Tales of the Unexpected
One of the things I love about golf is its unpredictability. That’s why we play it, I guess. Luck can play a pretty big part, too, of course. And for those who say “you make your own” or who dismiss the idea of luck as a force entirely, I’ll tell you briefly about one day on the links at Royal Cinque Ports in Kent where I witnessed two pretty astonishing feats on the same day, by the same player. I’ll leave you to guess who he was playing against.
Dashing to make his tee time in an Open Competition, our man (let’s call him Lucky Jim) cracked his opening tee shot wildly off line and then watched as it struck the very heart of the flag pole that stands proudly outside the clubhouse 150 yards away, and ricochet back into prime position in the middle of the fairway. From here, he had the gall to conjure up an opening birdie. I knew I was in trouble. By the time we reached the 18th, if my suspicions were still in any doubt that Lucky Jim had The Fates on his side, they were soon expunged as I watched his ball disappear into the hole from fully 200 yards for an eagle to beat me by one shot. Taking nothing away from the man, that was a great shot, but actually to go in?!
At the time I was a little sour (not that you can tell!) but, with the wisdom of hindsight, there’s still a kind of pleasure in the fact that here I am, years later, recounting the story. It’s the unpredictability that creates the memories and, at times, the laughter. I don’t know what it is about golf but there seem to be so many opportunities for fluke or tragedy, misfortune or disaster, that anyone that’s played the game is bound to have memories that still bring a smile. I think it’s the agony the game can inflict (physical as well as mental, as I am about to explain) that somehow sets up the laughter, as we all, in our warped way, like nothing more than to revel in another’s misfortune (minor, of course!). Schadenfreude – even the word has its own sumptuousness.
For me, I always recall a fantastically bizarre episode at another Open Competition, this time at Stoneham Golf Club in Hampshire. Preparing to line up a putt on one of the early holes, my attention was suddenly drawn to a playing partner who had, in a blur of movement, gone from eyeing up a chip shot to flapping a trouser to removing his shirt and unbuckling his trousers. There was now wild thrashing of the air with his golf club as the trousers descended and the man ran, hopped and stumbled down the fairway, bare-chested, shirt wrapped around his pitching wedge as he engaged in some kind of ritual dance of self-flagellation.
Unfortunately for those of us who wanted to witness the denouement, the hole was a dog-leg and soon our crazed golfer was rounding the corner and out-of-sight. What the group playing behind must have thought as the streaker, by now in no more than Y-fronts and spikes, thrashed his way towards them, heaven only knows. Back at the green, having just about collected ourselves, the two of us left in the group decided it wasn’t part of some elaborate pre-shot routine (the chip wasn’t that tough after all), and so ambled off in the pursuit to check all was well. As you’ll have guessed, the trigger to all the mayhem was a wasp’s nest and the poor fellow was found tending to his multiple wounds. A hole or two later, he saw the funny side of it and I am sure now enjoys the memory of it nearly as much as I do.
Like all of us, I have dozens of memories of times when I have been in hysterics on the course, particularly as a junior, as you’d imagine. For me, that’s part of the enduring joy of the game. I know there can be moments of mirth in other sports, but there’s something about the pace of the game of golf, the companionship and the permanent recipe for disaster that seems to generate more than its fair share of stores and laughter.
I know it’s difficult to do justice to any incident when you retell it, but if you’d like to out-do mine please feel free to share your own favourite moment here