Watching the Masters on telly is a dangerous business for the amateur golfer, you sit in the comfort of your armchair and start to get ideas above your station. Next day you pitch up at the club thinking you can replicate what you have witnessed and worse, you reckon that because you're playing Stonehaven not Augusta, a course two thousand yards shorter and with flat greens not upturned saucers, that you'll make mincemeat of it. But there's an elephant in the room; you'll be using the same swing that took eighty five blows last week and not the purring machine which is Jordan Speith's action.
This weekend I fell foul of this very folly, convincing myself I was rather better than I am. Speith's majestic 66 still fresh in my mind, I turned up at Stoney with plans to marmalize the course record, instead I slapped and duffed my way to a sorrowful 79 in nigh on perfect conditions. What an anticlimax. I opened with a double bogey, closed with another and threw in a triple on the 7th for good measure. I'll spare you a blow by blow account, suffice to say Speith can sleep easy.
My playing partners, Bruce and Craig, performed well, particularly Bruce. His effortless 69 oozed confidence and Craig's improvement from last week was marked. It was squelchy underfoot and pitchmarks were deep, not though as deep as my displeasure at signing for a birdieless 79, the only saving grace being the avoidance of a snowman on my scorecard. I'll now take a fortnight's break to gather myself. Or take up snooker.
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