Some years ago, I got the sudden urge to learn how to play
golf. I’m not sure where the urge came from, but like the proverbial monkey on
your back, it wasn’t going anywhere so I persuaded a friend of mine, who had
access to left-handed clubs, to take me to the driving range.
Like most beginners I found it really difficult to get the
club in the same place as the ball at the same time. Disheartened but
determined, I decided to try her right-handed clubs and things started to go
quite a lot better. I’m not saying that any coaches rushed over to sign me up or
anything but I did manage to hit more balls than I missed.
Now, if you’ve ever been to a driving range you’ll know that
the individual zones have just enough room for some clubs, a bucket of balls
and your swing. Although I don’t have a problem with the space, I definitely
think people should know what level golfer they’re standing next to. My
solution? Clearly demarcated sections with the appropriate danger warnings e.g.
first timer, hacker, looks better than hits, knows which clubs to use, hustler,
pro. I only mentioned this because, the cockier I got, the harder I tried to
hit, which is never a great idea when you don’t know what you’re doing. It’s a
bit like giving curry to a 92-year old – at some point shit’s going to get
real.
And, in my case, it got real for the earnest young man next
to me. I wound up like a New York Yankees pitcher, lifted my head, straightened
my legs, took my eye off the ball and bliksemed that golf ball off the toe of
the club right into the back of his thigh. He shot forward, his back arching
away from the pain and turned, wild eyed, to confront the perpetrator of what
I’m sure turned out to be the biggest bruise of his life. When he saw me, I’m
sure it took every inch of self-control for him to grimace sweetly through
teary eyes and say, ‘It’s okay’. However, I’m also sure that if there was no
girlfriend next to him and I was male, I’d probably be the proud owner of some
shiny dentures.
Despite my less than perfect start I bought some clubs, took
some lessons and progressed to the point where I could be let loose on a golf
course. My first ex-husband enrolled me at Rand Park where I honed my swearing
skills and learned ‘search and recover’ techniques that would have made a
Marine proud. I was also taught a valuable lesson by two Irishmen – that if I
imagined the ball was the back of his head, I could drive about 20m further.
There’s no doubt it’s a very frustrating game and a great
leveller but, if you’ve never played, you should. The elusive, but addictive
sound of a perfectly hit shot will keep you going back despite the shanks,
hooks, slices, bogeys and missed 2-inch putts. I know.
