The sun was setting on one of those ridiculously, beautiful Autumn days that Adelaide does so well.

So well in fact, that most of us had a pink tinge from a forgotten swipe of sunscreen; all fooled by the calendar into the presumption of jumpers and beanies and leaving our hats and Sunsmarts hanging up at home.

I’d spent the better half of three days watching our middle child play event baseball.

A few seaside suburbs over, the crème de la crème of the golfing world was teeing off in the much publicised (and somewhat debated) LIV Golf tournament.

In both sports, I’m a complete novice.

As the saying goes, I had always though golf a sure-fire way to ruin a good walk, and in all honesty, we only took our kid out to try baseball because we thought it quicker to watch than cricket.

To say both was a baptism of fire was an understatement and whilst there were the commonalities of watching athletes trying to win, disappointingly, there also seemed to be the commonalties of … how should I put it … wankerism.

Let me explain, starting with my kid.

For the uninitiated, baseball is a ripping game for the resilient.

The margin for error is small, the mistakes are obvious and unlike footy or basketball, you can’t immediately throw yourself back into the fray to have another go.

It’s a statistician’s sexy-dream all wrapped up in rules and tied with bows of gloves, hand signals and a fair dose of Americanism.

Real champions were celebrated for the understated way with which they just got about playing. Now it’s all about the swagger

Perhaps then, that’s why when the kids do get a hit or take a catch, it’s more often than not followed with some sort of over the top celebration normally involving at least a whoop, point, hi-five or chest thump, and in many cases, all of them combined.

The first time our son did it, my husband and I just looked at each other.

The second time he had earned a stern talking to when we got him in the car and after the third, I finally turned to my husband and asked, ‘did you ever carry on like that when you were playing sport as a kid?’

Not only was ‘No’ the answer, but in all reality if we had acted like that in the schoolyard growing up, someone older and wiser would have quickly told (or forced) us to pull our heads in.

Now it’s celebrated.

In fact, it’s celebration on steroids.

Maybe it’s thanks to the fact we’re seeing so much more sport courtesy of international broadcast deals and repackaged memes on social media.

It’s certainly a long way from the way we watched as kids with grainy black and white fixed cameras, photos in the paper and one match of the round.

Our heroes were decidedly business-like and the real champions were celebrated for the understated way with which they just got about playing.

Now it’s all about the swagger.

I guess it stands to reason if you can only be what you can see, our kids are now mimicking those that catch their attention.

And so now we come to the golf and arriving as a solo woman, it immediately apparent I was the odd one out in a sea of brightly dressed testosterone.

In fact, when I asked a security guard how to get to the something called The Watering Hole, he looked at me with a pitying smile and said: “Are you sure that’s where you want to go, love?’

After I assured him that yes, that’s where I had been told to meet my friends, he said: ‘Righto then, head that way and follow the noise.’

Noise was right.

Waves of guttural roaring washed over the fairways as the ultimate aural beacon, pointing me to one of the most incredible set-ups I’ve ever seen in sport.

Tiers of corporates surrounded the so-called party hole on the twelfth and after only twenty minutes of jostling for a view, the holiest of sporting unicorns presented itself, a mighty hole in one.

It was impossible not to be caught up in the magic of what had just happened as all around me, the place erupted and as one, drinks were immediately hoiked on to the fairway and green.

It was simply crazy and the vision of this moment has gone around the world.

It was celebration on steroids.

Meanwhile, the group of men beside me started doing “shoeys”, and the big-screened-selfie-cam stopped looking like photos you’d want to send to your mum and turned into skolling races between strangers stationed around the course.

To be clear, I have absolutely no preconceived ideas of how one should or shouldn’t behave on a golf course, but to watch grown men carry on like pickled children was an experience in itself.

That was it for me and so I left, bemused and guiltily enthralled by this different type of golf and its sideshow.

And so it was back to West Beach for one final game of baseball and as I sat there, praying for strikes and home runs, I watched the first of the private jets take off for riches unknown.

It was not lost on me that whilst our kids might be carrying on a bit on field in the name of sport, their dads were carrying on quite a lot, off it.

Ali Clarke presents the breakfast show on Mix 102.3. She is a regular columnist for InDaily.