GOLF IS GOOD: ANDREW DADDO
WHILST not actually late for my 7.29am tee time, there was certainly a tightening in the Netherlands for fear of missing it. You know the feeling. You’re at home, it’s fine, and you’re chatting away and then, “Oh, God! What am I still doing in my underpants? I should be fully frocked and half way to the course!”
Then, against all logic, you manage to find a coffee shop with the slowest hipster on the planet to make you a coffee. He insists on doing a doodle of a mung bean on top of your latte in chocolate sprinkles, then frowns at you when you ask him to scrape the chocolate off.
Suddenly “heaps of time to get to the course,” has turned into, “Holy shiiiiiiit. Get out of my waaaaaaay!!!” So that was me. 7.20-something and approaching the lights to do a right hand turn into Anzac Parade, followed by a final sprint to Long Reef Golf Club. The car in front puts his indicator on, he’s probably going to Longie as well. Nice car, I thought. German. Late model – that’d have some go.
Instead of driving into the middle of the intersection, he waits on the line. Why? How’s he going to take advantage of the first break in the traffic to turn right? He’ll be too far back. And worse, I can’t sneak into the intersection behind him.
“Go on,” I whisper. “Push up. Right turn, Clyde. You’re allowed, the red arrow’s gone.”
Of course, he can’t hear me, so the luxury vehicle stays marooned on the line. He’s not venturing in. He’s not letting me venture in behind him. Obviously he has no idea I’m in fear of missing my Saturday match. Even after I do a little tap on the accelerator and gesture that my tee time is fast approaching, he remains unmoved. How could he not understand the universal two hands together right-handed golf grip hurry the hell up sign? What’s wrong with him? There’s a gap he could have made, as well. But because he’s in his saloon, probably listening to Strauss or Mozart or some other high fallutin’ symphony, he’s missed his chance.
He’s holding up the line! Like some bad dad at the supermarket who gets to the check out and sends his kids out into the mean streets to get the stuff he’s forgotten, HE’S HOLDING UP THE LINE!
Obviously, I’m headless. I toot. Gently. A beep beep: just a cajoling reminder to get into the intersection so I can, too.
He looks into his rear vision mirror without moving his head. That takes effort that does. That’s the sign of someone who’s been tooted at from behind more than once or twice in his life. He didn’t jump, he didn’t twist around. He just passively (aggressively) sends his gaze into the mirror and my direction.
The light turns red. As if it were my fault he was marooned there, he shrugs.
Once I finish head-butting my steering wheel I look up to see him smiling. I mean, I can’t see his face, but the slant of his head says he’s smiling. Then. After an age, the light turns green, with a green arrow and he dawdles forward, making the turn under brakes.
Bastard. That car’s got some hard core engineering, why would he need to mooch around the corner like that?
That’s it, I think. It’s 7.23. Six minutes to get solved the bag on buggy puzzle, get my shoes on and my shorts done up. SIX MINUTES! I should have had eight! With shades of Peter Brock down Conrod Straight, I take him on the outside without looking at him. For sure he’s looking at me though. For sure he is. He’s thinking, “part legend part hooligan, that bloke.”
I get a park in the street, thankfully. And so does he. I’ve got a mind to tell him about edging into intersections so we can speed up the process of getting through the lights. But I don’t, because I’m a good bloke some of the time and he would appear to be in golfing attire. Shiiiiiit! Like a sledgehammer to the back of the head, a thought takes hold. What if we’re in the same group? What if he’s playing with me? What if Mr Pressed Lemon Shirt with the brown slacks comes up on the tee and says, “I hope you can drive as well as you drive, mate.”
That would be awful, wouldn’t it? I’d be wanting to give him right turn tips all day.
Alas, an early stroke of luck. He was not in my group, who were already on the first shaking their heads.
He was in the group behind, though. We’d have to chat on the 2nd … there’s always a bottleneck there and certainly no room to edge forward into the ‘intersection’.
YOU KNOW THE FEELING. YOU’RE AT HOME, IT’S FINE, AND YOU’RE CHATTING AWAY AND THEN, “OH, GOD! WHAT AM I STILL DOING IN MY UNDERPANTS?”