MY DUVET DREAMS
I’m a failed dancer but I’m going to succeed at the golf
I faced a brutal truth many years ago that I believe may now apply to my golfing difficulties – I’m a terrible dancer.
If you’re reading this column for the first time you’ll be wondering what this is all about so a very quick recap would go along the lines of: guy tries to learn to play golf during lockdown, guy is ok in certain areas of the game but is calamitous at driving, guy pours his heart out in local paper for the entertainment of bemused readers, guy is determined to shine bright and play 18 holes of golf to an acceptable standard, guy needs to buy golfing shoes and suitable clothes very soon, guy practices in garden as family worry about his mental health.
That pretty much sums up this golfing adventure in a nutshell, so back to the dancing.
Many years ago, I always felt a real connection to music on the dancefloors of the teenage discos that were the big thing in the early 90s when Bloggs jeans and undercuts were all the rage (undercuts were a briefly fashionable hairstyle where underneath the top layer of hair was shaven off for some strange reason allowing the top layer to fall freely over the shaven sides).
So, the music would be pumping in these discos, the likes of 2 Unlimited and Snap and all that kind of thing, and the Breno would be up there bopping away in his baggy jeans and paisley shirt feeling at one with the tunes and thinking that this music and this dancefloor and this moment in time was made just for me (drug free too I might add!).
The fact that I was knocked out in the second round of a disco dancing competition in Jacob’s Lounge in Knockananna some time in 1991 should have sounded alarm bells in my mind but I believed it was the stupidity of the judges and not my chronic jiving that caused my early exit. Oh, how I cursed those judges as I slunk down in those lounge seats nursing my ego and pint of warm lager as the elasticated Simon from Clonmore scooped the grand prize.
I was even called a ‘funky dancer’ by a female during a particularly athletic episode in the ‘Bedrock’ nightclub in Tinahely some years later but I now understand that I completely missed the sarcastic nature of that remark.
The horrible truth of my dancing disability was brought home to me many years later when at a reasonably high-brow affair with my now wife’s work crew in Dublin and after consuming many, many tankards of delicious ale I decided to unleash the Breno on the D4 dancefloor.
Obviously with a career and reputation to protect and understanding that those looks from the other guests were not of the admiring kind, the good woman subtly tapped me on the arm and implored me to refrain from gyrating in such a berserk fashion. It was in this most crushing of moments that I realised I was not, in fact, a funky dancer.
There was also a more recent episode during a Santa Train visit in Rathwood where all the fathers were ordered to dance in a competition by the smirking elves as we waited to visit the big man and when the judging began, I was informed that I was ‘trying too hard’. Bah humbug, as the lad says!
The memory of this awakening returned on Monday evening last as I practiced my driving in the garden. Attempts to source a local driving range have failed thus far so together with Baltinglass Golf Club pro Tom O’Neill, I came up with a cunning plan to hang an old duvet cover off my bed at home across one of my children’s GAA goalposts so that I could drive to my heart’s content without losing the balls to the crop in the field next door.
I met with Tom last Friday morning and the Dunlavin man set about picking me up off the golfing floor after I recorded several ‘fresh air’ shots during a few casual holes in Baltinglass the previous Wednesday. A ‘fresh air’ shot is where a golfer swings and completely misses the ball and is a moment in your life akin to waking up in Sunday Mass completely naked in the top pew.
The bauld Tom was very positive in terms of my crime against golf and he very easily and kindly explained where it was all going wrong.
And of course, I feel it myself as I’m taking the shot but Tom is able to vocalise it in a very simple way. When I’m about to drive off the tee it’s as if I’m trying to summon up the energy and power of all my deceased ancestors. I want to drag up as much ferocity as I can muster and send the ball into space.
Alas, when I do that, my body position is all over the shop, I have no control of the club, I’m lifting up out of the swing and going back on my left foot rather than leaning forward onto my right in the direction that ball is going. It all sounds so simple.
After a few practice shots in the nets in Baltinglass on Friday morning we’re out on the 17th to see if we can make sense of this driving dilemma. Myself and the 17th have a bit of a love/hate relationship but Friday was one of our better days to be fair.
Tom’s advice is basically baby steps. Start with a half swing and work it up to a full Tiger Woods swing when I’ve got the hang of things.
So, strong stance, eyes on the ball, half swing back, swing, connect, brisk follow through, hear the ‘twank’, ball goes flying, happy days!
And the first ball is a beauty. High into the sky it soars and stays on the fairway.
‘Let’s go home,’ says Tom. Now it didn’t travel 300 yards but at least it travelled.
Next three efforts find the trees to the left; yes, those trees, my mortal enemies. Tom remains enthusiastic. Says at least I’m connecting well. I’m just rising out of the swing and skewing the shots.
Next one skids along the ground. I smother a string of curses that rise up out of my chest like fireballs. Froth bubbles out of the side of my mouth. My toes curl in my non golfing shoes as if I’m being possessed by Satan himself.
Tom remains enthusiastic. God bless that man and all belonging to him.
Next one is a stunner and I’m a golfer again. But golf is like that, isn’t it? You hit 40 bad shots and you feel like climbing into bed with a large bottle of whiskey but you hit one good one and the smile spreads across the face, the chest rises, the spirit dances inside you and all is well with the world.
All the while Tom is talking away. In between sharing his golfing wisdom, he delves into a multitude of subjects and displays an impressive knowledge of sport and the science of sport. Talks freely about the GAA, the structures, the clubs in Wicklow, what he sees as falling skill levels in football, his endless appreciation of hurlers and hurling. He talks so much you actually forget how badly you’re playing the golf. Now that’s surely a very rare gift.
This inclination to drop back on my back foot is an issue. It’s forcing me to come up out of the shot and is a big factor in these wayward shots off the tee and with the irons.
Tom says to think of myself as Happy Gilmore, the character played by Adam Sandler in the hit movie about a former ice hockey player who takes the world of golf by storm. In the movie, Happy Gilmore smacks the ball and immediately heads on after it. I’m to think that way when I swing for the ball so that I always finish on my front foot.
It works. Happy Gilmore works! If only I could drive like him.
But there’s another issue, and I discovered it on Monday evening as I lamped balls into the duvet cover in a quiet corner of the garden away from the prying eyes of the family and neighbours. My first five or six shots were good. Strong stance, half swing, good connection and ‘twank’.
But then I started to get all loose and funky and started wanting to express myself and I started to swivel at my knees and hips, started to feel groovy like I used to in the school discos before they would play Nirvana and wreck the smooth vibe completely.
When I started getting loose and funky, I managed to miss the duvet cover from three yards and lose four balls to the crop in the field next door. I’d get under the ball and away it would fly over our murderous hawthorn hedge and into the crop where it won’t be seen until the combine comes in September.
I have a word with myself and go back to what Tom advised. Strong stance, loose hands, half swing back, steady, swing, ‘twank’, ball smacks the duvet cover at a good height. Happy days.
‘50 shots a day into the duvet cover and come back next Friday and we’ll get you sorted,’ says Tom, who adds that there’s a golfer in me and he’s determined to bring it out. Best of luck with that!
I failed at the dancing and it was tough to take but I’m more determined than ever to get the hang of this golf craic. I know I can play this game to a reasonable standard.
I finish my 50 shots on Monday evening and stash the duvet cover in the garage for the next day. I return the driver to the bag in my office, patting it on the head as I do to try and build up a friendship. We’re going to be seeing a lot of each other in the coming weeks.
My wife is rummaging in the hot-press down the hall.
‘Anyone seen the spare duvet cover for the bed?’ she calls in that no-nonsense tone of hers as if to suggest that she already knows where it is but is allowing me a few precious seconds to come clean or else face the full wrath of her venom.
She brought my dancing career to an end, she’s not taking my golf.
‘No, darling,’ I reply!