One of my friends growing up was "Steve" (not Steve's real name). At least we were friends when he wasn't trying to kill me with a golf club, which makes, by the way, an interesting whirling sound when thrown at you.
Steve was an avid and skilled golfer, and the top player on our team. Steve grew up playing golf, and had the complete support of his parents, who were willing to buy him a new set of clubs whenever he needed, such as after hitting one bad shot or breaking a club by throwing it at a friend. This was in sharp contrast to the way my brothers and I were raised. Our parents certainly supported us, but our golf clubs were an interesting mix drawn together from various yard sales. Even at that, they were seemingly irreplaceable. If you broke one, you'd just have to use another. And bad shots? We were raised to believe that bad shots were usually the result of a problem with the nut on the end of the handle.
I thought of "Steve" just this morning upon noticing that I used 6 different joint knives in applying mud to one side of one doorway in my latest drywall adventure. I must have thought that employing a different joint knife would compensate for my apparent lack of skill. Though I don't want to make adjustments on those tools loaned to us by our friends in Colville, ours are a different matter. I'm taking a hard look at the nut on the end of their handles.