RECENTLY, after a long, tiring and losing battle with a wet and muddy course, I decided to give the clubs a clean and, as is my wont, repaired to the bathroom and bunged them in the bath.
Then, with the aid of a worn-out toothbrush and a hardened old cake of soap kept specially for the purpose, I went to work with a vim which belied the way I felt. At the end of the operation, as I gave the clubs their final polish and returned them t
o the bag, I looked at them, noted their elegance and sparkle and thought to myself: "What a waste of time." I thought this way because I knew there would be no gratitude for all this attention. I've never yet played a decent round of golf with a newly cleaned set of clubs.
It seems that for the best results, I require my clubs to be lightly covered with a rich loamy mulch. Every now and again, I might get away with using a thumb to smooth away some of the more intrusive debris, but as a general rule, the less notice I take of the state of my clubs the better – or, to be more precise, it will make no difference whether they are clean or not.
What will be, will be and the matter of whether the clubs are as pure and untainted as an area prepared for major surgery or just downright filthy, will be neither here nor there. If you are luck is in, just be thankful. If misery is on the menu, then that's what will be served up.
Of course, professionals set great store by the care of their clubs and, I suppose, in their case it makes a lot of sense. They have in mind factors such as spin-control, something which doesn't affect me. There's no point in worrying about how to control something you don't have. The laws of Physics, I am led to understand, demand that golf balls must have some degree of spin about them to do what they do, but such spin as is present in my shots does not cause balls to zip back for yards on making contact with greens. My sort of spin tends more to ensure that shots avoid fairways and greens and any other desirable objectives. Now and again, this spin might make a ball touching down on a fairway hop at right angles into ditches, ponds, thickets and forests. Spin of the zipping-back order, however, is not, as a rule, a problem.
As far as club-care is concerned, the handicap golfer's routine consists mainly of slinging the bag in the boot and leaving everything severely alone until the next time. Once, playing in a pro-am, I was one of three amateurs partnered with a prominent professional. Waiting at a short-hole tee, the pro wandered over to one of the bags, which happened to belong to the low-handicap man of the three.
Flattered by the interest being taken in his equipment, our man swelled visibly while trying to look modest. When the pro had completed his inspection, he turned to the owner of the bag and politely inquired: "Do you ever clean your clubs?" At this there came the unmistakable hiss of hot air escaping from a punctured ego. My own ego, or what's left of it, was not so much punctured as trampled on when I bought the nearest thing I've got to a lob wedge. It has a 56 degree loft, whatever that means, and it scares me to death.
I couldn't help thinking of it as young Rory McIlroy, in the course of the PGA Championship at Wentworth, floated a lob wedge from heavy greenside rough. It was a fearless shot, reeking of confidence – and there's the rub. My confidence is low. It's been that way since I bought the club. The club professional favours the understated approach when selling things to me, a technique I feel he takes to the limit sometimes and particularly on those occasions when he has advised me not to buy anything at all. He once warned me off a Bullseye putter, saying: "If you see a golfer with one of these in his bag, you know he can putt," and with that, he took it from me and put it back on the shelf.
Fortunately, on the day I bought the lob wedge, he was in sparkling form. A deal was concluded to the satisfaction of all parties and he contented himself by extolling the virtues of the club, giving me a few dos and don'ts. He then concluded by saying: "Try not to use it too much." I realise his intentions were for the best, but I couldn't help feeling a cloud of doubt had entered my valley of sunshine. As I left the shop clutching my new purchase, I was conscious of a sudden chill in the air.
What had he meant by "too much"? The remark had left much unsaid. Given his previous track record, he might well have meant "at all." I'd just bought the thing and now I wasn't sure what to do with it. It's still in the bag, but I have grave doubts about the whole business.
The full article contains 891 words and appears in The Scotsman newspaper.
