Winter League rd 7 (mind funk)

According to common maxim, 95% of a golfer’s fortunes depends upon that which is occurring between his or her ears during a round of golf. Provided a player possesses the basic fundamentals of a golf swing, the scorecard will, in large part, reflect the mindset deployed whilst that individual was on the course . This week’s winter league round 7 proved a perfect example of that axiom.

My doubles partner, Keith Douglas (the goon with the beard in this photo), is a good golfer. There I said it. He plays off a handicap of 3 and demonstrates an unruffled approach to golf which rarely finds him flirting with danger. He goes about his business diligently, with the minimum of fuss, collecting pars with gay abandon and only the occasional blemish sullies his card. However, and this is where the head funk reference comes in, put him on the 14th tee at Stonehaven Golf Club and the game’s a bogey, he turns into a quivering wreck. It’s bizarre. This otherwise highly competent, unflappable golfer who consistently breaks 70 at Stoney, becomes a hacker of the highest order for one hole only. I’ve seen him slice the ball onto Skatie Shore, sky it out of bounds, dump it into gorse and pull it into no man’s land. His tee shots off the 14th are as grotesque a sight as anything you’d see a beginner inflict upon your peepers and it happened yet again this week, his tee shot threatening the life of dog walkers on the beach below. It can only be attributable to a paralysis of analysis between the ears, that golfing mind funk which afflicts us all at one time or another.

Unfortunately, my occasional stinking thinking rears it’s ugly head also, and I chose the very same hole as Keith to demonstrate my brain fade, although gratifyingly with less disastrous results. It’s a team game, the best score on each hole counting towards the team scorecard, so when Douglas fluffed his lines with a monstrous hoik out of bounds, I needed to step up. The first part of the operation I negotiated with aplomb, a splendid tee shot coming to rest a mere fifteen feet from the hole. But, fatally, between tee and green, as I strode the short fairway in pensive and negative thought, I talked myself into a three putt. As soon as I stood on the green I couldn’t wait to get off it and instead of striking a confident, gutsy birdie attempt, I dollied a pitiful lag two feet short then proceeded to muff the tap-in, horseshoeing the damned thing around the hole and leaving it above ground. I thought I was going to vomit. Unforgivable golf, and all because my muscles had listened to what my weak mind had instructed them to do. Pathetic,lily livered, lamentable timidity. Stomping to the next tee, steam coming from my ears, I looked up for a word of consolation from my doubles partner, but there was none, just a dismissive shake of the head and a volley of abuse (from the man, I remind you, who didn’t even complete the hole given his abject fear of it).

Anyhow, despite our mutual farrago on fourteen, we managed to record a creditable 64 from eighteen holes of golf, representing our best effort yet in seven attempts. We’re a long way behind the front runners but it’s not over till its over and hope springs eternal etc, etc. Hold on, who am I trying to kid? We’re also rans this year and no mistake.

The company was good, Brian Hardstaff proving an even bigger wind up merchant than our good selves, ably matched in this regard by our other playing partner, Willie Donald. The cheek kept coming, as did the biting cold with the four of us manfully completing the round despite Baltic conditions, a light frost accompanying us throughout as we battled the elements beneath four layers of clothing. One of the benefits of winter league golf is playing with folk you might never ordinarily play with. It’s a joy chewing the fat with fellow members as you share three hours of golf in the prettiest of settings. That said, quite what people make of the Douglas/Russon combo is anyone’s guess. We’re not everyone’s cup of tea since we don’t take the game terribly seriously, so it’s rare for people to put their names alongside ours twice. We’re running out of people to mark our card. It’s a relief that new covid related club rules allow us to mark our own or we wouldn’t be completing this season’s winter league at all.

Winter League Rd 6 (a grown man cries)

There’s something rather discomforting about watching a grown man cry, it’s akin to witnessing the scolding of a child, you don’t quite know where to direct your eyes. The  modern era accepts the need for men to let their emotions show, and that’s a good thing, but nevertheless, it can be perplexing when you see a bloke ‘blarting’ (Birmingham word). 

I’d cried, openly, only twice in my life until this weekend. First, when attending the birth of my daughter Emily, and second, when watching Villa beat Tranmere in the 1994 cup semi-final, a victory which signalled my maiden trip to Wembley. Given the fourteen year gap since my last public sobbing, I thought I might get through the remainder of life without another, however this Sunday my golfing ‘performance’ provided grounds for an unwelcome hat trick.

More of that later, but first let me summarise the top scores from this week’s winter league gross doubles competition, a tournament which myself and Keith Douglas so far find ourselves stinking out to high heaven.

Murdoch/Taylor 65

McGillivray/Dempster 65

Roulston/Irvine 66

Messrs McGillivary and Dempster had the unwelcome distraction of playing this week’s round alongside myself, and myself alone, given my partner Keith Douglas’s latest reprehensible absence. Once again he found other fish to fry rather than participate in our doubles tournament (the clue’s in the title Douglas, get with the programme). 

Barry McGillivary and Stuart Dempster are good golfers, they strike the ball crisply, pitch it confidently and putt it soundly. The game can be pretty simple when you do as they do, it was drama free golf from beginning to end. Not for them Hamlet cigar moments in bunkers, monstrously wayward drives landing upon adjacent fairways, or a processions of golf balls disappearing over cliff edges, they played with the minimum of fuss, positioning their drives up the middle, clipping their irons onto greens and holing out within two putts. I, on the other hand, played like I’d swilled ten pints in the Market Bar prior to teeing up and demonstrated a level of golfing incompetence not seen since my grandmother attempted pitch and putt for the first time while on holiday in Ilfracombe, 1983. 

Army golf they call it (left, right, left, right), when there’s simply no telling what is going to happen next, and I completed as hapless a round of golf as I’ve ever had the misfortune to produce. I could scarcely get off the tee but the most outrageous shenanigans were reserved for the green side where a plethora of duffed chips and fearful knifings had me performing an X-rated horror show which found my playing partners visibly shaken. I wasn’t so much playing golf as making a public spectacle of myself. It was abominable.

Eventually, after thirteen holes of lamentable golf, my resolve weakened and I cracked. I’d pushed my tee shot wide right, again, almost out of bounds this time, and had a twenty yard pitch to the green. Now, any half competent golfer would consider this type of shot elementary, rather like a tennis player playing a routine half volley from the baseline, it was a bread and butter kind of shot. But when your confidence is shot to pieces, and you’re approaching each chip as if it were a hand grenade about to go off, you have little chance of executing it satisfactorily, and sure enough, I duffed yet another. Not even the luxury of a preferred lie, permissible in the winter, (whereby a player can spot the ball up like a cherry on a cake) could encourage me to produce an acceptable golf shot, and for the umpteenth time I chunked the ball six feet in front of me and grimaced as if experiencing a bout of trapped wind. This farrago was occurring around every green and by now I was reduced to a gibbering wreck, my bottom lip quivering and upper body convulsing. I wanted my mummy or a straight jacket, I wasn’t fussy which. One last try I thought, you can do this, so I stepped forward sheepishly...only to rocket yet another ankle height exocet twenty paces beyond the green. It was the last straw, I broke down and sobbed.

Barry was the first to console me, putting his arm around my shoulder and offering gentle words of comfort. Stuart took the pitching wedge from my hand, before I saw fit to damage myself with it, and gingerly escorted me away from the scene of the crime, kindly producing a handkerchief with which I could wipe away my tears. The two of them completed the hole, their comfortable par three doing nothing to improve my mood, and then returned to care for a patient who was now lying on the next tee, in the foetal position. This was golf at its cruellest, a sport reducing a grown man to ribbons. Oh how I hated this game.

After a few more words of consolation from my playing partners, I put my shoulders back to complete the final few holes, smiling through the tears and endeavouring not to feel patronised when being congratulated for the most average of shots. I’m sure their hearts were in the right place when they accompanied my lame hundred yard thinners with a deep throated ‘good shot!’ but in truth I wanted to volley them squarely in the cobblers. My golf didn’t improve and I shuffled forward like a moody teenager, hands deep in pockets, kicking every loose piece of turf I came by. There was room for one last farce around the 16th green when I bladed one that threatened to snap Stuart in two, so I picked up and skulked off to the next tee.

Having negotiated the 17th without further humiliation, I didn’t play the last hole, preferring to get the coffees in rather than subject those in the clubhouse to a festive pantomime show. I nestled into my chair and looked on as Barry and Stuart skilfully completed another solid par to card a fine eighteen hole total of 65. (For the record, I’d no returned as early as the 2nd hole when racking up a preposterous eight, topping my tee shot out of bounds before chunking two chips and three putting).

Hopefully Douglas is on form next Sunday otherwise we face the humiliation of finishing tenth in this winter league. Bad enough in itself, worse still when you consider there are only nine entrants. Meantime, let me wish McGillivary and Dempster the best of luck as they compete in forthcoming weeks for a place on finals day,  an occasion you can be rest assured I’ll be attending in a spectating capacity only.

Winter League floodage

Poor weather put paid to any notion of golf at Stonehaven Golf Club this weekend, the course closed due to flooding. Hardy members play in most conditions but the closure was unavoidable, enjoyable golf not being conducive to teeing off ankle deep in water or attempting to putt through veritable ponds. It’s a shame, I’d practiced all week for competition day and was set to reduce the course to ribbons. It’ll just have to wait till next Sunday instead. 

I adore Stonehaven Golf Club, so to be denied my weekly fix was a wounder indeed. I’m not the greatest player in the world, my expectations aren’t always high in terms of performance, but what I can always depend on are the surroundings, the views, the scenery and the welcome. Its a well kept course with an attractive clubhouse in a wonderful setting, heaven on earth to me that place. Some clubs are a little snooty, but not this one, everyone’s welcomed by friendly staff whether members or not. If you’re not golfing you can stop by for coffee or a spot of food, the restaurant’s excellent, with Ziggy’s varied menus and super service. (If this is coming across as an advertorial I apologise! I’m just proud of the place that’s all, and need to keep them sweet so they don’t remove my name from the junior championship winners board 😊. 1986 for the record). 

The course was closed then for the weekend, but not the clubhouse, so I sauntered up there for a Sunday afternoon stroll, nursing a coffee upon arrival while chewing the fat with Mr Innes. Given the time he spends up there it’s bewildering that he’s such a poor golfer but with the course unplayable, I was spared his inept golf and subjected to his chat instead. Having bored each other half to death, I then wondered down to the 2nd green to take the photograph you see here, and this reminded me of a peculiar episode which occurred back in the eighties. 

Walking to the 2nd green from the clubhouse, you cross the 18th fairway, a stretch of turf which, inexplicably, became the resting place for my 5-iron club head over three decades ago. Back then, I’d launched a tee shot from the 18th only for my club-head to come clean off upon impact, disappearing in the same direction as my golf ball. I found my ball but lost my club-head and, despite several searches, haven’t found it to this day. I’ve a hunch it isn’t there anymore, thirty five years later, maybe I need to get over it, but I’ve always wondered what happened. How can you lose half a golf club from a distance of thirty yards or so? Perhaps someone found it one day. Maybe a green keeper after it’d mangled his grass cutting machine, maybe another golfer who repaired it and uses it even now. Or the grasses might have overwhelmed it after it lay undiscovered for a few weeks, submerging it beneath the turf. Who knows, but I still bristle over losing that club, it was my favourite. We hang onto some things don’t we? I think I need to let it go. 

No winter league update for you then this week, but hopefully we’ll be blessed by better weather next weekend after which I can regale you with details of a new course record.

Winter League Rd 5 (Lucy Locket)

Back in the eighties, when I last played the game of golf with a degree of capability, I’d often be found out on the course with one of the two Douglas brothers; Jack or Keith. Sadly, I then discovered alcohol (unrelated incident) which I devoted myself to for the next two decades, a sorry tale which I’ll save for another day. An 8 handicapper at the age of 16, I then barely touched a golf club until my mid thirties and my early promise amounted to naught. By the grace of God, I’ve been sober for sixteen years now, but it’s fair to say my golf has suffered irretrievably and my current handicap of 14 is far from an unjust one. I’ve just never really got the mojo back and hack around the course in a damage limitation exercise these days.

Meantime, while I was drinking myself to the brink of oblivion for twenty years, the brothers Douglas, both of whom I played with this week, continued to play their golf without stinting. Such dedication has seen them achieve handicaps as low as 3, a feat of which they should be rightly proud. I don’t consider it unfair therefore, given his virtual scratch player status, to expect my winter league partner, Keith Douglas, to take the lead when contributing towards our team tally. Yet once again this week he was to be found wanting.

This accompanying photograph shows you how he arrived at the course on Sunday, his scorecard later suggesting that he’d left his leathers on for the entirety of the round. He shanked his approach shot at the first, topped his drives at the third and eleventh and hit fewer greens in regulation than Birmingham City have won league titles. We meekly hustled our way to a mediocre score of 67, my good self steering the ship to respectability, and now face the very real prospect of not qualifying for the finals. We need to step it up big style, or rather, Douglas does.

The round wasn’t without its comedy moments, aside from Keith’s shank at the first. (My uncle Eric Soutar, by the way, would walk straight off the course if he hit a socket, or ‘Lucy Lockett’ as he called it. Perhaps Douglas should have followed his lead). On the12th green the witless goon trod in a foot deep puddle and spent the remainder of the round with his right foot squelching with every step, however this wasn’t the only instance of misfortune. Earlier in the round, as we departed from the 7th tee, Jack had found himself spread eagled, face down in the mud having lost his footing, his trolley making haste towards the gorse bushes below. Stifled titters met his descent but we struggled to repress them when he rose to his feet looking for all the world like a scrum half who’d just spent eighty hard minutes on a sodden Murrayfield.

Our hapless fourball was completed by Charlie Gordon, a left handed player who struck a deceptively long ball, albeit a luminous yellow one. His half swing back-lift didn’t threaten to shift the ball a significant number of yards towards the target but he boomed it a hefty distance nonetheless. Quite what he made of his three playing partners is anyone’s guess; Jack covered in mud, Keith’s beard touching the belt on his trousers and my good self talking in a language completely foreign to him (Brummy). Nevertheless, he manfully soldiered on and carded a very respectable score despite the distractions around him.

To say the Douglas/Russon partnership is behind the eight-ball is an understatement, we’re gonna need to defy the odds to qualify for the finals, but never say never. If I can get over my chipping yips and Douglas can return to somewhere near the form of a 3 handicapper we may have a chance. I’ll certainly play my part, I’ve booked out the practice area from noon till night for every day this week, but whether I can persuade my playing partner to get with the programme and take his golf rather more seriously is another question. It’s time to step up Douglas, or ship out.

Winter League Rd 4 (Star Trek)

Russon & Douglas’s spluttering start to the winter league doubles competition can be attributed to only one man, Keith Douglas, given he didn’t bother turning up for the first two rounds and was barely noticeable in round three. It was pleasing therefore to find him step up to the plate this week and deliver a performance of note, contributing strongly to our team score of 61. He was found wanting on several occasions but largely pulled through and we can only hope he continues this form through the month of December. First though he needs to repair his golf trolley. It’s all very well having the swankiest one in the district but if the handle snaps off the damned thing on the first tee it’s no use to man or beast. I keep telling him that proper golfers carry their bags, you should sling your weapons over your back not transport them around the gloaming upon a trolley that belongs to the Starship Enterprise.

The winter league is very popular at Stonehaven Golf Club and there are plenty of entrants. It isn’t for everybody however, chiefly because the very title puts the less hardy golfers off, suggesting golf in freezing conditions with icicles hanging from their nostrils. The truth though is we've enjoyed beautiful, benign conditions so far this season and it’s been a pleasure to stomp the green fairways of Stonehaven beneath largely cloudless blue skies. The air is fresh, the views beautiful and it can feel like the most tranquil place on earth. The only drawback, and it’s somewhat churlish to mention it, is that you play the last three holes directly into the glare of a low setting sun and for that reason I messed up the closing section of our round. It was time then for my low handicap partner, Keith Douglas, to stand strong for the team, but he fluffed his lines with an amateurish bogey on 17, chunking his chip and allowing it to roll apologetically back to his feet like a naughty dog, tail between its’ legs, being called back by its master. This embarrassing farrago rather took the gloss off an otherwise excellent team score.

Our playing partners were Messrs Duncan & Wood who played adequately without setting the heather alight. If their golf were a Premiership football club it would be more Crystal Palace than Liverpool, grubbing along unspectacularly, accumulating points here and there but entertaining no one in the process. Had tickets been sold, the stadium would have been only half full at the interval with many more drifting home long before the final whistle. It was less champagne and more meat and potatoes golf. Step it up next time please gentlemen.

We’ll all be back for more punishment this weekend. The unofficial Mearns FM duo competing for the honour of Winter League Doubles Champions 2021. We’ve still to arrive at a team name, Mearns FM Marvels seems appropriate for 50% of our team, Mearns FM Muppets for the other 50% until he gets a handle for his supposedly all singing and dancing golf trolley. And buy yourself a razor Douglas, how am I meant to putt when your beard’s shadow falls all over my line?