Two old buddies, Jack and Tom, were out on the golf course on a bright Saturday morning.

They had been playing together for years. Same course, same jokes, same complaints about their backs, and the same tiny bets that somehow never got paid.

By the time they reached the 18th hole, the match was tied.

Tom had already finished, and Jack had one short putt left to win. It was barely two feet from the hole, but Jack treated it like the final shot of a major championship.

He crouched down behind the ball.

Then he walked around the hole.

Then he crouched again from the other side.

Tom leaned on his putter, trying not to laugh.

“Jack,” he said, “it’s two feet. You’ve spent less time choosing a car.”

Jack ignored him completely, squinting at the green like he was solving an ancient mystery.

Finally, Tom grinned and decided to make things worse.

“Hey, no pressure, buddy,” he said. “But if you miss this one, you’re walking home.”

Jack froze.

He slowly looked up at Tom with the most serious expression on his face.

There was a long pause.

Then he glanced down at his feet and said quietly,

“Good thing I wore my walking shoes.”