Confession time

Dear Brian Hartman,

I need to say something.  In fact, I feel I should really begin this piece by saying “Dear Father Brian Hartman”.  It’s not that I believe you are really a confessor but, you see, I need to make a confession.  I truly should begin then by saying “Bless me, Father Brian, for I have sinned”.

It’s been long and many a year since my last confession and my need to do so at this moment in time began with the article you wrote “What was your best shot ever?” ( http://www.golfshadow.com/best-shot-ever.htm )  That set me on the road to reflecting and, in particular, to reflecting on my golfing career to date.

First, I need to tell you that reflection is usually a positive experience for most people.  For me though, it’s not.  It usually produces the worst in me.  I’m not really sure why but, in a world where evidence-based statements are all the rage and random personal statements mean nowt, I offer you by way of excuse my Foley genes.  They were a perverse lot those Foleys and the name means “pirate” if you’re southern Anglicised or “descended from a foal” if you’re northern Anglicised.  I’m Irish – so how does that work?  Make your choice, Brian, it’s a free world, but if you understand these tenets about me – over which I have no control – then you have me down to a t.  Or should that be tee in this case?

I have broken the rules of golf and sinned against my fellow man or, not to put too fine a point on it, against two men in particular.

It all began on the day Catherine and I made our first sally out on the golf course.  Simon finally gave me his blessing.  What a moment of exuberance that was!  In a faith- confirming moment, I recognised all those novenas Sister Philomena-of-the-Thinly-Veiled-Threats made me pray when I was the younger side of little were finally paying off.  That long ago investment was finally returning a dividend: I was going to play my first game.  Simon also found me the perfect playing partner.  Actually we found each other during one of his lessons, in the throes of laughter at one of our many stupefying ‘trick’ shots.  Simon promptly stopped the lesson and paired us instantly.  We have never looked back. And that, dear Father, is where it all went wrong.

First of all, let me introduce Catherine.  Fellow profession.  Fellow black sense of humour.  Fellow victim of laughter.  As nurses, we do epitomise that saying that laughter really is the best medicine and, if you’re going to be a health care professional, you may as well practise what you preach.  We do. In abundance.  By the bucket load.

Now, let me introduce the victims.  Vintage Golfer had warned me that it was good manners to wave through the faster players.  I’m all up for good manners and I see no point in owning a shed-load of manners if you’re not prepared to trot them out regularly for an airing.  And use them I did, but after I had stood by and waved through a tsunami of fourballs and half-a-football stadium of pairs, I got fed up and decided the victims were the last two I was letting through for a while.

Now, Father Brian, you must understand: I bear no ill will against these two men.  There was neither a venial or mortal sin in the offing or shades of malice aforethought floating in my errant brain.  Indeed, the converse is true.  I love mankind in general and even a few people in particular. And it works - so I have no intention of changing this attitude in the foreseeable future.  I did not single them out.  They were victims of time and space - or maybe the theory of chaos if you believe in its existence – but my butterfly brain finds that a tad too hard to fathom.

Catherine and I have our own inimitable style of play.  It involves close encounters with trees, playing off the fairway as much as can conceivably be achieved, out of bounds is a definite must have, and topping the ball at every opportunity is also desirable.  Given we have so much to contend with in any one shot, it is not surprising that distance and direction are not high on our agenda.  And that is where I was led down the path to perdition like a lamb to the slaughter. 

Golf Gods 1 and 2 strolled by, passing with a nod of the head and polite words, driving big, soaring shots bang on target and looking to the entire world in control of their game.  They had a certain je ne sais quoi air that floated behind them like a ship’s wake in passing.  Regal.  Untouchable.  (Actually Father Brian, I lie; I know exactly what that air was.  It’s called ‘Pride in the name of golf’ and they wore it like an expensive aftershave.  I am tempted to call Bono, suggest he re-work his original ‘Pride in the name of love’ song and see if he can come up with a better result second time out.  Martin Luther King did not deserve such a poor tribute replete with an overload of vowel sounds, a dearth of consonants and a tribute that only works if you don’t understand a single word of English.  http://www.u2.com/index/home  But I digress...).  In truth, I was green round the gills with envy and Catherine was quailing in an unhealthy cyanosis.

They polished off that green like true professionals.  None of your common- fault, three-putt malarkey here.  All that remained was the usual re-setting of the hole for the next player (that’s us!) and they would be off to pick up their three- o’clock-parked trolleys just off the right of the green and a minimalist stroll to the head of the next tee.  Precision engineering golfers.

I blush as I recount the next step.

I turned to Catherine for guidance.  “Shall I,” I said.  Without hesitation, she nodded in the affirmative.  And, of course, she was right: there wasn’t a snowball’s chance in hell of me pulling off a shot like that.  The distance was at least 130yds, uphill, and into an oncoming light wind.

But pull it off I did, landing it kerplunk!onto the right of the green.  And that was the end of precision engineering golfers. 

I have never seen two grown men head for the hills at such a pace, hunkered down on their haunches as they ran.    Yep! Brian, that’s when I pulled off my best shot, splintering their golfing aftershave in a thousand fragmented fragrances and served myself with a reminder that even the stupid can occasionally wear je ne sais quoi!

I didn’t have the time to shout ‘fore’ before play but I did manage to decant an obscenity I never knew I knew.  I stood frozen in that pose-y swing thing I like to think looks good on me.  It was only Catherine’s snorts of laughter - and the ensuing dyspnoea as she struggled to regain her breath between - that brought me to my senses.  She was turning blue again but for an entirely different reason.

“How did that happen?” I questioned in amazement.

“You’ve just shot your best shot EVER,” she gasped

For once, I had nothing to say.

I tried desperately to compose myself but it clearly wasn’t working.  By the time I got myself to the green, my victims were preparing to tee off.  I did apologise, Brian my confessor, I did - but only after umpteen attempts to straighten out the laughter lines and wipe the tears that were freely coursing down my cheeks.  Catherine was no help. She was still lying on the ground, comatose with laughter.  I am forever thankful that these two golfing gods were bestowed with a sense of humour similar to ours and eventually went on their merry way in fine fettle and with their resplendent aftershave fully restored.  Long may they be precision engineers.

So now and before I relieve you of your temporary pastoral role, do you think I should be forgiven for my faux pas?  After all, I could have caused a serious injury. 

Before I sign out and you answer, the question has to be asked: would I do it again in the same circumstances?

In a heartbeat!

After all, I can safely say “Catherine led me astray”.