DO IT FOR THE STAT'S

 It was January 3^rd, the festivities of 2024 were over, the tinsel and baubles had been packed away and  ambitions, resolutions and vows had been set for 2025.

My ambition was to play better, I resolved to keep my focus and I vowed not to lose my temper. Sadly, by lunch time I had failed on all three counts. What could possibly cause this to happen so quickly? Easy really. Golf!

The PGA season had begun at The Sentry GC, Hawaii, with temperatures ranging from 25 to 30^oC, ours began at Skidby Lakes in temperatures ranging from -1 to 3^oC.

For various reasons only four intrepid contestants turned out on the day.

The Metronome and the Beau had bowed out. Work commitments and ‘things to do’ were the new year justifications. Twitcher Handy had gone South for the winter, Doc had not been seen since his return from the Iberian Peninsula and rumour had it, he had moved on to a Slavic Health Farm.

As ever, the C_ns_n_nt K_d, was juggling his options between our LIV splinter group, his core colleagues and mixed pairs competition. As for Blue Boy, the lack of winter fuel payment had caused major palpitations and he resolved not to venture out into the bitter Yorkshire air, until at least April.

Kryton and I were therefore drawn to take on the Big Easy and the Judge. Lacking the be all and brad awl of Handy, I was given the honour of the first drive of the year, not because it was ceremonial, only that I could make  a bigger indentation with my tee. The overgrown  grass excuses for tee boxes were rock-hard. The shot was no “Captain’s Drive”, and the remorseless sledging began. The Judge shared all the best bits from his newly acquired 2025 Annual, “Aging Jokes For Tykes”, and the banter was jocular.  Cold but happy, we traipsed 10 crisp fairways until the weather took its toll on my aging compatriots. As they ran for the cover of Jane’s Apron, I endeavoured to complete another four holes before surrendering to Mother Nature.

On returning to the club house, £1 coins were exchanged, and a spark of an idea rose. Why don’t I keep a note of who wins what, that would be interesting wouldn’t it?

Returning home, I was at  a loose end and had a score card with an abundance of information on it. What to do? I know, why not input the data into a spreadsheet and see what pops up? That would be my afternoon sorted.

And so it was I became immersed in the world of golf statistics.

Initially I would just  keep a copy of player’s team betterball scores but then that wasn’t a true reflection of an individual’s ability? Next step, record the pars and birdies. Still not good enough. Why not look at the individual betterball scores for the round, as well as who scores for the team but wait, what about checking their round scores against their handicaps? I could share individual data weekly, monthly and annually! A data rich nightmare was developing before my very eyes and as the all-seeing Metronome said,  “For what purpose?”.  For what purpose indeed!

Isn’t there’s always someone that wants to defecate on your Solanum lycopersicum or pass water on your Guido conflagration?

“For no other reason than, it would keep me occupied.” I responded. I know it’s sad but there you go.

As the month progressed, would the data analysis tell us anything we didn’t already know?

The first thing we noted was the Beau has more excuses not to play than Davy Jones has shipwrecks in his locker. Not necessarily a data reveal but an interesting review of psychological rationalisations. Let us consider the list.

Grandchildren are ill

Feel a bit flu y

Painting and decorating

Car needs seeing to

Sofa needs servicing

Kitchen designer visiting

Door needs new locks

I’ll give way to make it a four

Cat needs de fluffing!

I just hope none of these excuses were euphemisms and when he has played his game has been more up and down than a drummer’s hi-hat. He puts his mixed bag of results down to his eastern European origins and the need for his DNA to be kept warm. Not a week goes by without him suggesting we get a cheap flight to warmer climes , play a couple of games and return with a tan. The devil however is in the detail and none of our devils can be bothered to investigate further.

His justifications pale into insignificance however when one considers how his good buddy Kryton dropped him for a Humber Alliance game. An initial phone call from Cottingham’s answer to Warwick Davis pleaded with the Beau to play at Hessle, only to dump him the following day for a more experienced (better) player.

Why would Kryton do this, what was his motivation to sever the hand of friendship? Consider the facts, £4 down after 8 games, desperate for a few shiny denarii to bolster his coffers, he was desperate for a win.

Feeling down about his losses and in the hope that he could beat a computer simulation, Kryton turned his hand to virtual golf. An annual subscription to One Stop Golf, saw him living in a world of virtual reality. No real change there then. When your down on your luck you’ll do anything for a crumb of comfort however to ask others to play and then forget to pick them up is slightly below the belt. Just ask the Big Easy.

So why does our very own AI lose so often? A quick look at the data reveals his hard drive tends to corrupt on the back nine. A fault in his CPU sees his motherboard overheat and his random access memory becomes even more random, or in every day parlance his mind wanders.

He starts well but drifts towards ponds, roughs and lost balls as his focus falters.

Taking on board his January data, Kryton quickly adapted his game and in early February produced a  cracking gross 80 at Cottingham Parks. A massive contribution to his fourball team score of 91. As players packed away Kryton was feeling good, only to have his hopes dashed when the Judge informed him the opposition had come in with a 93. So near and yet so far! It looks like he’ll be playing the back 9 on St Andrew’s Old Course, Hull for a few months yet to come.

As to the Beau we all know he is a lover not a fighter and his response to being dumped was serene, although during a friendly round at Cott’ recently he was heard to say, “I’ve done the little tw*t”.

By the end of January it was clear the Big Easy was in it for the money. Six games, six wins, six quid. Whether it be a 2, 3 or 4 ball competition he was a winner, begging the question does he lead or is he carried. As  Lloyd Grossman used to say when ‘Looking Through The Keyhole’,  “Let’s look at the evidence”.

Five of the games were 18 holes in length and with an average betterball contribution of 24 against a group average of 23, he appears to be more a leader, a team player, a winner most fair, rather than a tag along loser. To the victor the spoils.

The Metronome, he of “for what purpose” commentary is a leader in so many ways. The patriarch of Wednesday golfers is the forerunner of the coloured cells in an excel spreadsheet. The away day commandant, the ruler of rules, the halfer of handicaps when target greens are in operation. He doesn’t falter once a decision is made. An example being a late Friday in January at Skidby Lakes. Teams drawn, target greens allegedly in operation, two three balls ventured out on half handicaps. Now as we all know the Metronome is an excellent golfer so, does he really need to slash those around him? Recently, as he and his cronies teed off, we lesser beings waited patiently for our turn. In the distance the flag fluttered and as we ventured closer, we discovered the main greens were in operation. Any attempt to communicate with the lead group failed miserably. Heads down, eyes front they didn’t deviate from their path. Shouts or gesticulations towards the group were ignored. In an action reminiscent of Margaret Thatcher, he of a single handicap, was not for turning. It was, what it was” and so it came to pass the Metronome, the Big Easy and the Judge unsurprisingly won the day against a disheartened  Wormburner, Beau and Handy.

As to the Big Easy’s usual partner, the Doc’, rumour had it his infiltration behind the iron curtain had taken its toll. Eating nothing more than food foraged from the wilderness, Yoga, Meditation, Tai Chi and Yak herding had all taken their toll. He had become a shadow of his former self.

Returning a stone lighter, he was desperate to fine dine. Torn between Pollard’s Plaice Fish and Chip shop or the Lambwath Public House Carvery, East Hull’s very own Gladiator plumped for Skidby Jane’s meat pie chips and gravy.

A slap-up meal at the local casino was on the cards, however when the chips were down very few stepped up to the plate and sadly it went by the wayside

In one of his final games before hunkering down for two months in the Anadalusian hinterland the Judge and I took on Handy and the Big Easy during Storm Eowyn. The Metronome had been called into work, Kryton had declined, allegedly because of the bad weather but we all knew it was because he couldn’t afford to lose another £1 and the Beau had bobbed off to make the game even.

In the words of the Judge “we were on fuyrr” for the first 5 holes at least.  Par, par from me and an exquisite birdy for the Judge at the 3^rd. His drive veered towards the ditch on the right but was secure. His second was punched low hit the pond and skimmed over the surface like your best childhood pebble slowly creeping on to the dance floor. A very long putt up the two tier green saw the ball sink like a stone. Holes were playing as big as elephant’s eyes. The Big Easy not to be outdone parred the first three but at the turn we were sitting pretty, three to the good. By the 12^th however it was all square, Handy hit a purple patch and bagged four pars in a row. Up against the howling gale we were buffeted on the tees but thoroughly enjoyed ourselves as the game went to the wire. Not unsurprisingly the Big Easy sealed the win.

As for  me, the runt of the litter, I continue to imperfect my game with the long term vision of becoming average but I also have to temper this with the fact that my colleagues picked up the sticks many years before I even considered this game for old people, should be played by me.

I often think I’ve got it  and then as quickly as possible I’ve lost it. My latest acquisition to the golfing armoury is a range finder bought for me by the family, possibly in the hope it will keep me out of their hair longer. I am now able to measure the distance to the hole within inches. This is of excellent benefit if only I could execute the shot that follows!

Forever golf.