Teeing off with the summer sun warm on my back and no balls in my bag

THE clocks have gone forward. The threat of frost is receding. Even the slow-to-show ash trees are bursting into leaf. Can a round of golf be far behind? Yes, there are those who squelch their way around the winter fairways, folk for whom there is no golfing off-season. But fair-weather sportspersons scarcely ever tee-up a Titleist until the month of March is spent. And there is no question of tackling the full 18 holes until well after the Masters* has been concluded.

So only now do I reach for the box of balls thoughtfully given as a Christmas present to his grateful dad by young Eldrick. Only now do I limber up in earnest with a warming sun on my back and contemplate entering a Sunday stableford**. I make no promises to those left behind that I will return with a prize, for I realise that a decent score is far from my grasp. I know full form is several months and a series of lessons from the club professional away. By the time I have sorted out the stiff shafts and recovered my feel around the greens, the companionable regular fourball with whom the summer is spent will be breaking up.

In the meantime, let us rejoice not only in the fresh air and good fellowship of our sporting indulgence but also in some of the myths and truisms which accompany the game.

1 ‘The more I practise, the luckier I get.’ The words of the great Gary Player are applicable only to those as talented as the great Gary Player. Mere mortals quickly find that practice is as likely to ingrain a bad habit as impart good technique. Personally, I find that the more I practise, the more likely I am to send my back into painful spasms.

2 ‘There are 15 possible explanations for your slice.’ This daunting news was broken by a playing partner who had just watched me plant a brand new MaxFli into the potato field which runs along the right hand side of the 11th. He had established his authority to speak on the matter by doing exactly the same thing with his own brand new Calloway. We both reloaded and tried again, this time allowing for the slice as we took aim before hooking our shots into the impenetrable brambles which lurk on the left of the fairway.

3 ‘Women golfers should be banned.’ ‘Men golfers should be sterilised.’ ‘Women golfers are a plague.’ ‘Men golfers are bullies and boors.’ For those who choose to continue fighting in the tired trenches of gender stereotyping and sexual chauvinism, the golf course is the last great remaining battlefield. The rest of us just get on with the golf and try to be courteous to everyone.

4 ‘Beware the injured golfer.’ The phrase was inspired by the exploits of some heroic past champion who hobbled his way to victory in some important competition despite suffering shin splints, tennis elbow and the after-effects of being hit on the head by a wayward three wood shot that would have felled an elephant… There is another, more prosaic, reason for being wary of injured golfers, as they will spend the entire round complaining interminably about their gammy knee or dodgy shoulder, making them very tiresome company indeed for the three or four hours it takes to complete a round.

Enough of this talk. The time has come to give the irons a polish, tape up the loose head on the trusty old putter and head off to play. First, pack plenty of balls into the bag. Here’s the box, still carrying remnants of the Christmas wrapping. But what’s this? Only one left! After giving them to me, Eldrick has ‘ borrowed’ them on me. The little fecker. ____ For those who are not habitual golfers, the following explanations may be of assistance:

* Masters – the ultimate annual golf tournament contested by mercenary professionals on a course owned by a bunch of American millionaires.

** Stableford – a competition in which participants are awarded points, depending on the score returned at each hole. Further explanation in the limited space available here is impossible, like attempting a ten second summary of soccer’s offside rule.

‘****’ - my customary response as a drive flies off the toe of the club and come to rest in the depths of a gorse bush.