Deer Oh Deer!

I have a confession. It’s been niggling my mind for a couple of years. I wish I could say we’ve all done it, but I doubt it very much.   This all relates to an incident involving me, a wedge, and one of the Queen’s animals.  You can see where this is going.  Well, it’s not a moment I’m particularly proud of, but it’s time I got it off my chest.

When I lived in Twickenham, I was a member of Hampton Court Palace Golf Club, which is set within beautiful Bushy Park in South West London. The course offers one of the most enjoyable environments in which to play golf near the city, with expansive, unspoiled parkland in every direction.  Not only that, but it’s home to hundreds (if not thousands, I don’t know which) of deer. They really are part of the furniture, and it surprises almost everyone who first steps foot on the course just how close they get to you. Appropriately, local rules at the club give the deer right of way, and while the odd frustrating break might negatively affect the scorecard (think hoof marks in the bunkers, teeth marks on your ball), it doesn’t detract from the experience of playing. Indeed, you’d argue that the deer make it even more special.

If you’ve ever played at Hampton Court Palace, you’ll know that at some point in your round you’ll be faced with the shot that, if you get it wrong, could lead to an anxious ‘heart in mouth’ moment as your ball careers towards a herd of deer.  There’s no denying that these noble creatures know very well that they have priority, and our interminable pursuit of a getting a small white ball into 18 little cups buried in the ground isn’t going to get between them and the luscious fairways that supply lunch.

The deer are so numerous that if everyone stopped and waited for every single one to be out of range prior to playing their shot, rounds at Hampton Court Palace would take days rather than hours.  As such, one of the conditions of play is that if you hit a deer, you should report it to the club immediately so that the animal can be checked over. If people are responsible about this, I’m sure casualties are kept to a minimum. (I am not enjoying reliving this).

So, one sunny summer’s day a couple of years ago, I was strolling down the second fairway contemplating the 100 yard shot to the green that lay ahead. To paint a picture briefly, the pin was right at the back of the green and a lonesome deer was nonchalantly nibbling away contently about 10 yards in front of the green. Typically the deer (we’ll call him ‘Derek’) was smack bang on a line between my ball and said target. Stating my defence (and I’ll concede at this point that it’s a fairly weak defence), I’d like to highlight that I did my utmost to move Derek along. I walked up as close as I dared in the hope he’d get scared and walk off. I clapped my hands loudly to frighten him off. I think I even ‘schewed’ him at one point, though I’m keen to stress that’s ‘schew’ not ‘shoe’… that really would bring on a court case. But nothing, Derek wasn’t going anywhere.

I suppose I have to own up to the fact that at this point in my golfing career I was a professional golfer regularly playing on satellite tours, booked in for Tour School, and generally backing my own abilities. This all taken into account, an obstacle (Derek) at 80yards for a pro playing a 100yard wedge shot, shouldn’t really come into the equation. And with that professional arrogance, I went about my business as per usual and made a positive swing at the golf ball.

There are certain moments in life where everything seems to happen in slow motion. As if time slows, allowing you to draw out every tiny detail because you know the impending psychological pain is going to scar your mind and haunt you forever. This was one such moment. That very instant that my club head made contact with the ball, before even looking up I knew there was only one place this Titleist was heading. The contact was poor; I’d made the most dribbling attempt at a golf swing. It had poor Derek’s name written all over it. The only question was where it was going to hit him.

Sadly and all too literally, the answer was ‘right between the eyes’. I guess it would be unfair to say ‘he never saw it coming’, but he really didn’t. For the entire time that ball was in the air, my hand was covering my open mouth. I was about to kill one of the Queen’s beloved animals. What was the punishment for such treason? Could you still be sent to the Tower? I saw flashes of future tabloid headlines tarnishing my character, my golfing name would be mud.

And the noise, oh, the noise was horrific. Have you ever heard a golf ball strike a skull?  You don’t want to.  I fully expected poor Derek’s lights to go out permanently. Surely he’d just lean over and crash to the floor, leaving me with an awful lot of explaining to do. But remarkably (and very thankfully) he didn’t.  Alright, he leapt five feet in the air like you’d expect, but his only other reaction was to skip off to the side of the fairway, shake his head a little, and then go back to the day job of chewing the grass. I guess the rutting season gives you a greater headache than a golf ball – they’re a hard breed these deer.

I waited around for a delayed reaction but that never came either. Derek was fine, and had even had the grace to help my ball to within 10 feet of the hole. It was only right that I should miss the putt, though I like to put it down to the emotional turmoil I was going through at the time.  Far as I could tell, the only lasting legacy was my guilt.

But my confession, I guess, is two-fold.  I also apologise unreservedly for besmirching the term “professional golfer”.  If you can’t hit a wedge shot with a 20% margin of error, what does that say about you and your right to professional status?  There, I said it. From this day forward I can walk the fairways safe in the knowledge that my wedge inadequacies are off my chest.

You’ll be relieved to know that Derek really was fine. He may have walked off in a diagonal line with an egg shaped lump on his temple, he was well enough to go back to chomping contentedly away in a matter of moments.

The Queen doesn’t know, by the way, so I’d appreciate it if you kept this between us.