Gay Abandon

A return to golf after a sustained break can go one of two ways, you either play like a demon or stink the course up. I usually play quite well after a rest from the game, my head free of the paralysis of analysis that otherwise blights my golf, I just stand up to the ball and hit it. Mind clutter is the bane of any golfer’s life, so many thoughts crowd your head during the backswing that you’re a shivering wreck by the time your club reaches the ball. A break from the game frees your mind of these fears, gives you a blank slate devoid of the energy sapping thoughts of swing mechanics. Well for the front nine at least.

The torment of golfing paralysis is indeed horrible, equally tragic however is the first tee terror that takes over when playing before a sizeable audience after a lengthy lay-off. He won’t thank me for broadcasting this but my brother Stuart experienced a meltdown regards this affliction at a plush corporate golf day in Nottinghamshire some years ago. Our fourball teed off in full view of dozens of folk milling around the front of the clubhouse. His face set in stone, eyes on stalks and stricken with apprehension he began his backswing and in a grotesque movement lasting barely a millisecond, completed less than a quarter backswing before lurching at the ball in a state of utter panic. His shoulders stiffened, his knees dipped and he delivered the fresh air shot to end all fresh air shots, his clubhead swishing the air a clear six inches above the ball. Playing partners coughed, Stuart gulped, tumbleweed blew across the tee.  It was a horror show, X-rated. Give me paralysis of analysis over first tee fresh air shots anytime.

But enough of Stu’s personal hell, let’s move on to today’s game, round 6 of the winter league four weeks after our previous round, an opportunity to play with gay abandon (not Keith’s stage name).  A chance to play without fear but with freedom and panache.  It was with a degree of excitement that I looked forward to a knock. I cleaned my clubs, polished my shoes, even washed my ball pocket. I had the demeanour of a child awaking on Christmas Day, full of expectation. Imagine my disappointment then when at the eleventh hour, literally, my winter league partner cried off citing fatigue due to a bout of late night poker in Dundee. As excuses go, ‘lame’ doesn’t even cover it. I suppose I should be grateful for the twelve hour notice of his impending absence but given I was notified by text in the dead of night, I was asleep for eight of those hours. I shouldn’t be surprised, he has form regarding this kind of behaviour, only last month standing me up when I’d had the good grace to turn up to give him a pre-arranged lift to Aberdeen. 

Once again Douglas’s behaviour proves itself to be beyond the pale, it leaves me questioning the wisdom of partnering this oaf in the winter league pairs. It comes to a pretty pass when the man you’ve been carrying through the winter league competition then has the brass neck to cry off when you’ve virtually pulled into the car park. Perhaps with his poker winnings he can buy himself a mirror and take a long hard look into it, meantime I’ll diligently practice to compensate for his on-course shortcomings.We now have five weeks to play our five remaining qualifying rounds, here's hoping Douglas turns up next week though I'm not holding my breath, word has it he's off to purchase a chocolate fireguard upon which to model himself.