Golf
It is 30 years since I last had an argument with a golf ball, you know the sort of thing :-
‘I was aiming for the flag, why on earth did you fly off in the opposite direction you stupid article?’
‘I hit you straight down the fairway, why are you hiding in the long grass, is it just to be awkward?’
So I was a little taken aback to be asked by my recently retired brother if I fancied a few swings of the clubs on a local driving range, I really should have known better, but the memories of frustrated tantrums on various courses over the years must have dimmed with the passing of time, so I foolishly agreed.
This may be the point to own up to my original lack of prowess at the ‘sport’ of golf, summed up really by a game played one Boxing Day many years ago, when armed with my recent gift from Santa, of a box of shiny Dunlop 65 golf balls (quite impressive at the time), all still nestling in their wrapping paper, I set off with a friend for a quick 18 holes at the local municipal course.
Suffice it to say that on the tee of the fifth hole I was searching in the nether reaches of my rather tatty golf bag for old and well used balls, most having been found on the course during previous outings, as all my glittering new balls were lying to the left and right of the previous fairways, like the famous cannon shot at the ill fated Light Brigade incident, hiding from me in long grass, assorted water features, rabbit holes etc. for reasons best known to themselves, and yes they do have a life of their own.
Back to the present, you now understand my limited talents with club and ball, so can well imagine my fear and trepidation as I was presented by the afore mentioned brother with a ‘bucket of balls’, fifty to be exact, together with a nine iron, and told to ‘let a few fly’
Now ‘fly’ may not have been the right term, as I loosened up, swinging the club gently, accompanied by several oohs and arghh’s of pain, which I do not remember from youthful attempts in a previous life, until it came time to strike the ball firmly and send it ‘flying’ into the distance.
Trying to recall the correct grip and stance, knees bent , head down, elbows pointed in etc. thinking all the while that all I needed was a high wire and a circus career could be beckoning, I finally swing the club with all the grace of R2D2. The swing being followed by the whooshing sound of the club head waving politely to the ball as it zoomed past harmlessly, as I tried, without success I might add, to make the whole sorry affair look intentional, known, rather unkindly, I believe as an air shot!
The remaining 49 balls, followed by a second bucket of 50, accompanied by a cross section of irons, woods etc. brought a variety of outcomes; hilarity, fury, embarrassment, amongst others, linked to a determination not to flipping do this again, twinned with a growing number of aches in knees and back, until the fateful moment, you may have already guessed, when all it took was one swing to feel right, the club head and ball connecting, making a delightful sound as the ball was sent 180 yards, perfectly straight and exactly where I had intended it to go, well ok the last bit may be for poetic license, but it felt wonderful.
Like lightning images flowed in my head of a late career as a professional, ok yes very late, of happy hours spent on the course impressing onlookers, the sound of appreciative aahs as yet another ball lands close to the pin, of drinks taken in the clubhouse discussing the importance of the short game, what sort of clubs to buy etc. Ah, men, do we never grow up!
Yes, one half decent shot and I am hooked once more, said brother is picking me up again on Wednesday for another outing, there is talk of club membership...
So it may be back to the world of silly jumpers, pars and birdies, putters and wedges for me, will I never learn, sadly probably not!
Contributed by Martyn
(Published on 22nd Oct 2014 )
