Golfers carpeted for fluffing putts

ACCORDING to Harvey Penick, the renowned golf teacher, even Ben Hogan found putting so exasperating that he turned in his later years to playing a game of his own, a version comprising shots to fairways and greens, with holes being decided on whoever was closest to the flag. Putting didn't come into it. What a sensible and civilised idea. No more mental torture, sweaty palms, dry mouths or twitches. Golfers go through quite enough simply hitting shots without suddenly having to become all fu

I've always suspected that putting was invented by somebody who couldn't hit his hat and was, as a result, deeply resentful of anyone who could. How he managed to get his twisted way with the authorities of the day must remain a mystery, but it just goes to show what a devious character we're dealing with here. The damage inflicted on the golfing population as a whole is incalculable. One day golfers were gambolling on the links, swiping away with careless abandon, the next they were crouching neurotically over tiny putts and the game had acquired a sour edge.

During the rough winter weather – "mild and windy," as it was described by the Al Jolson impersonator who does his stuff on the telly and doesn't seem to know it's perishing up here – I've taken to putting on the carpet, something I haven't done for some time due to bad lies brought about by wear and tear which caused creases and folds in the old carpet. It had got to the stage where, by careful placement of the target, I could score bullseyes every time by hitting the ball along a moth-eaten ditch. If I didn't use the ditch, the ball tended to end up under the couch.

This state of affairs was hardly satisfactory, so I replaced the carpet towards the end of last year and now that the new one has settled in and lost most of its fluff, it is ready for play. It is fast and flat and has some subtle borrows, but they are nothing compared to the rugged peaks and troughs of its predecessor.

My first session was slightly hampered by the fact that I seem to have misplaced my old putting target, a metal affair with hinged flanges and a name like Okobo, which had seen service for many years.

In its absence, I aimed at a small ceramic dish which doubles as an ash-tray when it's not being used for putting practice. It has a dropped lip on one side, up which an accurately struck golf ball can roll. It is a tight target compared with the metal one, but a golf ball which hits the mark squarely makes a richly rewarding ping which is worth waiting for. It was quite a satisfactory session apart from the presence of a young and totally uninterested relative who sat throughout on a nearby chair reading a book and persisted on glancing up in a surprised way whenever I managed a ping. I found this faintly wounding.

However, I feel that some progress was made. Something should have happened, for I tried just about everything. Inspired by Tiger's wonder finish in his first-round match in the Accenture Match Play championship in Arizona, I worked on head position at first and was like a graven image for about ten minutes until I began to get a stiff neck and had to make a few adjustments.

Bobby Locke, to whom I turned next, was a bit more flexible and for a while I felt lethal, though that part of the session was more or less pingless, which, while it cut down on the surprised looks from the book-reader, was rather disappointing. The Locke method involves a fairly severe hooding of the clubhead, which can be effective on carpets, but makes considerable demands on the golfer when on the links, where nerves of steel are required to keep everything in synch. If the concentration lapses for an instant, it is very easy to duff the putt and there's nothing more certain to sap the morale than a duffed putt. You don't know where to look.

Since an early infatuation with mallet putters, I have returned at intervals to the Billy Casper method of 'tap' putting, in which a wristy action is employed to hit the ball squarely and precisely at the bottom of the stroke. I've had my moments with this method, though my last flirtation ended abruptly when my old Ray Cook putter started to run away with me. Putts exceeding six feet were speeding to the far reaches of greens.

It was this spell which reminded me why I'd laid the Ray Cook to rest in the first place. Playing a short hole in Spain, I'd sent a career-best 6-iron to a spot which left a 10-foot downhiller to the pin. As I stalked the birdie, I recalled Casper's advice: "Don't fool around. Get it over with in a hurry." I did that and the putt finished in a bunker fronting the green. As I wandered weakly away to get my sand-iron, I felt I'd got something wrong somewhere.