Crank up the
volume. Shout it from the
rooftops. Let it be known far and
wide. I’m in love. His name is Vassos and he’s Greek. He could be a Greek god but I have no
idea. He might even be dressed in
an eclectic fusion of classic-on-contemporary, flamboyant-on-elegant
metrosexual man-gear or a simple brown paper bag but I wouldn’t know. You see, I’ve never met him. But love him I do. Vassos hangs out on The Chris Evans
Breakfast Show and delivers daily potent pint-sized pieces that keep me bang up
to date with the shenanigans of the sporting world. I listen to him most mornings but the other morning, he
grabbed me by the ears and I haven’t been the same since. Perhaps I never will.
Every so often he comes
up with a gem of an idea, a germ of a theory that takes my breath away and the
other day was no exception. Not
only do I play golf, I digest vast tracts of theory, articles, forums, videos,
vlogs, blogs and reviews like they’re going out of fashion. I have enough golfing information-flow
in my head to sink the Titanic all over again.
I’ve read a million
reasons why the game of golf is dying – and it is; I could add a million more
of my own – and I might; but they are all down to personal opinions. Not one of them is research-based and
that’s because nil-to-very-little research has been done. Without research, and the subsequent formulation
of a concrete approach from that research, the best response we can hope for is
hotch-potch solutions in isolated pockets of the world. Am I the only idiot on the block who’s
figured out that if golf dies, a whole lot of jobs might go? It’s an industry, right? I cannot fathom why independent
studies, much less meta analysis, have not been carried out. There are many stakeholders and companies with overt and vested interests in the business side of golf that
could easily head up research, postulate solutions, pilot the ideas, and carry
best solutions into reality. But
it’s not happening. It’s looking
like everyone is out to prove Charles Darwins’ theory all over again – survival
of the fittest. Bring it on.
Now back to Vassos and
time to get on with my hot topic.
Vassos found a man to
blame for the decline in golf. He pedalled
out Bradley Wiggins (Yes, Sir) and then added the rider MAMIL (for the phonologists
among us, sounds like mammal).
While I was doing my best impression of an Incredible Me Minion “WHaaat?”
while on the traffic crawl to work, his dulcet tones continued to explain that
Middle Aged Man in Lycra (Yes, MAMIL) has abandoned the weekend five hour golf
outing for a much quicker two hour fix of serotonin and nor-adrenaline – with a
massive cardiovascular workout thrown in for free. Back home, smug and satisfied, he’s now ready to spend the
day with family. And this all
started around the time Wiggo was making his Lycra-clad wheeling form
famous. It seems middle-aged golfing
man is easily influenced, abandoning the fairways for the lure of polyester,
spandex, and a saddle. Who’d have
thought? And nobody has come close
since to putting the brakes on this Diaspora.
But I have news for you,
Vassos. There’s one that got left
behind. How should I best describe
him? More V-Tub than V-Dub. On his own. Practising his driving skills and approaches. Not bothering to putt on the temporary
greens. Out on the course on a Sunday
morning. Not an inch of spandex. Or a yard of lycra.
Like the polite golfers
we are, we wave him through and he plonks his ball to the left but level with
mine, just off the green. Note the
fact that he’s arrived in this lie after two shots on a par 5 while I’ve
arrived there by way of a million laughs, a game of hide and seek in the gorse
bushes, and by some anarchic miracle that results in me landing at this spot
with the same ball in my possession that I started off the tee box with. I’m feeling proud. It’s a Titleist Pro V1.
He passes by. We exchange polite, meaningless words
and he heads for his ball, except – wait a minute - he scoops up mine. I was still reminiscing on the V-Dub
moment and was deep in Francophile mode so I had to use all my reserves not to
shout “Faux play”. The phonologists
among you will have spotted immediately why this would not be appropriate. Me, I’m saying nothing more.
But I couldn’t let him
run away with the Lamborghini Veneno of golf balls and all the blood, sweat and
tears I had endured to shift that little white ball up the course to that
particular lie. Once I got over
the shock of non-MAMIL skirting away with my property, I yelled in my best
Cockney parlance “Oi you, I think you’ll find that mine”. He dropped it pronto
and took off like a scalded cat.
Well, Vassos, he’s one I
haven’t seen for a while and I am rather hoping he has pursued your theory and has
become new MAMIL man. Should he
ever steal my ball again, I shall be deploying a not-so-nice French technical
invention. It’s called the
guillotine.
