We were at it again - me
and the girl crew that consists of a trinity of tyros – out on the course
plying our peculiar brand of golf where laughter and gossip rank equal in
importance with the skills of the game itself. There is not a whiff of competitive testosterone in the air
– unless a male fourball is unleashed on our pert tails too soon after we tee
off. We were playing with our
usual aplomb and consistency. Lest
anyone should labour under any illusion that we aspired to anything great in
consistency of play, honest me would have to confess that, on a scale of one to
ten, we’d probably score a minus nine.
I can’t think of a better way to graphically explain our brilliance, or
lack thereof. Laughing our way
through our minuses, though, has always been our plus.
We talk about everything
too – no topic taboo, nothing is too large or too small for our incisive minds,
nor is anything sacrosanct either.
It is a no-holes-barred sparkling conversation and fest of wit – a show
fit to rival anything “Loose Women” might dare to share. Nowt is spared. And so we found ourselves waxing
lyrical on a myriad of subjects while delving in the proclivities of the sixth
hole, a nice par 3. Two of us were
gadding about while one of our numbers was busy digging herself deeper into the
greenside bunker. We were not in a
hurry and had offered her the usual round of inane advice that seems to be the
first requirement of any self-respecting golfer. Sally listened to everything we had to offer and then
proceeded to ignore just about everything we had to say – this being the second
requirement of any self-respecting golfer. By now, she was intent on burrowing herself into a close
encounter with just about every mole that inhabited the golf course. Gill and I were left standing in awe at
the power and drive executed through every swing of the insubordinate sand
wedge by the pretty and petite Sally as she blasted her way through the bunker
and created a waterfall of flying sand.
But the little white ball just sat there, ensconced in it orb of
self-satisfaction and smug in the knowledge that it was totally immune to the
carnage that was going on around it.
The third requirement of
any self-respecting golfer is to continue to rain down innumerable shots on any
ball that refuses to move, and this route Sandbunkered Sally was following
unswervingly. It was a sight to behold and served only to prove what a
self-respecting golfer she really was.
Gill and I were in full empathy with this sort of unreasoning mentality
for we both instinctively recognised that before the present nine holes were
over, we too would have followed this third requirement to a tee. Our turn would soon be upon so we
waited patiently while Sally bravely stepped up to the plate at the sixth.
It was then we noticed
him – Mr Lone Ranger, standing aloft on the tee box, iron in hand, looking hot
to trot off the yellow markers. Being
the ladies that we were, we stopped our endeavours and waved him through. From tee-off to touchdown kiss on the
green, it was a beautiful shot.
Confident, well-timed, well placed, well done. And so impressed were we that we stood still in unfamiliar
silence as we followed the ball’s perfect trajectory. Our eyes bulged in astounded wonder as it stunned itself
against the close-shaven green and gently rolled to within six feet of the pin.
Profound poetry in motion. What a
man!
But that’s when I
noticed the incongruous. Before my
eyes and nestled on the green was Mr Lone Ranger’s ball but it was not the bête noire of the white ball type that
Sally had been beating the guts out of seconds ago. Lo and behold, him-of-the-perfect-testosterone-packed swing
was only playing with a pink ball.
Yes, that’s what I said: pink, dayglo, neon, bright in-your-face girlie
pink. That’s the one I’m seeing before
my eyes on the green deck. Plume de ma giddy tante, I thought, Quel n’importe.
He strode nonchalantly
along the fairway to the pin, secure in the knowledge that one putt would see
the ball home safely in the pot for a birdie. At worst, a two putt for par. And who could blame him? But as he approached our silent, admiring ranks and before I
had time to engage my conscious brain, out from my mouth popped the immortal
phrase “I love your pink balls”.
As I like a bit of emphasis in my tone, you can well imagine which word
my unconscious mind underlined!
In an instant I
recognised my subliminal mistake but the sentence hung in the air and took on
an ambience of its own as Sally and Gill descended into a cascade of laughter
and I tried hopelessly to hide my embarrassed self. He said not a word but his shaking shoulders as he stood
over the ball, putter in hand, demonstrated what is definitely not the fourth
requirement of any self-respecting golfer: laughter and putting do not go hand
in hand. Suffice it to say that,
after four strokes to the ball, he had not holed out. He picked up his ball, still laughing, walked over to me and
said “I think you need this more than I do!”
Hats off, there’s a man
who knows how to handle his balls.
I keep that pink ball as
my lucky mascot and I think Mr Lone Ranger more than demonstrated the ultimate
requirement of any self respecting golfer: dignity and humour in the face of
disaster is a clear winner every time.
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