GOLF IS GOOD: ANDREW DADDO
What follows is a true account between two work colleagues who occasionally play weekend golf together. It’s a conversation that took place on the Thursday before the Saturday comp.
One player, let’s call him Byron, is in the middle of a particularly purple patch with his golf. He’s a left-hander cusping on A-Grade status, in from A Reserve and feeling pretty good about life. He just took delivery of a brand new car – a fancy one with no roof.
The other player, let’s call him Kym, is at war with himself, his driver, his 3-wood and most of all, his putter. Kym is quite fond of his long irons, especially when they do what the God of golf intended for them. I am not Kym, by the way. My name is Andrew, and unlike Kym, I’m not a left-hander.
Their conversation, I am reliably told, went like this. “Hey Byron, got a sec?” “Sure, Kym. I gotta tell ya, I’m lookin’ forward to Sat’dy and the fourball comp. Just sayin’ but yo and yo bro, that’s me, will definitely make it to the knockout round. Fo sho!”
(I should have said that Kym and Byron work at a city FM radio station).
“Fo sho, fo sure!” said Kym to Byron, with a quick hallway high five. “So listen. I’ve worked out my swing. It’s under control, like, really under control, you know?” “You know I know, my foursome bro! He he he! A poet and I dinny even know it.”
“Good one, By. So anyway, back to me.” I’m reliably told at this moment Kym slid the sleeves of his shiny FM station baseball-styled jacket up his forearms. “I went to the range, drilled a bucket of balls and worked it out. I’ve been swinging too fast, my man. I don’t know why, but for some reason I was trying to hit the ball into next week. Now that I’m swingin’ easy, I’m hittin’ it breezy.”
“Fo sho, fo sho!” said Byron, pulling his own shiny baseball jacket sleeves up his forearms. “I could have told you that.”
“Yeah, well, I know. And that’s what I want to talk to you about. On Saturday, as we’re working our way toward the fourball championships, if I get quick, can you tell me?” “Oh, fo sho, my man! Fo sho!” “Because, that’s really the problem. I thought I had a flying left wing, right? That I was over the top and outside in, you know, bro? But as it turns out, the problem was speed. It was like I was trying to be a sports car when really, I’m more of a limmo, you dig?”
And this is when Byron gently rubbed Kym’s tummy and said, “Not only do I know, bro. I can feel that you’re built for comfort, not speed. If you get quick on them links, I’ll be sure and let you know.” “Thanks By, that’d be great.” “It’s nothing,” Byron said to Kym, turning to move on. But Kym stopped him with a hand on his forearm.
“But don’t like, yell it out, or anything. You can just tell me quietly, yeah?” “You mean, be cool?” “Be cool, you got it.” Byron smiled at Kym and put his hand on Kym’s hand which was on his forearm. “I got your back, man. In fact, in about 17 minutes when they play NSYNC’s I Want You Back, you can sing, “I got your back” in the chorus. Because I do, my man. I got your back, and then some.”
And of course, Bryon did have Kym’s back.
If there was something Byron loved more than anything, it was golf club trophies and the chance of having his name on one. So far, that joy had eluded him, but with a firing Kym on his side in the foursomes, chances were good.
Wouldn’t they love to hear about that at the on Monday music meeting. “Oh, there we were, just two cack-handers on the right side for the first time, Yiiieeeew!”
The two middle-aged shiny jacketed men then high-fived, fist-bumped and retracting-squided to their respective ends of the hallway.
On Saturday, they golfed. As it turned out, I was part of their gallery and the opposing foursome with a bloke called Fish.
Unfortunately Kym had been wrong about his control over his golf clubs. Byron, who had his back, was as good as his word. On the 4th tee, following a fairly violent assault on the air around his golf ball, but not on it, decided to help his mate.
“Yo bro, you’ve got the need for speed … slow down, bro. Like The Eagles sing, ‘Take it easy, take it eeeeasssssy’.”
“Hey Byron,” snorted Kym. “Shut up, and GET OUT OF MY HEAD!”