A Load of Old Balls

I’ve done many things in my life against my better judgement. I kicked a police car once. I bought a shiny orange shirt from Topman. I had tramlines shaved into my head by my mother’s hairdresser, because a black kid had them at school and everyone said they looked cool (but not in my case, apparently).

It was along these same ill-advised lines that I agreed to take up golf the other day. Now before anyone jumps up and starts defending golf to the hilt, declaring how it gives purpose to the lives of the overpaid, let me give you some insight into my own sporting prowess. For a period of my formative years, I was convinced that I would one day be goalkeeper for Arsenal. I even had a miniature goal in my garden. As I grew older, the goal made way for a basketball net and my footy boots for Nike Air Jordans. Being 12’ tall, I was a sure-fire candidate for the ranks of the Chicago Bulls. The trouble was, I never quite managed to break into the school team for either of my chosen sports – in fact, I rarely broke out of the garden save for looking for lost balls on other people's property. Despite my enthusiasm and hours of dedication, I was a bona fide cack-handed fuckwit when it came to catching the ball, and that’s the crux of the matter – hand to eye coordination. Or lack of it.

Golf doesn’t involve catching balls (unless you’ve got a very good eye, and absolutely no concept of the rules), but the same principles apply. Standing in the driving range for the first time with a club in my hand, I felt terrified. My eyes were looking at the ball, and telling my brain to hit it. My brain was telling my hands not to let go of the golf club. I pulled the club back and took an almighty swipe, missing the ball entirely. Instead, what I could see flying into the distance was a lump of skin from my left hand, which I had managed to part with by gripping the club so hard. I despondently walked to the club shop and bought a solitary white glove, only confirming further in my mind that was a sport for the mentally unbalanced.

My second shot was a marked improvement – this time hitting the ball (albeit in a vertical fashion); my third was a triumph, actually connecting with the ball and hitting it with a wicked slice over the fence to the right, into a crowd of boys playing football. It felt fantastic.

60 balls later, and I had managed to hit about half of them, one of them actually going backwards and nearly decapitating a pro who was standing behind me. "It takes talent, that," he said. And I knew it. My golf buddy, Anthony, thinks we should go out at try a 9-hole course in a few weeks and I don't see why not. After all, the bulk of the game seems to involve looking for lost balls in other people's property and I'm rather good at that.