BILL ELLIOTT
Thanks to what serious looking people tend to refer to as ‘unforeseen circumstances’, I’ve had a lot of time for reflection lately. I’ve used this time well by standing in the garden and gazing at my reflection in the French doors.
I had French doors installed a number of years ago so I could occasionally bound through them on a summer’s day, clutching a racquet and asking the eternal question, “Anyone for tennis?” The fact that I don’t possess a tennis court, or indeed a garden big enough to accommodate one, does not discourage me in the slightest – I find it amusing and if nobody else does, well, so be it.
Anyway, I wasn’t tinkering with my backhand slice volley while studying my reflection and neither was I admiring the lean, athletic figure staring back at me. Once I’d got the lean, athletic figure to move out of the way while properly observing social distancing etiquette, I got on with drilling down into the guts of my golf swing. French doors are perfect for serious swing analysis. Patio doors, on the other hand, can too often offer a rather warped impression of what is actually going on.
To my surprise and ill-disguised delight, I rather liked what I saw. My hips were turning nicely, my arms were moving more or less in sync, my left arm was straightish and the downswing seemed to have all its moving parts operating almost entirely properly. There was even a bit of rhythm; not too quick, not too deliberate – just nicely paced with perhaps a slight whiff of the older Jack Nicklaus thrown into the mix. Even the pose at the end was towards the neat end of impressive.
Swing after swing offered a happy medley of timing, balance and physical cohesion. Why couldn’t I dash off and actually play the game as I had somehow shuffled into the form of my life?
Then the chilly realisation dawned that if access to a course had been possible it would only have resulted in the biggest anti-climax since Betty Tattersall somewhat surprisingly agreed to meet me in the park a long time ago. You see, actually playing golf would have involved hitting a ball, and once a ball is introduced my swing often moves in several vaguely uncoordinated directions at once.
This, of course, is mental in so many different ways. You may suffer the same problem. This garden incident brought back memories of a Pro-am played in the always enjoyable company of Brian Barnes. What has stuck with me was Brian’s observation after the opening few holes when I took a practice swing.
“Whoa right there, old bean,” said Brian, who tended to talk as though he’d been taught English by PG Wodehouse. “If you could now hit the ball with your practice swing then you’d be twice the golfer. The same is true for the majority of amateurs.” He was right, wasn’t he? Problem is that once confronted with the wee white thing on the ground too many of us tend to tense up, try too hard and lose sight of what we’re trying to do, which is to swing a club while almost casually allowing a ball to come into contact. We reverse this process, focusing on the ball too much and thus messing almost everything up.
This vexed, irritating area of accidental self-abuse is something I shall not be working on over the next few weeks/months/years or whatever it is until we get to roam the earth again. There must be an answer to the problem, but I am not dedicating what remains of my life to finding it.
Instead, I’ve decided to enjoy the enforced reflection and to savour the most impressive period of sustained excellence I’ve ever achieved while almost playing golf.
*I have tried to keep this column very light, but here comes a serious bit. Bill Robertson was a gifted journalist, an inspirational editor and a very decent man who contributed significantly to the old game over decades. Those ‘unforeseen circumstances’ meant that I and many others could not join his wife Carolyn and son Matthew for his funeral. Covid-19 did not kill Bill but it certainly accelerated the grief for those who will now miss him. Bad times, chums, bad times.
“I drilled down into the guts of my golf swing and, to my surprise, I rather liked what I saw”