“You
can’t play golf!” he laughed. He
laughed uproariously, basking in his own bead of joy. There were a lot of things I didn’t like about that
statement: first, the emphasis was on the ‘you’; secondly, it was my son making
this pronouncement; thirdly, I regard him as friend and encourager; and,
finally, I had brought him up to tell the truth. I eyed him balefully, replete in the knowledge that, while I
had done a good job in rearing him, my good works were coming back to haunt me. He headed out the door, proudly
clutching his shiny new blue-and-white striped golf bag stuffed with equally
shiny silvery-new golf clubs, looking every inch a peacock on steroids with his
plumage on full display. I was
green with envy. As he swept onwards
and outwards, he threw his parting phrase at me – the scorpion phrase let’s
call it. “Maybe crazy golf,”
he said, “That’s right up your street.”
He laughed himself all the way out of the house and into his car and I
could see him laughing as he drove off the street. You can go off people, you know, even a beloved son. I take the no-nonsense approach that a
parent should be allowed under mitigating circumstances to sell their progeny
on line without it being a criminal offence – and this was surely one of those
times. I was already writing the
ad as he turned left out of our road.
My
mood stayed dark and brooding for a while as I ruminated on that family gene I
had so skilfully passed to my son and now allowed me to be the butt of his
quick wit and snappy riposte.
“Comedian,” I muttered dolefully as I searched my reserves for a
solution. The quickest way to ensure I will do
something is to tell me I can’t. I
blame this trait on a carefree youth and a large dose of education at the hands
of the religious arm of the Mafia – otherwise known as the Sisters of Mercy –
which left me with a strong sense of disestablishmentarianism, very little
insight into the quality of mercy and a need to kick over the traces. My adult self has learned to control
these urges but, when the chips are down as they surely were now, I drew on
this resource. Muttering dark
words that were never in the vocabulary of those nuns, I set about plotting my
revenge. Game on.
The
first golden rule for any female contemplating a new anything is to consult the
girl crew. Well, I have a handbag-ful
of girlfriends and consult them I did.
They are never shy in bringing forth their opinions on any subject under
the sun but imagine my horror when I mentioned the word golf and provoked nothing
more than a “Golf,” they said, “what’s that?” and barely raised a collective finely
plucked eyebrow in response. When
I mentioned skorts their interest ratcheted up a notch or two. “How does that work?” they asked,
sipping diligently on a vintage Wolf Blass oaked chardonnay. When I said it was a garment made of a
cross between Lycra and linen and designed to lift flagging abdominal spare
tyres to boob height, thereby increasing busts from vapid 36B’s to
Madonna-coned-in-your-face 40DD’s, they were with me, excited, intent. The arc of interest didn’t last long
though. The next question put paid
to that. “Are we allowed to wear
stilettos?” shimmied up my gym-buddy girlfriend. I had to fess up a large fat ‘no’. The response to that was couched in a logic I find hard to
disagree with – girls in heels on greens would make less of an indent than
man-sized pitch marks, the ground would be aerated while they played and any
girl in heels would automatically be pitched over the ball. No need for all that male-simpering
preparatory knee-flexing and crouching over the ball too often seen at
address. It came with the territory. If the rules changed, they promised...... Well, I’m not holding
my breath. Before I leave the girl
crew firmly behind, I have to mention I didn’t have the courage to tell them
there are still some men-only golf clubs out there. I could not take responsibility for the lynching-mob
mentality that would surely erupt.
I love my girls too much and, besides which, jail visiting them would
take up far too much time that could be otherwise invested in the beautiful
game of golf.
Next
stop was the sages. You know the
sort, we’ve all got them – they know everything about anything but nothing
about the something you might sensibly want to discuss. Dyed-in-the-wool pundits lurking in the
guise of working colleagues, family, nodding acquaintances or any Joe Public who
might happen by. “Take Dufner,”
they said – and I wished somebody would, preferably a spin doctor or image
consultant; “Look at Rory McIlroy,” they cajoled – and I did but I never got
past the haircut or, more pedantically, the lack of it. I’ve sent his mother my stylist’s
number; “And then there’s Tiger,” they intoned – and I sunk immediately into
dufnering pose. Well, I never got
the points they were actually making but I did glean that starting young has
some advantages. As I had
obviously missed the boat by a wide margin, I promptly signed my grandson for
junior golf academy. Maybe he’ll
remember his grandmother when he’s famous. Recent form was not looking too good. The embedding of his ball in the cat’s
dinner dish and the proceedings of chipping it out were rather painful to
watch. The fine spray of meaty gel
is taking some major cleaning effort and his mother is not best pleased with
me. I won’t be augmenting my
pension fund just yet but there is hope: he is a mere two.
My
father instilled in me the need to do things the “right way”. Trouble is he never told me how to
recognise the right way so I blew that piece of advice out of the water a long
time ago and have been making it up ever since. He also told me that a job worth doing is worth doing
well. Now this I “get”. I was ruminating on that gem of wisdom
and wondering where I should go next when - ping! into my inbox arrived Mr Right Way who shall, from henceforth,
be otherwise known as Vintage Golfer.
Of course I’d known for some time he was vintage but quite how good a
golfer he was he had hidden quietly under his bushel. By some random act of the texting gods, his hand and
handicap were revealed and, suddenly, I had someone who knew more than
something about the specific and almighty thing I needed most to talk about:
getting the right start in golf.
He set me on my way at last.
I learned several things from that encounter: the right way will find
you - don’t waste time looking for it; always check for bushels in vintage characters’
lives - surprising what you find hidden in this pre-emptive strike; and never
leave home without your lipstick and your mobile phone fully charged. After all, you never know the day or
the hour when Vintage Golfer will drop by your inbox and you will always want
to look your best when he sets you off on the right way. It’s a given.
Vintage
Golfer supplied me with the contact number for the best golf teacher on the
planet. Simples.
“Have
you ever played golf before?” fielded Simon when I called him to book a
lesson. I was tempted to lie but
those nuns and my parents had done a good job here – “No,” I replied truthfully,
fully expecting he would trot out my son’s “Take up crazy golf, it should suit
you” number. Instead and to my
utter amazement, he replied “That’s great. You can’t have gained any bad habits then.” I was tempted to rebuff this with a
quick resumé of my life but it was a long time since anyone had paid me such a
marvellous compliment so I took it on the chin and basked in its sunshine. We booked a date. Armed only with grim determination, all
my own teeth, the contact number of a great hairdresser, and a pressing need to
prove my son wrong, I headed for the golf course. Pushing fifty-eight on the map of time may not be the
youngest start but, as fifty-eight is the new forty-eight and I am possessed of
the optimism of youth, I could see only a glowing future. I would soon be a golfer. Job done.
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