I first played golf just over 2 years ago, at the age of 32. I’d watched golf for ages on TV, but none of my friends or colleagues played. Or at least, that was what I thought.
It’s funny, as soon as you mention that you have started playing, they creep out of the woodwork… “Hello, Emma tells me you’ve started playing golf. Well, if you ever fancy a game (at my £1000 a year club) just give me a shout”.
Repeat this about 20 times.
As a result, without ever having been a member anywhere I’ve been able to play some very good courses, very very badly.
You see, I’m rubbish. I mean really, really rubbish. I’ve never broken 100, only broken 50 for 9 once. I regularly take huge divots while moving the ball about 50 yards forwards and my ‘fore’ response is almost instinctive, out of my mouth as I hit the ball sometimes.
But, sometimes, just sometimes, it comes together for a hole or two. Decent drive, decent wedge, 20-foot putt with a 3 foot borrow and “Yes!”, I’m the best golfer in the world, for about 10 seconds.
17 terrible holes, ready to pack it all in forever, birdie the 18th, and all is right with the world again and you start having delusions of mediocrity. Thoughts of trophies start to drift in and out of your mind, men holding very big cheques shaking your hand while people applaud……..
“What did you do?”
“Hundred and eighteen”.
Reality’s a bitch.
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