Close encounters of the golfing kind

Golf is one sport that has escaped my attention. The closest I came to playing golf was in Kashmir, where my mama (mother’s brother) was posted at an air force station. The wing commander would take us along to the lush greens of Srinagar for his weekend indulgence, with his three children and a visiting nephew in tow. I was then perhaps, as tall as the longest iron club shaft, not even fit to be a caddie. I was happy retrieving the ball as my uncle practised his hitting.

My community of friends has golf enthusiasts who swear by St Andrews (the Mecca of golf) but are practical enough to hold membership of local golf clubs. The municipal jurisdiction of the city of Lucknow boasts of three 9-hole courses. With zilch knowledge of the game, I would often feel embarrassingly left out whenever my friends discussed their exploits. As my golf-illiteracy somehow dragged me through social engagements, it became apparently clear that something needed to be done about it. My childhood buddies stepped forth to help me. A midweek 9 hole spar was hurriedly arranged over phone calls. Three nattily attired golfers converged on the periphery of the lush green course. Caddies buzzed and the battery carts idled like cows, ready to be ridden.

I must admit I did fairly learn the game and even had fun driving the golf cart around. But my real moment came right at the practice patch, even before tee off, where a young student was practising to perfect her ‘hitting’ and ‘chipping’.

“I do this every weekend for 4-5 hours, and whenever I have breaks,” she answered.

“All by yourself? You must be one lonely girl?” I stoked the subject.

“You bet, this game ain’t my passion. Doing this to get a scholarship for my college admission abroad,” she replied as she executed her next hit and the white dimpled golf ball propelled in the air.

Now, isn’t that a birdie?