DURING the recent sharp frosts, golf courses were transformed into what are often irritatingly referred to as winter wonderlands – dazzling white landscapes into which, in days of yore, I might have sprinted with a song on my lips and full of beans, if such a combination can be conceived as remotely compatible. Sadly, the toll of time's passing has obliged me to cut down on the sprinting, and the laboured trudge to which I am now reduced does little to encourage care-free capering among the
Now that all the pain and suffering I used to inflict on myself when the snow drove in are but dim memories, it seems incredible that I was ever prepared to put myself through that sort of thing without being paid, threatened or blackmailed. The fact
that I was, goes some way towards confirming my long-held theory that a strong streak of masochism runs through the game of golf and that most golfers would benefit from a bit of counselling.
I could do with some counselling myself right now, having just been cast into the wilderness, as it were, without a decent driver. This, I realise, is due more to sadism than masochism, my old driver having been outlawed by an insensitive regime, but still, I have been rendered vulnerable by events outwith my control and, anyway, there's something wrong with a sport which is riddled by sadomasochism. It's supposed to be fun for the family.
Somewhere among the mouldering piles of ancient golf magazines I have lying around the place, is a magazine with a column which features a letter from an old Army officer recalling his days in the Hindu Kush at a time long ago when Britain was trying to do more or less what it's trying to do now. As a ploy to raise morale among the men, the officers had drawn up plans for the construction of a number of golf holes, the idea being for the various units to compete against each other to complete their section of the "course".
According to the officer, the men applied themselves to this task with zeal and worked speedily and smoothly in spite of everything the snipers in the neighbouring hills could throw at them. The project was completed on time and the troops apparently took great pride in their achievement. I thought they were laying it on a bit thick when we had to paint the coal white at Catterick, but building a golf course under fire takes the biscuit. I'm not sure whether it was sado or maso, but there was surely an ism in there somewhere.
The last really stupid round I played on a voluntary basis was at Gullane years ago when a fourball match got serious around the turn and stayed that way to the bitter end, which took place in high wind, hail and almost total darkness. Things were so gloomy as we tackled the last hole that whichever golfer was due to play waited until an oncoming vehicle rounded the bend on the main road to the right of and beyond the green before hitting. This way, so the theory went, the glare of the headlights might make it possible to get a general idea of where the ball had been heading while it was still visible. Whether this was actually the way of it or not, I can't remember. Some sightings might have been made, but I don't recall seeing a thing. Astonishingly, none of us lost a ball on the hole and I'm pretty sure no-one took more than 5 to play it. At least, no-one owned up to doing so. The issue is open to some doubt, for nobody could see much of what anybody else was doing once we'd left the tee. The miracle is we didn't put somebody's headlights out.
Strangely enough, I encountered a brighter side to darkness the other week when I played the last hole at Duddingston in fast-fading light. Due to the increasingly intrusive presence of trees, rough, ditch, sand and water, this hole has changed over the years from being a reasonably civilised warm-up for the clubhouse to a regular pain in the neck. My diminishing length off the tee does nothing to help (neither does the heartless snitching of my driver) and I rarely manage the par 4.
On this occasion, the drive was weak and carrying the burn with the second shot looked unlikely. However, at the end of an undistinguished round, I told myself that this ball did not deserve to survive and selected a 4-wood to do the deed. The lunge which followed was wholly in keeping with what had gone before and, as the ball wobbled off into the murk, my initial rage was replaced by the smug knowledge that the ball was burn-bound and done for.
After a perfunctory search, I repaired to the clubhouse and was moodily restoring the tissues when a member of the group playing behind us walked in and plonked my "lost" ball in front of me. He said he'd found it "well over the burn". I felt strangely humble and yet, at the same time, terribly proud.
The full article contains 877 words and appears in The Scotsman newspaper.
