Perfect sport for misanthropes

There aren’t many sports I can talk about with any real authority and that’s probably why nobody invites me to their braais any more. Okay, there might be other reasons.

I’ve been thinking lately that I should take up golf. It’s the perfect sport for indolent misanthropes with a penchant for daytime drinking.

I did substantial research into the game before taking to the pitch with a mixed bag of sticks from Cash Converters. Here’s what I found.

White golfers often argue that since the sport was invented more than 500 years ago, black South Africans have no right interfering in it because they were only invented in 1994.

For a long time, the South African government was reluctant to allow black people to carry an object that could be used to infl ict harm on a white person. Even a tightly rolled ballot paper could have been used to poke someone’s eye out. Imagine the damage a golf club could have done.

When playing golf with a black man other than Cyril Ramaphosa, it is advisable to stand well clear when he takes his swing. You don’t want to be caught looking the other way when he decides to single you out as the one who should pay for centuries of oppression.

I read that the average golfer’s swing changes from shot to shot because his muscles are not strong enough to maintain the body in the correct position. Funny, then, how a golfer’s muscles are strong enough to maintain his body in the correct position at the bar for five hours.

Given that a quart of beer weighs more than a 9-iron, you would think the floor would be covered in golfers whose puny muscles have given in, sending them sliding from their stools to lie there glassy eyed and flapping feebly like soft white fish.

The fact remains that golfers are rich and powerful people. And if they’re not, they have no business playing golf and should rather stick to working class sports like 10-pin bowling and culpable homicide.

Genuine golfers have developed a well-deserved sense of entitlement for the reason that they carry the problems of the world on their shoulders. That’s why there is no room for a bag.

Golfers can be divided into two categories – those who use caddies and those who use carts. Some say there is virtually no difference, but I know for a fact that a cart costs more to maintain.

Caddies, for the most part, know their place. Even though they are not allowed to drink at the bar with real people, they are quite content to huddle together in one of the bunkers and sit out a passing electrical storm, sharing a bottle of warm sherry and a loaf of bread.

Give a white South African golfer the choice between a caddy and a golf cart and he will take the caddy every time. This is because a golf cart doesn’t make an obvious point of suffering while it serves you. There’s no pleasure in getting something to do your bidding if it isn’t sweating and panting and clearly hating every moment of it. This has nothing to do with racism. It’s a master-servant thing that goes back to medieval times.

Caddies expect to be abused. Treating them roughly is the only way to earn their respect. If you trade in your old caddy for a new one, it is important that he knows from the outset that you are the boss. One of the ways to assert yourself as the alpha male is to bite him on the ear when he is not looking. Draw blood, if you have to.

You do not want to be saddled with a caddy who refuses to hand over the 5-iron because he thinks the 3-iron would work better. I have seen caddies who, having not been bitten on the ear, run off with a particular club rather than hand it over.

Caddies sometimes get above their station and start believing they are golfers, too. If your caddy so much as hints at the two of you playing a round, you need to disabuse him of this notion right away. Golf, like marriage, can only be properly enjoyed when you have a worthy opponent.

Your first instinct will be to kick him in the throat. But in cases like these, it is best you control your temper. Tell him you will make sure his entire family pays for this humiliation. Then go and find another caddy.

Make sure the new one has a clear understanding of who is in charge. Once his ear has stopped bleeding and you have him out on the fairway, bark a few orders at unexpected moments. Things like: “Sand wedge!” “Sit!” “Roll over!” and so on. If there is any hesitation on his part, or if he makes eye contact with you, shatter his ankles with your Big Bertha. For those not familiar with the term, that’s a reference to a driver, not your willy.

Sharing a caddy is generally frowned on. It is like going to Teazers and nursing a beer while openly leering at the girl paid for by the guy at the table next to you. It makes you look cheap. Don’t do it. Share a caddy, I mean. I don’t care how many naked women you stare at.

Speaking of beer, golf and drinking have a long and proud history. A six-pack won’t do much to improve your game, but just one bottle of whiskey can have a tremendous impact on your handicap. When you first start out, you will sometimes find the bottle is empty by the 11th or 12th hole. I learned in my brief time as a rookie to mark the bottle into eighteenths. That way you are able to pace yourself. If you have followed the instructions on the bottle, you should be ready to sink your last shot by the time you reach the 18th hole.

See you on the field, or whatever the hell it’s called.

Golf and drinking have a long and proud history