Sunday 9 August 2009
Life, Sport & Tartan Trousers...
So earlier this year I resolved to learn a new sport and I had a few options to choose from.I could have gone with cricket, a sport I have hated since I first set foot on this earth, but a sport which is currently enjoying oodles of publicity what with the Ashes and the Twenty20 summer extravaganza taking place. But cricket was not for me. Dull. Complicated. And possibly a bit dangerous too. There's bats involved. And those hard balls. And you have to wear padding to protect your testicles. No, crickets not right. In fact, I think I would rather eat my own head than ever WATCH cricket again, let alone TAKE PART in a game.
How about darts? I think I have good hand to eye co-ordination. I like the idea of a competitive sports venue being a pub. And in comparison to most darts players I have quite the physique. But, no - it's dull. It's not exactly complicated, but there is a sharp mini arrow involved, and that's a bit too much danger for my delicate palms. Darts can do one. Consigned to Room 101 along with Freddie Flintoff and that Australian chap, Ricky Ponting.
So after much consideration, I went for golf. A gentleman's sport. A sport for all ages. A sport which I felt I could excel at. Yes, golf. Ten lessons should do it, then I'll be ready to take on the might of Tiger Woods et al on the pro tour. It can't be that hard. Old aged pensioners waddle over 18 holes and I'm but a twenty something chap who still thinks he can make it as a professional football (but for an alarming lack of natural talent and general fitness). Yes. Golf. I like it. I shall learn golf, and become quite the golfer.
So I travelled to a local golf club and signed up for a masterclass in my new "beautiful game". My intial introduction to the sport involved me going into a club house and being asked to leave for daring to wear trainers. I was made to feel like a lepper, rejected by a group of middle aged men in tartan trousers, all within five minutes of walking through the club gates. But I was in this for the long haul. No doddery old bugger is going to stop me from becoming a millionaire sports man. I'll get dead good, challenge them to a game and then humilate them in the sport they love. After all, youth counts in my favour, no? And then when I'm finished with them, I'll travel the world, follow the sun and compete on national television for the majors. Tiger will be my friend. Sergio Garcia will be in awe. I can go to see Arsenal with Ian Poulter. Yes, golf. I like it.
It's now mid August and I have had ten hours of golf lessons. It's really, REALLY hard. How do these old fella's do it? I've got blisters on my hands, my back aches and my formerly respectable wardrobe is in danger of being over-run with chinos and polo shirts. I'm on a painful, tiring and slippery sporting slope. I have no intention of challenging any oaps to a game and I now dress like such a twat that I am welcomed into the clubhouse with welcome arms.
On Tuesday I play my first course. A short, par 3, 9 holer. I take on two friends, both young, fairly experienced golfers. My driving is erratic. My short game is suspect. My putting is unpredictable. And yet I can't wait.
Suddenly there's all sorts of things going on in my world that are exciting me. And golf is just one of them. So the great thing is, even if I play terribly, even if I am royally humiliated by my compatriots and I walk off the course with a sore back, battered hands and my tail between my legs, I'll feel like a winner. Life is a strange beast. But when things go your way, it's like hitting a hole in one - Not that I'd know much about that...
