Shouldn’t Day, with Jordan Spieth up his jacksie, have had to decide what club to use and not had Swatton - caddy, coach, mentor, best man at the wedding, all that - as calming voice, in his ear, murmuring sweet nothings?

Yessss, I agree, Jase, it’s the club, it’s the number, soft hands, swing easy, don’t sweat that bogey on eight, don't fret that super-chunked approach on nine. It's all good, Jase. It's all good...

And for sure our Jase was all good. And how we bayed for him, and for Adam Scott at the Masters, and for Spieth when he lifted our national Open trophy.

And perhaps these worthies and all the other champions through history would have ripped off their famous deeds without a helper.

But we won't ever know. And from Old Tom Morris to young Aaron Baddeley, we will never have a true measure of their greatness. Of their mental strength under the pump.

Golf is one of the few 'individual' sports outside rally car racing, say, which in the heat of battle, professional competitors can lean on a confidant for advice and to make them feel batter.

In few other individual sports can competitors call in help in-competition, as Jason Day did here on the way to winning the 2015 PGA Championship at Whistling Straits. PHOTO: Getty Images

Consider tennis and Roger Federer. Only thing Roger had in his head on match point was Roger, telling Roger: Come on, Roger. Let’s own this. Let's crush this beautiful backhand, Roger, you marvellous beast, you.

Swimming? Michael Phelps and all the world's great swimmers are on those podiums like Pat Malone.

Ten-pin bowlers don’t have a man polishing their great thumping orbs or telling them how greased-up their lane is.

Even medieval jousters only rely on page boys to put their metal hat on and lift them onto the horse. When they're charging at the other madman, all the blood lust up, it's all them. Mano-a-mano.

Pro golf is meant to be mano-a-many-menno, something, and also versus the courso. If you will. 

Instead, it's two guys. One plays golf, the other is co-pilot and crutch, there to mentor, stroke, reassure and calm the player. To validate the golfer's decisions. To talk shit with for five hours and thus take the golfer’s mind off golf, for on that path lies madness.

Dion Kipping (left) and Aaron Baddeley on the way to a three-under 69 during the first round of the 2000 Australian Open at Kingston Heath. PHOTO: Darrin Braybrook/ALLSPORT

And this before plying the player with drinks and health food bars and bananas, and carrying great thumping staff bags with the player’s (not the caddy’s) name etched upon it.

Bottom line they help the player as a co-driver would have the late and great rally champion Possum Bourne: position the ball here, consider this club, feel these hectopascals. Don’t worry, be happy. Let me calm you with a story. Let me sing you a song.

A song? Baddeley won two Australian Opens before he was 20 and each time came down the stretch with his best mate and caddy Dion Kipping. And they were singing. Taxiride tunes, specifically.

Ah, makin' the scene, I really mean / You could be there with me and make believe / I'll find a place for us to be alone / Here in the depths of our emotion / Don't you know, baby.

And so on.

And that’s very nice. And whatever floats one’s boat. And fair play to our man Badds and his pal for that piece of calming, cognitive therapy.

But the only thing Badds should have had in his head was Badds.

Ted Scott (left) has 'won' the Masters three times, twice with Bubba Watson and once with Scottie Scheffler (pictured). Scott was not awarded a green jacket, however, and it's unknown if Augusta National let him keep the overalls. PHOTO: Getty Images.

Sure, golfers have coaches. They have retinues, entourages, people. But none are allowed to help them in-competition.

A pro golfer can’t ask someone in the crowd for a putting line. You can’t be standing over a downhill slider on the 18th at Augusta and shout out to a green jacket, “Hey, Hootie! Inside right?”

You would be disqualified. Unless you put Hootie on the bag, then he can tell you everything.

We are told that professional, capital-T Tour golf is the elite tip of the great game; the pinnacle, the players like the top golden bricks of a pyramid with base the size of Queensland.

Caddies' roles are manifold. PHOTO: Getty Images

They tell us the world’s pro tours present mighty battles between the world’s greatest players on courses setup harder than so many maths tests.

They tell us the player who hoists the jug or dons the garish jacket is the epitome of substance and style, and the champion golfer of the week, year, four-year Olympic cycle.

But said jug, jacket and gold medal should really go to two people. They should forge two medallions; tailor two green sports coats.

Because whenever a player has raised a trophy, they've had help: on the course, on the bag, and, most crucially of all, in the mind.

Robert Allenby was famously unlucky with caddies, though Dion Kipping would get behind him. PHOTO: Getty Images

So this: Tour players should not have caddies. Carry your own bag, Flatbelly.

Or, if these buck athletes won’t do that, or remotely pilot a motorised buggy, or even drive around in bloody carts equipped with GPS and The Shark Experience, assign them bag-carriers from a host club (as Augusta National did at the Masters until 1983) or from the military or the local Girl Guides, whatever.

But there must be the caveat: you may not advise this player on how to play golf. That is their job.

We want to know the best golfer, down the stretch, under the pump.

We want to find out how good they are.

We want to see them play without help. 

Postscript: Yes, I know. This will never happen.