my 18-year-old son Jacob at an Alberta amateur qualifying tournament on that windswept plot of barren prairie, about 30 minutes east of Calgary. I'd love to tell you that my many years of accumulated Lynx wisdom, relatively high golf EQ, and general disposition were the qualifications that secured me the job. In reality, I'm quite certain no one else was available or applied, particularly given the single digit forecast highs, biting north wind, and occasional sideways rain that day. I'd never caddied before, in the literal sense. I was the kid's dad, so you could say I had daddied, but my bona fides to the extent they needed to be established, other than a valid driver's license and knowing how to operate a rake, were qualities of patience and perspective. Virtues I learned not on a golf course, but by spending countless hours in Quincy's office watching how wisdom could be exercised without ever being announced. We didn't qualify that day, but in a lifetime full of incredible golfing memories, caddying for my youngest son as he battled to make the cut topped the list. And doing so with Q's wisdom embedded somewhere deep within me reminded me that carrying someone's bag is never just about the weight over your shoulder, but about the calm you bring to theirs. It's humbling posture for any parent. That transition from coaching to caddying, from ordaining, superior to subordinate, to simply walking alongside peer to peer, equally invested in an outcome that's entirely out of your control, residing solely within his. Honest without being harsh. They'll tell you that you've got the wrong club in your hand, but in a way that leaves your ego intact. Measured, subtle, and positive, suggesting you quote, favor the right side as opposed to avoiding all the trouble on the left. Calm under pressure. When you've sprayed your drive deep into the gorse and ask perhaps a little too hopefully, will we find it? You're met not with disbelief but with dry wit, as one infamous Irish caddy once replied to that very question eventually, impliedly, though politely measuring time, not in minutes, but in centuries. If there's another profession with a higher collective EQ than caddies, I've yet to engage with it. One that comes close, I dare say, is my own. In our daily toil, my colleagues and I aren't carrying bags, but we are carrying weight, the weight of expectation, of trust, of careers and organizations riding on the right match. Like caddies, we have to read the moment quickly. As with golfers, not all clients are equally excellent, some wanting data, spreadsheets, and psychometrics, others seeking gut checks and reassurance. Some need encouragement, others need blunt truths. And like caddies, we walk that fine line between proximity and distance. Too aloof, and you're of little use, too ingratiating, and you lose credibility. The art is in striking the balance, helpful but not hovering, candid but not cutting. To carry someone's bag for four hours is to enter into a strangely intimate compact, like a blind date with a fixed outcome. Eighteen holes side by side, come what may. The best caddies are masters of emotional intelligence, able to take a read on their player within minutes. Are they here for the banter or business? Can they handle a ribbing or do they need quiet encouragement? Are they good enough to want yardages to the pin? Or should advice be delivered more gently? Middle of the greens never wrong, sir. Some of our caddies over the years have become friends. A few were aspiring young golfers looping thirty-six holes a day to save up for Q school. Others were older, retired types looking to get out of the house, stay fit, and connected to the game. Each brings their own story, their own way of making four hours together feel more like a shared journey than a commercial arrangement. The best caddies and the best consultants share a rare trait. They make their living in service to others. Yet the true professionals aren't there solely for the tip, just as we're not there solely for the fee. They're there for the work, for the relationship, for the satisfaction of seeing someone else succeed, knowing they played a small part in it, which inevitably brings me back to Quincy. When I first started Pikarski and Koback in 2009, I asked him if he would consider serving on our advisory board, and in so doing, lend his immense personal credibility to an enterprise with very little. Without hesitation, he said yes. That single yes changed everything. By lending his name, credibility, and gravitas to a fledgling firm taking its first shaky steps, Quincy gave us instant legitimacy. The sheer association made people take notice, but it wasn't just symbolic. Quincy rolled up his sleeves, he showed up, he opened doors, he offered guidance, and in his quietly steadfast way, he always had my back. Once, while at the law firm, there was a minor media kerfuffle. A misquote in the Globe and Mail had the Toronto partners in a full lather, their knickers well and truly knotted, eager to see whether I'd float once the firewood ran out. It could have gone sideways fast, but Quincy rallied the troops, calmed the waters, and kept me out of the proverbial bunkers. He didn't just defend me, he believed in me, and there's a difference. With time, I've come to realize how rare that kind of loyalty is. Quincy was the kind of mentor who could steady your hands without ever taking the club from you. He led not through volume but through values, conviction, humility, humor, and grace. He never chased credit, never sought applause. He simply carried weight for others, quietly and with dignity. I came upon a photo from 2009 when Quincy and I had occasion to play in a proam together, just two fellow golfers, peers in the moment, but separated by a lifetime of wisdom I was still too green to grasp. Looking at that photo now, I see not the gap between our ages, but the bridge between them. Two players walking the same fairway, carrying different kinds of weight, each learning from the other. There's a passage in the caddy's code at St. Andrew's that reads, quote, The Caddy should never lose sight of the fact that he is there to help the golfer play his best golf. He should never forget that it is the golfer's game. That's good advice not just for caddies, but for mentors, consultants, and parents. Most of all, caddies remind me that the highest form of service is not about being noticed, but about making others better. If a golfer plays well, they get the glory. The caddy gets a handshake, maybe a tip, and hopefully the chance to carry again tomorrow. Here at the firm, that's what we aspire to every day, serving clients, candidates, and our community in ways that aren't always visible but are always meaningful. Like caddies, our role is to offer perspective, judgment, and support, to walk alongside others with honesty and empathy, to carry the weight we can, and to make the rest a little lighter. I often think about that day in Strathmore, the cold, the nerves, the small moments between us, and realize that maybe that's what Q meant to teach me all along. That the real joy isn't in playing your best round, but it in helping someone else play theirs. Regards. Adam.