GOLF AND WHY I AM CRAP AT IT
“How did I make a twelve on a par five hole? It is simple. I missed a four-foot putt for an eleven.” Arnold Palmer
Chances are that if you have played any form of sport you have been invited to play a game of golf.
As a very occasional “hacker” this game probably ranks above any other in terms of its ability to delight and frustrate almost simultaneously. For some unearthly reason many of us who have played cricket seem to think we have a God-given right to be good at golf; surely it is only hitting another ball with a different shaped stick, is it not?
After years of torment, miles of aimless walking in search of yet another ball, more trees than a rain forest and digging in enough sand to cover Benidorm, I confess to being crap.
Swing Said Fred
Once again, it was dear old Fred, my neighbour, who got me swinging clubs. As with the cricket bat, the golf clubs that Fred passed over the fence were similarly archaic; had I kept hold of them they would, by now, be in the Royal & Ancient museum.
They were wooden shafted with dark iron heads and a hessian fabric golf bag like a giant old condom. To further hamper my progress, not that I am suggesting a brand new set of Ping clubs would have made a blind bit of difference, – the clubs were right-handed. As I was a left-handed batter at cricket this caused early technical difficulties.
My swing was so rustic that I once brought down my Mum’s clothes line as I aimed an imaginary monster drive. I went one better by firing a mid-iron through her kitchen window striking the ball with rare precision.
She almost had a heart attack. I sprinted off down the drive to seek asylum at the cricket field using the club like a relay baton as my mother searched for a frying pan.
Moles?
Soon my best mate Duck was also into golf but he was an only child so his mum and dad could afford a shiny new set of clubs whereas mine had to feed Our Kid. This did not seem fair, surely we could trade Our Kid for some new Pings?
It was not long before we decided to convert the cricket field into a mini pitch and putt course. We dug out a series of holes that confused the life out Browny, who was groundsman at the time, leaving him convinced he had a major mole infestation.
Bordered on all sides by houses we had to be careful, even at this early age, not to overshoot and pepper any windows; we never got close. That is until the day Richard Tattersall joined us to show off his new set of clubs, smuggled back in a bale of wool from China.
It was roughly 100 yards from Duck’s house to the other side of the field – far enough. After several misses, much like his batting, Richard finally creamed the ball with this gleaming new five iron and watched horrified as it flew like an Exocet missile, whizzed through a hedge and was quickly followed by the explosion of broken glass.
On Tour
Once again we were on the move in search of new challenges but in those days golf clubs were steeped in snobbery and few encouraged new players. Duck and I eventually found a course that was both very welcoming and cheap; the only trouble being that it was a three bus trip.
Queensbury, a place bordering the outskirts of Bradford and Halifax, rivals the North Pole for climatic conditions. Still, it suited us fine and at least we could afford a round despite the bus fares.
One day, sat at the bus stop, I became a little too conscious of my grubby, extra large condom and, as the bus rolled up, I quickly grabbed Duck’s shiny set of clubs and hopped on the bus urging him to “Come on mate, get your clubs on the bus!”
The whole bus watched him clamber aboard with the stained bag over his shoulder.
Big Match Nerves
Several years on and we were both still crap so the last thing either of us needed was an audience. Imagine the scene when we turned up for a dawn start one frosty pre-Christmas morning at Bingley St Ives Golf Club, seeking to get a round in before the festivities.
Like many others we were queuing up, aware that by the time we teed off there would be a big crowd watching. Whether it was the biting cold or pure nerves, Duck’s teeth were chattering frantically. We just all just prayed to make contact and get the ball off in the general direction of the first green.
I opted to go first on the basis of better to get it over with and a scuffed contact sent the ball scuttling off up the fairway a respectable distance albeit using the dam busters approach.
By now Duck was shaking like a junkie going cold turkey as he stooped over the ball – the three of us watching could barely contain grins.
His club barely made contact with the top of the ball sending it fizzing across the turf only to hit the marker for the ladies’ tee, some twenty yards or so ahead.
The ball shuddered into the concrete marker then arched a long, slow loop into the air, sailing gracefully back over us and the watching crowd, landing some fifty yards behind.
And so, with a gallery of dozens assembled behind an imaginary rope, he played his second shot to rapturous applause from the crowd.
Bonding
Mike Adams was another keen golfer from our cricket team and had arranged a team day at his local club, Horsforth Golf Club, which borders Leeds Bradford Airport.
Mike was having a good day whereas Duck and I had more chance of hitting a Boeing 737 than a fairway. As usual Mike was telling a tale, this time about his prized three-iron, which he claimed he’d had for over thirty years and never played a bad shot with.
He settled on the tee wearing that mischievous grin of his and took aim. At the point of impact there was a crunch and a crack as the club head flew off a hundred yards down the fairway, the ball trickling off the tee mound.
Still holding the remnants of his prized shaft broken into two, typically he took it all in his stride with a casual “I guess that’s fucked it then!”
Big Al Nearly Starts A Riot
One guy not noted for speed or grace is my old footballing pal, Alan “Big Al” Hardy, who is a golfing nut and would often join us on Villas’ Golf Days, sensing the prospect of a pint or two.
This particular year we were playing at Bradford Moor, a course that suited me in particular as it has generous fairways and not many trees. What trees there were concealed more threats than just a bad lie of the ball as Big Al was to find out.
He had been struggling with his golf and was not really looking forward to the game other than the later beers. As it turned out he creamed the ball off the tee straight down the middle of the fairway and turned to us all as if he had just won the Lottery.
With a renewed sense of confidence and purpose in his game he went to pick up his tee only to see a little lad pop out of the trees, scuttle across the fairway and pick up his ball before running like the clappers back to the trees.
Big Al was incandescent and heaved his bag over his shoulder. The little kid must have been terrified at the sight of him pounding down the fairway shouting “come back you little twat; I’m going to kill you!”
The culprit narrowly escaped with his life and a new golf ball.
Golf With The Bank
An old boss of mine was another golfing nut. Ian “Macca” McLean was a member of the famous Moortown club, set in leafy North Leeds and home to the 1927 Ryder Cup between Great Britain & Ireland and the United States.
These were the days when a lot of business was still done on the golf course and Macca relocated his office most days, unofficially at least.
Our annual company golf day was naturally at Moortown and it was such a glorious setting I was happy simply for a day off and a chance to walk the course. There was no way a hacker like me would ever normally get the chance to play here.
However, late withdrawals were commonplace and Macca advised me to put the bag in the car boot just in case. There I stood, trembling on the first tee at this historic setting wondering what the hell I was doing.
There was a rhododendron bush, no more than fifty yards away, only ten foot tall but it appeared to be gigantic almost saying: “think you can clear me punk?” Surely I could hit a bloody golf ball fifty yards in the air? Don’t even think about what happened to Duck!
I placed my new Barclays Bank golf ball on my new Barclays Bank tee, stood up to blow out a quiet, nervous fart and hunched over the ball. Head down, look at the ball, nice easy backswing, trust yourself.
I tried to smash the ball out of its casing, my head jerked up and the ball was only ending up in one place, crashing into the heart of the bush never to be seen again.
There I was at the start of my first ever corporate golf day with my arse hanging out of a bush looking for a ball that I could not care less about. It didn’t get any better.
Bernard Thornton says
Very good Steve. I must say I enjoy your sporting reminiscences more than your rants about the Council.
Your story about Moortown struck a chord. Having even less experience/ability than you at golf, I too made up the numbers at a corporate day there once.
Having sent a drive off the first tee into some trees at cover point I, together with my partner, who had teed off with a dog end hanging from his lips, took a break from searching to do the decent thing and wave the following members through. As they passed, one smartarse volunteered ‘we’ve got a good snooker table here you know’.