Goofing with golf

PG Wodehouse famously wrote that “Golf like measles should be caught young”. Once infected, I presume it becomes a lifetime affliction without an antidote.

Fortunately, I did not catch golf young and waited till the eve of my retirement. Had I started Golfing at a young age, life would have derailed from its path and one would have either idled away an otherwise promising youth shouting inanities on warm balmy afternoons at small pimpled white balls or progressed quickly to insanity and qualify for an early bird discount for admission to a mental institution.

As retirement loomed, I drew up plans to spend the golden years of my life. The list was not too long. Cruise vacations, ticking off must-visit but never-visited destinations and generally goofing around. The bucket list was small but compact. There was one small problem though. I soon realised that post-retirement I would be on a subsistence allowance, often referred to by its more generous name-pension. A drastic 50 per cent cut in the monthly pay packet accompanied by additional expenditures hitherto taken care of by the office like phone bills, driver, car, travel expenses etc. awaited like a cyclone on its way. A few quick calculations and all travels including cruises were scratched off the list. That left me with the goofing around option, though aimless meanderings would not be too different from what I had been doing all these years.

Armed with an old Golf book written by Sam Snead which I had found many years ago amongst my Dad’s army possessions, I headed for the Golf Course, confident and ambitious. The simple language of the author and the illustrations gave me an idea that this was a game not too far detached from and perhaps even a bit like hockey or cricket or even football. The primary aim of all these sports was to hit a ball with foot, bat or stick towards a goal. Having played all these games in my youth with varying degrees of experience, if not success, I presumed golf was going to be a walk in the park!

When I entered the practice range, the first thing I was told was that my dress was all wrong. No jeans please or track suits. Loafers were a big no-no as well. And yes, even if one was wearing the right kind of shirt it had to be tucked in. For someone trying to shield my expanding tummy from public gaze this was a big blow. Then came the task of choosing a coach. The clubhouse had a list on the notice board with names and fees displayed. Since I was not aiming to be Tiger Woods, the most economical option was selected. He turned out to be an amiable person who made me buy an assorted number of clubs and a golf bag which he assured me were of the highest quality but, due to his fortuitous connections, available at throw-away prices. After a few lessons he tut tutted and said that I would need extended lessons. With each shot, he tut tutted a little more and increased the number of lessons and his bank balance.

I decided to supplement my coaching lessons with virtual lessons on YouTube. Soon I was practicing shots in my bedroom, drawing room and even the car, like a yoga disciple. I spread my legs, kept them close together, leaned forward, bent backward, and kept my arms straight like chopsticks, stared at the ball like an eagle without twitching an eyelid and so forth. I swung my clubs down in an arc as advised by some and thrust them down like a butcher as demanded by others. Each virtual lesson began with long lectures on what one is doing wrong, making you feel like a chump. Then they proceed to show you tips that are easy to watch but impossible to execute! This was all fine if one wanted to be a contortionist at the local circus but at my age now, bending too much forward would risk falling flat on my face and tilting too much to the rear could entail a hard fall from which an already embattled back may never recover.

However, the real battlefield is the course with its nineteen holes protected by bunkers and hazards like a well-entrenched enemy. The practice range was like a cozy Officers’ Mess but I knew that a soldier called to war could not escape the course. It lay in wait ready to ambush and destroy whatever notions I had of being a golfer.

And so, one fateful morning, I stepped on to the hallowed tee for my first round of golf. To my delight, I observed that I had been grouped in a 4-ball which constituted, apart from me, a geriatric who had seen at least 70 summers if not more, and two women who looked like they could have been his aunts. It was the first real ray of hope since I had started my golfing career! Now armed with a new energy and youthful bounce, I approached the three ancients with a hearty laugh and a “what have we here” attitude. They sized me up grimly and the man said that he will go first, to which I readily agreed. Too readily I realised as he whacked the ball over the fairway to land somewhere near the green. The two aunts clapped their hands and said, “nice, very nice.” They then proceeded, one after the other, to unleash shots that belied their frail bodies. I looked up at the skies and as the ghostly trio watched with clenched fists and beady eyes swung and missed the ball completely. The rest of the round found me catching up with them as they outgunned and out-shot me while fretting and fuming under their breath. By the ninth hole, however, they had run out of steam and without so much as a glance at me got into their golf carts and disappeared. My caddy said this was allowed due to their advanced age. No such purchase was however afforded for those 60 years young!

Since then, I have swung a few good shots and many bad shots. But golf is a game like no other as it leaves you alone even in the middle of a crowd. Its rare victories may come in small packages of perhaps one good hole per round. But at the end of the day, you feel the race was run well because to quote Wodehouse again-

“Golf... is the infallible test. The man who can go into a patch of rough alone, with the knowledge that only God is watching him, and play his ball where it lies, is the man who will serve you faithfully and well.”

Views expressed are personal