Bill Elliott
Golf, as we all know, is a game of subtlety, even a unique form of sporting artistry combining creativity, concentration, precise physical movement and a permanent desire to be blessed with good fortune.
At least this is what the old game should be – but rarely it is. That it is so contrary is part of its charm. No one knows what their game will be like on any given day. Play well in the morning and the high chance is you will perform poorly in the afternoon. The other big eternal truth is that if you ever reach the lowest point of despondency, so desolate you consider giving the game up in favour of chess or cold-water swimming – or perhaps both – then this is the precise moment you hit some really good shots.
I was thinking this as I headed for my local driving range to prepare studiously for what would be only my sixth round of this year, a combination of lethargy, aversion to rain and a knee operation holding me back for most of the season.
It was okay, the balls getting in the air and more or less in the intended direction (I know you care), but well before my basket of balls was empty I had lost interest in my own practice and began watching and listening to the other 20 or so blokes – no women – on the range. I’ve done this before because it is fascinating to take in the different characters. There really is something for everyone.
The character I find most irritating is ‘The Wannabe Big Hitter’. This is the chap – always male, never female – who wants to make a ‘big noise’. He never selects fewer than 100 balls, his clubhead whacking them towards the speed of light. It’s obligatory he is wearing a shirt with very short, tight sleeves so that those biceps are on full, glorious view.
Then there is the desperate character working on a short game that sadly does not exist. He tops the ball more often than not, occasionally gets under it too much and, for the most part, practises his mistakes. Each mishit is followed by an audible groan, a curse and a carefully chosen swearword. I rather like this character.
You may find yourself next to the embryo golfer who took the game up two months ago and has had two ‘lessons’ from a pal who plays off 18. I ache to tell this character to lift their head up, to stop holding the club as though it were a sledgehammer, to stick their backside out more and to slow their swing down to at least a blur. But I don’t. Not because I don’t want to help, but because experience has taught me they really want me to mind my own business. So I do.
Finally, you have the accomplished golfer who chooses only 25 balls and then caresses his mid-wedge before hitting at least 24 perfectly executed shots to a flag some 100 yards away, each ball landing within 10ft and spinning to a stop. Everybody else pretends he doesn’t exist.
So much for the practice range. Back in the unreal world of pro golf, the European Tour is now the DP World Tour, a shedload of Dubai money – said to be worth some $70 million dollars a year for the next ten years – totally altering the Tour’s financial health, as well as the pockets of many of its members. I’m pleased for them, really pleased. But I’ll be even more pleased if they use some of that money to rehire some of the employees they laid off last year as Covid hit hard.
Then there is the revamped Asian Tour: Greg Norman heading up the revival of the game in this region with many millions of dollars supplied by Saudi Arabia and contracts to play in events being offered to the best players in the world. Amnesty International has said “golfers tempted to play in these tournaments ought to take time to consider the dynamics of sportswashing”. Rory Mcilroy has already declared no interest. However, money talks and a lot of players are listening. How it pans out will shape elite golf for the next decade. Merry Christmas!
“I stop and listen to the other 20 blokes on the range. It is fascinating to take it all in”