SIX INTO TWO DOES GO

Five weeks abroad, one game of golf, I needed to do some catching up.

Could I remember all that I had learnt prior to my sabbatical in foreign lands?

The ‘banana ball’ shot off the tee had almost been extinguished from my repertoire and I was in need to prove this to myself.

The first Wednesday back with the irregular eight saw the usual early start. Dark mornings and ringing alarms reminded me of my many years rising for work. First, there was the analogue wind-up clock with tinny bell, where the response would be to whack the button hard, make it stop, then turn over for a 5 minute snooze, glancing only briefly at the frosted bedroom window. Next came the parent’s teasmade, given as a gift, only to discover the tea made was luke warm and acrid, never to be used again as a tea maker. Quickly followed by the digital am fm radio alarm, guaranteed to go off when you least expected it, bringing us to the present day where Alexa or OK Google is told to “shut the . . . . up” because the grandchildren on a sleep over, set the volume control far too high.

Interestingly, I do find that I am rising earlier now than I ever did for work and probably finding the outcome after four or five hours exactly the same. Many lows, a few highs and a lot of mediocrity!

The irregular eight however are somewhat depleted at the moment as they are either abroad, awry or amiss.

Regardless, in late October, four of us hit the fairways and that’s a fact, as we all fired off the first. Comments were made by the Bandit, about my drive resembling John Rahm. Questions were asked if I had been having Spanish lessons while I was away. I was up with the others, it felt good, although Kryton did go one further and announced to all that were willing to listen the distance he had covered on a wet and windy morning. A wet fairway with preferred lies, I took my time, cleaned the ball, replaced it, imagining that my light touch had defied gravity and levitated the ball by at least 5mm. Five wood unleashed from the carry bag, head cover removed, set up satisfactory, whoosh, the divot of slush immaculately pronounced as the ball trundles a foot. Don’t despair head up, or is that down, the third shot pulls left. Regardless a point is scored on the Stableford but as ever I am eternally disappointed.

The game also had a completely different perspective, for this was the first time I had ever played off the white tees at my home club. Elevated higher than I had ever been before, fairway entrances on occasion looked narrower and pin holes obviously a lot further. The raised boxes were also in dire need of attention. Surely, if you pay and play for a monthly medal off the white tees then you would expect the boxes to be mown or at least smoothed over. Many of those used, sadly reminded one of the unkept lawns found in the back streets of Hull. The only thing missing was the array of disused white goods, bike wheels, engine parts and deflated space hoppers.

The Bandit and Kryton had both decided to enter this morning’s competition, while myself and the Metronome had declined but were happy to join them on the pinnacles of golf.

As I have come to discover with any game of golf, discussion often surrounds the skill or lack of it in each other and how it could be made so much better. At one point I inadvertently commented on Kryton’s club head starting position when he sets up to drive. Pleased that I had noted this he offered to explain it in detail but I appreciatingly declined to take him up on his offer, I didn’t have the time to spare.

The end of this particular game saw us retire to the club house and acknowledge Kryton’s recent success in the club’s Curry Cup. Nine rounds of golf with accumulated stableford scores from the best three, plus the final game, sees the winners receive a bumper hamper of Patak Sauces, Sherwood Rices, the odd Nam and a bottle of your best Cobra. Allegedly, there isn’t even a pickle tray on a plinth for the overall winner. There is however after the final game, a slap-up Sag Gosht for all 100 entrants.

Fast forward one week and the irregulars are down to two, me and the Metronome. A guest joins us as we hit the Stableford once again. Queue the first, Metronome doesn’t disappoint, visitor matches and I am up there with them. Queue second. Mark Twain once said “history never repeats itself but it does often rhyme”, how cruel, how true, this is doing my head in.  Thankfully I temper my internal rage, and attempt to maintain a casual air, surprisingly, to an extent it works. At the end of the 18 holes the Metronome comes in at five over, I come in at a lot over but am relatively happy with the Stableford score.

Rewind to the day prior, on my own, round the partner course, the score is admirable and I’m feeling good. The joint lesson on the night sees the Pro’ happy with my progress, indeed the Builder jokingly comments about me becoming his new partner, as rumour has it, the Bandit has been off colour! Must be a big money maker competition coming up! Who’s a cynic?

Having played 36 holes in two days could I go out on my own and do another nine the following day? Of course I can, result, absolutely diabolical. Passing the Pro on my way home we are in agreement, three days of golf is no good for anyone.

No never mind I go for a fourth day. Chivalrous or pusillanimous I know not, but I go for it regardless.

The eclectic group of Metronome, Bandit and Wormburner head out once more.

The first then, the Metronome continues to live up to his moniker, the Bandit fires off towards the 9^th green with “fore” ringing in our ears and I hit the trees on the left hand side of the fairway however the Golf Gods appear to be with me and I bounce out onto the fairway. Third time in a similar position, could I possibly make the same mistake, thankfully no, but it is only slightly better. Regardless one point again on the stableford score, two for the Metronome and none for the Bandit. Perhaps the Builder wasn’t joking, has the Bandit lost his joie de vivre? Nah, he goes on to annihilate us both, to the point where he doesn’t really need to play the 18^th and he doesn’t, as his ball is lost off the tee and he can’t even be bothered to look for it. Some would call this taking the mick , others would just say he is extracting the urine!

My earlier calls for the imaginary committee to readjust his handicap have clearly fallen on deaf ears. As for me, because after all, it’s all about me! The 4^th tee brought about the most poignant statement of the day, As I was in my self-congratulatory mode of being a ‘straight hitter’ with the rest of them, the Bandit in his philosophical yet some would say cruel mode, stated, “Don’t worry your bad habits will come back”.  I thanked him for the quip and prayed it wouldn’t be any time soon. The par 5, 5^th SI 1 sees another fine drive, as the Bandit goes off towards the parallel 3^rd fairway. What does he know? 40 years of serious golf verses two, the man knows nothing! Two fairway shots and only 20 yards short of the green all was looking good, two duff chips and four putts later I was bereft! What had he done to me? The 6^th and 8^th see a mini revival and then we hit the nemesis 9^th. Disaster, not for the first time in my lifetime, I sink into the pond, followed by two more wet ones, the world has gone belly up, the mist has descended and yet again I am undone. As ever it isn’t until the 17^th that I am able to rise from this nadir and extract my head from the darkest depths of my derriere.

Am I deterred, of course not, there will be another time soon, when all will fall into place and I will play to my potential!

Accelerate forward to game six in two weeks and once again the Three Caballeros hit the track. The first two holes sees the Wormburner score zero points, the Bandit bombs on one but gets three points on two and the Metronome unsurprisingly scores on both. Over hit shots and low moods are not doing me any favours and I metaphorically “suck it up” as the Metronome would say. The nemesis 9^th is dispatched with aplomb, no fears there anymore and at the halfway stage the Metronome leads by only two points. ‘Sucking it up’ had worked wanders and I was still in the game. 10 and 11 sees all three of us struggle at some point and we move on to the signature 12^th. Decent drives from me and the Bandit, the Metronome is in the trees but extracts himself for 2 points, the Bandit adds three points to his score and even though my second goes plop, I still dig out two points. Discussion had been had as far back as the 8^th that my stance was still that which I had used to compensate for my eternal slice and that’s why I probably plopped my iron into the water at the 12^th.

A watchful eye from the sanguine sages at the 13^th sees my drive fly true, whereas the Bandit had buried himself knee high in the long stuff on the right and the Metronome had tucked his under a tree to the left. As we walk up to take our second shots, the Metronome and myself engage in chit chat regarding feet position and alignment. As there is no one following up, a lesson on alignment is given, free of charge. Clubs are laid down parallel, sightings are taken on targets near and far, it’s all looking good until the ball is struck. It flies left with a vengeance not seen before and if it wasn’t for the trees, it would have ended up comfortably in the farmers field some 150 yards off kilter. At which point the Bandit has a momentary time out from searching for his ball and laughs heartily, I thank the Metronome for the lesson and we hurriedly move on. Pfffh, what some people will do to win a quid!

As we hit the par 5 18^th  SI 4, I am 5 points behind  and out of the game, the Metronome leads the Bandit by two and it’s all to play for. Mr Alignment once again fires into the trees, this time on the right whereas myself and the Bandit are up the middle. Courtesy dictates that you should help others to look for their ball and as we, the competitors, are both convinced it is buried deep in a conifer, we assist to no avail. The Metronome considers he hit it well, but we are not to be deterred from our viewpoint that it is in the trees. Game on then, the Bandit could be about to pull off another glorious win. As we are in the process of addressing our balls, the Metronome walks 20 yards past the tree line only to come across his ball. It is beyond us both as to how the ball travelled through two mighty conifers, into a pocket, down a trouser leg and out into the rough? Stranger things have happened!

Decent shots all round, two points gained across the board and yet another game is logged into the diminishing memory banks of life. I am sure however I saw a couple of cotton fibres on the Metronome’s ball as he removed it from the 18^th cup!

So, as the Metronome bagged yet another £2 for his bulging purse, we  go off and lick our wounds with a San Miguel, a plate of chips and a ham sandwich apiece. Far better than a homemade curry.