One evening every June or July my friend and I venture out onto a local course for our annual game of golf. We don’t have a handicap, don’t belong to a golf club and carry round a bag with a motley selection of clubs, most of which are more than thirty years old. We are part of that large group of golfers which the establishment pretend don’t exist but who hack our way along fairways up and down the country, the round considered a success if we don’t do anything too embarrassing – or if we do that not too many people notice. We are what Michael Green describe as ‘coarse golfers’ in his book, The Art of Coarse Golf, which makes highly amusing reading for those of us belonging to golf’s underclass.
So last Friday I met my friend for our annual round. To spare him from any embarrassment and me from a libel suit, it’s probably best that he remains anonymous, so let’s just call him Dave. It was however me who committed the first faux pas, the professional sending me out of his shop for entering whilst carrying a bag of clubs. At least our attire passed muster, unlike last year when my scraggiest shorts and t-shirt were deemed unacceptable and I was only allowed to play because the boss wasn’t there. I bought six of his cheapest balls, which he advised had been retrieved from lakes and would soon be back where they’d come from. How did he know?
The 1st hole passed without major incident but the 2nd provided ample evidence of our coarseness. Dave’s tee shot flew high but 45° left of the fairway, landing in trees out of bounds. Now even proper golfers play the odd poor shot but the difference is that they recover, firing the ball 200 yards towards the green. Dave on the other hand hit his next ball what seemed like 200 yards in the air but only about 30 yards forward – and once more at his favoured 45° angle. The thud of ball on wood and squawk of a couple of crows as they rose from the trees confirmed that he was once again out of bounds. Convention and good manners dictate that a golfer must not laugh at his opponent’s misfortune. Regrettably I adhered to neither. Still in order to win, a coarse golfer, lacking in his own abilities, has to rely on hoping that his opponent takes more shots than he does, even to the point of lending dodgy clubs. After many poor strokes that I like to blame on Dave’s clubs, I’ve learned to adapt my game to the odd selection in my own bag, despite possessing neither a six nor seven iron and the five iron being somewhat suspect after I bent it round a tree with the very first shot I ever used it for.
Barring several incursions into ponds and bunkers, the next few holes proceeded without undue incident, Dave even managing a par on the fifth. Despite needing ten shots on the 7th I was one hole ahead at the turn, and thanks to Dave’s excursions into the woods, six shots to the good. Remarkably, on the par three 11th we both hit the green but it was a mixed blessing. The three chaps in front assumed this was our normal golf and invited us to play through. Our attempts to decline were rebuffed so we were faced with every coarse golfer’s nightmare – an audience as we teed off. Inevitably Dave drove straight into a pond while I just cleared a ditch, the ball landing no further away than I could have thrown it. A remarkable turn of form (OK some disastrous shots from Dave, including two from bunkers that landed behind him) saw me win four holes in a row and looking good for a victory, but in course golf nothing is predicable. Before moving on however I shall take this opportunity to describe two of the most coarse golf shots it has been my pleasure to witness.
The first was played by my brother on the municipal course in Shrewsbury, where he achieved the remarkable feet of landing a ball on a railway line that was some way behind the tee. His drive was excellent in terms of power but poor on elevation, and slammed into the low concrete winter tee platform about ten yards ahead of us. From here it ricocheted at a great pace, passing just over our heads, clearing a hedge and landing on the Newport to Crewe railway line. A coarse golf shot to be proud of. The second was played at Risebridge in Romford, where to the right of the first tee is a putting green and behind that the clubhouse. It would take a shot of remarkable inaccuracy to trouble those on the putting green, but this one did. It flew at head height, requiring those practicing their putting to take immediate avoiding action, continued to the roof of the professional’s shop, where it bounced around a while, before coming to rest in a flower bed. Most golfers would hurriedly leave such a scene, but this one marched across the putting green, dropped his ball by the flower bed and hacked another shot in the vague direction of the fairway. I suppose at this point I should admit that the perpetrator of this fine coarse golf shot was my good self.
So back to the matter of last week’s round. Four holes up with six to play, the game was almost mine. A short put on the 13th would have virtually sealed it, but I missed it – and the next one. Dave won the hole and the next three. Our golf wasn’t improving although it did help our bird spotting, a pair of woodpeckers flying indignantly across the fairway, disturbed by another of my shots into the trees.
Golf is a cruel game. It never allows even the coarsest of golfers to entirely give up hope, so ensures that every round there is a shot or two that the player can be proud of. Shots that they can convince themselves are their normal game, while the other hundred or so were aberrations caused by external influences. It happened to me on the 17th. Two good shots, straight and in the air and I was putting for a birdie, a rarity that a course golfer might just achieve every three or four rounds. Clearly it wasn’t my turn today but a par took me to the last one up. I couldn’t lose!
I suspect that the designer of the 18th hole went through an unpleasant childhood experience which gave him a pathological dislike for golfers. Why else would you build a small green on an island and slope it so balls roll off into the water? Even the bridge is placed to the side, so no use to the coarse golfer who might otherwise choose to put over it. Despite having sent balls splashing into a selection of ponds and lakes around the course, we agreed that it would be unsporting to play short of the water and attempt to cross it on our second shots. Anyway there was no guarantee of the safety shot going anywhere near where intended, or of the second clearing the water. I played first, taking the trusty eight iron but with that fateful error of trying to hit it a bit harder than usual. Plop, into the water it dropped. Dave’s shot was longer but too far right and his ball too dropped into the lake. Quite ridiculously this is a par three, the designer making no allowance for penalty shots or lost balls. An under-hit wedge just cleared the water and with three puts I was down in six. Dave needed a five to draw the round but continued his fine coarse form, sending his ball over the water, right across the green and into the pond the other side and eventually taking eight.
Inspection of the scorecard illustrated our inconsistency as not one of the eighteen holes had been halved. A coarse golfer aims to beat a hundred. I’d failed by seven shots and Dave by a whopping fifteen. Our clubs have now been returned to their respective lofts where they will rest for another twelve months, but one evening next summer they will be down again as Dave and I once more seek to rediscover our younger form when scores were sometimes in the nineties but more importantly to complete a round of golf with only limited public humiliation.
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