THE FINAL COUNTDOWN

 Sing along now.

“Ah-ah, ah!

Ah-ah, ah!

We come from the land of the ice and snow

From the midnight sun where the hot springs flow

How soft your fields so green

Can whisper tales of gore

Of how we calmed the tides of war

We are your overlords.”

Indeed, they are.

Having played 10 games of Yinji over the last three months, watching players fall by the wayside, the final game left three big hitters in contention. Keep it under your hat Kryton, Builder Doc’ and the Mechanical Metronome. The Beau and the Consonant Kid had departed this sceptered isle to become Portuguese Men Of War and the figment of everyone’s imagination, the Judge, returned to the fold. All other regular culprits were in attendance.

As we warmed up on the putting green, Kryton was keen to explain how he had kept a secret. He may have but not now! As a front runner for the title, he was also keen to be off.

Balls in the hat and he was the first to head out, along with Handy and the Judge. As they marched up the first in lock step, one had to feel for Handy, who was positioned between two expert narrators. One worldly wise the other a focused golf fanatic. He was in for a long round.

With me and the Bandit in tow, the two real contenders for the title of Yinji Master followed on. For four hours the Metronome and Doc slugged it out like two aging pugilists. Having been docked 5 and 6 shots respectively over the last nine games they were playing off 4 and 8. No mean feat.

The battle royal was reminiscent of the1974 Rumble in the Jungle, where George Foreman was eventually beaten by the great Mohammed Ali. It wasn’t so much ‘rope a dope’ today, more ‘skilled to cope’.

The first hole saw said contenders’ par and bogey, 2 points and 1 point respectively. At which point the Metronome took the opportunity to remind the Doc that he didn’t get his usual shot here! A little bit of sledging entering the fray.

At the second, it arose that I was inches away from hitting my ball in front of the tee markers and would be presented with a two-shot penalty by my compatriots. No friendly warning offered here, no convivial support given, the gloves appeared to be off!

The second also saw a similar point scoring exercise and as the Doc walked away, he commented that he “would be lucky to get double figures at this rate.”  A little bit of humility goes a long way to providing your opponents with a misconstrued self-confidence. They’ve got all the golfing tricks in the bag these guys.

At the third the Metronome went to take a chip and with a slight riposte the Doc’ stated “Good luck with that!” with points scoring reversed, it was bare knuckles from here on in.

On at least two occasions the Doc in his bright orange polo was caught in the eye line of the Metronome, for which he was duly chastised. Winners all the way these two.

As we set up on the fourth tee, in search of the Judges ball, the advance party of three came over the hill from the 5^th. It sat on the back fringe of the 3^rd green and when asked by the Doc if he wanted the pin out, the response was non-existent. Either his hearing aid was turned off or he was extremely miffed by the jibe. I’ll let you dear reader, decide.

The Metronome birdied the fourth, the Doc bogeyed. It wasn’t looking good for East Hull’s answer to a Belisha Beacon.

The fifth SI 1 par 5, shots all round. All drives slightly right and lying in the deep rough. Ball’s given a cursory check and the Metronome is first to let fly. Wood in hand, hips turning, weight transferring, he drives the ball way down the fairway. With me and the Bandit waiting to take our shots, the Doc can’t find his ball, he is sure he hit a better drive than the Metronome but it’s nowhere to be seen. A 10 yard walk back towards the tee reveals a slightly duller but in all other ways identical ball to that he played earlier.

DISASTER!

The Metronome had played the wrong ball! A two-shot penalty and no score recorded; the Doc scrapes a point.

Now, how would you handle yourself in this circumstance? Kryton and the Bandit would probably go ball fishing, the Judge wouldn’t care less and Handy would head for the binoculars. Me, I’d probably lose my ****. Not so, the consummate professional, while he may be seething beneath, on the surface he is millpond still.

Enough about the big hitters, what about me? The 7^th, a drive left over the ditch, a wood flies right hits the trees and lands in the brush. “Hope you’ve got a Callaway Chainsaw for that”  says the Metronome. Clearly his disposition is fully restored. Bushes and trees in my face, I go for it and thankfully land on the green. A good chance of a par and I fall short.  Meanwhile the other three get a par apiece. What a set of par stewards.

The 8th sees a scope brought out to measure the distance to the flag but there is no complaint here about the use of artificial aides in a competition. No two-point penalty. One rule for one and one rule for the others, huh! Honour amongst thieves and all that jazz! Conflicting distances are shared, further adding to the cutthroat nature of this battle royal. They needn’t have worried; they both found the bunker!

At the turn the Doc had recorded 15 points, the Metronome 14 and the Bandit 18, me a measly 12. It appeared as if the Bandit was keeping his best till last, perhaps because he was under the illusion that Yinji was, your best three from ten! Why? Who knows! He was also the player with the least number of shots taken off him over the ten game sessions. Bandit comes to mind.

Meanwhile, on the undercard, the Judge, regardless of his waywardness at the 5^th had accumulated 17 points, Handy 16 and Kryton a paltry 11. He would need something to happen on the back nine if he was going to lift the Yinji

As we progressed round the course, the weather warmed and outer clothing of various description was divested. Down to the Polo’s we set off along the 10^th. Mutterings behind me revealed the Metronome and Bandit were unhappy with my shirt tail hanging out. I suppose it made a change from me hanging on to their shirt tails. Regardless, I carried on flapping as we headed home.

The back nine was tit for tat for the two bruisers and the understated Bandit continued to produce a round of high quality, to the point where at the 17^th he was happy to go ball fishing, assured the game was in the bag.

Final scores on the day were as follows. Bandit 35, Doc 34, Metronome 32, Handy 30, Judge 28, Wormburner 26.

As for Kryton, something did happen for him on the back nine, he disappeared without trace and recorded a mere 8 points. 19 in total for the round, he resembled a pricked beachball on a winter’s day. Deflated, wrinkled, saggy and lonely. Not staying long in the clubhouse, on exit, he was heard to say. “You can stick your Yinji.”

Ten games then, played under conditions and rules of varying degree, saw the Doc come out on top, beating the Metronome by a solitary point.

Not that any of it matters but in a strange sort of way I think we all enjoyed the ten-game extravaganza and who would have predicted a Titleist 3, red mark, could be the downfall of the best golfer in the group? As our runner up so often says, “Beware the Golf Gods as they will get you”, and they did!

The Doc then, the recipient of the inaugural Yinji trophy, donated by the Bandit, (cost free), label printed by the Doc. Our first ever winner of the ‘Road To Yinji’, our very own yellow jersey winner, our Yinji Master. We bow down in the presence of greatness, the proud owner of a trophy no one else will ever have, want, or give a damn about!

Long live Yinji!

 

NOTA BENE

The following day a crestfallen Kryton was seen heading off towards the driving range, something needed fixing!