[imagesource:golfdom]
Golf elicits binary emotional responses in humans, depending largely on which side of the demographic coin landed for them.
The privileged see the club through dappled light as a leafy playground where mum and dad – having outsourced their parenting responsibilities – got loaded on the weekends while recruiting alternative sexual partners. Others see it as a scarce resource behind high walls which only wastes water on too little biodiversity. – where the entitled dress in strange clothing follows a small ball around manicured fairways. Few see it as a place of employment. Less make real money out of it.
Donald Trump plays golf. Well, in a manner of speaking. The talk is that the rules he plays by bear little resemblance to those agreed by the Royal & Ancient. Pleasant Scots and Irish folk also play on public courses with little pretension in the same way they have for centuries. Amusing people play golf too. Like Bill Murray, Chevy Chase, Rodney Dangerfield and anyone else from ‘Caddyshack.’
Golfers may dress in Argyle jumpers and favour eccentric colour combinations, but I shan’t accept any criticism on sports clothing from any ‘athletes’ who consider it acceptable to display their meat and two veg under tight spandex in public without having showered. And at least hitting a golf ball requires a decent level of coordination. Two-year-olds have mastered swing ball, which is essentially what Padel is sans the string.
I played golf on Tuesday and all the vitriol I have directed at innocent cyclists and Padel enthusiasts came home to roost in a vicious dose of karma. Perhaps it was a hit engineered by the Cape Town Padel Mafia?
I was invited to play in a fourball at Clovelly a few weeks ago. It is a marvellous course nestled in a picturesque valley which doubles as a wind tunnel. Trees here have mutated over time to grow bent. Nature has evolved with the wind. Clovelly was built by the Ackermanns when the grandees at Royal Cape refused them membership on account of their religious beliefs. It’s astounding how people got away with behaving so poorly in the ‘good old days.’ In fact, I am amazed that anyone who uses that expression isn’t summarily executed with an anti-aircraft gun in the town square (like they do in North Korea) given the history in this country.
Anyway, I digress – back to the golf. My day got off to a bad start. First, I received a text before I left home at 6.15 am that two of our fourball pulled out. I had left my clubs at Royal Cape (they have improved) and had to collect them before driving on to Clovelly. I ignored the advice of my AI-driven satellite navigation system and got stuck in Muizenberg rush hour. That expression should be an oxymoron. Where were all these people going? Perhaps there was a special on a new strain of ganja seed or the waves were too peachy to miss for boring old work?
Golf is a difficult game that requires a quiet mind and a lithe body. Prudent golfers arrive thirty minutes early, hit a few balls on the range, practice some putting, and if it is post 11 o’clock, some have a pint to settle the nerves.
I screamed into the Clovelly car park and rushed to the first tee with two minutes to spare in bare feet with my golf shoes in my hands, planning to put them on while the others teed off. My back was in spasm after 90 minutes in a traffic jam. When I examined my golf shoes, I realised that I had brought one right golf shoe and one right tennis shoe. I managed to borrow a pair of shoes from the helpful caddy master who looked like he was accustomed to dealing with these types of emergencies. The borrowed shoes were too narrow for my high arches, but I squeezed into them. I was in a blind panic. It is not done to arrive late for a golf tee-off time.
Golf thrives on momentum and confidence. I had neither. Miraculously I drove the ball down the middle of the fairway at the last second before the waiting fourball claimed the tee box. I had made my third par in a row when I realised how much someone else’s golf shoes were hurting me. By the fifth tee, I was walking like a Firewalker who had fouled up his preparation. I couldn’t endure the pain any longer and removed my shoes altogether. This was an alarming sight for golfers we passed at the old school who shook their heads at the indignity of it – what was the world coming to? Fortunately, they almost forgave me when they saw the blood running from the blisters on both heels.
I hit my ball onto the green and made a twenty-foot putt for birdy on the first hole after removing my shoes. The greenies recommend walking unshod on the earth on the basis that it connects us directly to the main vein of the mother planet. I recommend putting barefoot to those in the PGA – somehow the ball rolls truer when your toes can grip onto the green.
Things were beginning to improve. Golfing wise. Then the lady captain gave me a tongue-lashing on the tenth hole as I strode to hit my second shot. She threatened to have me bull-whipped behind the caddy shack before I showed her a personal note signed by an Ackermann condoning my unshoddiness. Before I reached my ball, my caddy thrashed at a hive of bees with my three wood and two soldier bees from the kamikaze squadron sacrificed their stings in my left nostril. I managed to wave away the rest of the squadron with my bucket hat. More pain enveloped me. Nerves are concentrated in our noses. My face swelled and my eyes streamed in an immediate allergic reaction, but I banished these from my consciousness and knocked a rescue onto the green and drained the put for another birdy. Then I explained to my caddy the valuable role that bees play in our environment and implored him to cease taunting Mother Earth. I was not sure I could handle any further recriminations.
I finished the round without further incident apart from several pars with a brilliant score. Then I had a couple of beers on the balcony to calm the nerves.
When I turned left towards Kalk Bay from Clovelly Road on the drive home I was ushered to the roadside by a traffic cop. My nose was bulbous, and my eyes were streaming.
“Ag Shame,” she said, looking carefully at the photo on my driver’s license. “Is this really you? Drive on. The Padel Mafia think you have suffered enough for today.”
Golf elicits binary emotional responses in humans, depending largely on which side of the demographic coin landed for them.
The privileged see the club through dappled light as a leafy playground where mum and dad – having outsourced their parenting responsibilities – got loaded on the weekends while recruiting alternative sexual partners. Others see it as a scarce resource behind high walls which only wastes water on too little biodiversity. – where the entitled dress in strange clothing follows a small ball around manicured fairways. Few see it as a place of employment. Less make real money out of it.
Donald Trump plays golf. Well, in a manner of speaking. The talk is that the rules he plays by bear little resemblance to those agreed by the Royal & Ancient. Pleasant Scots and Irish folk also play on public courses with little pretension in the same way they have for centuries. Amusing people play golf too. Like Bill Murray, Chevy Chase, Rodney Dangerfield and anyone else from ‘Caddyshack.’
Golfers may dress in Argyle jumpers and favour eccentric colour combinations, but I shan’t accept any criticism on sports clothing from any ‘athletes’ who consider it acceptable to display their meat and two veg under tight spandex in public without having showered. And at least hitting a golf ball requires a decent level of coordination. Two-year-olds have mastered swing ball, which is essentially what Padel is sans the string.
I played golf on Tuesday and all the vitriol I have directed at innocent cyclists and Padel enthusiasts came home to roost in a vicious dose of karma. Perhaps it was a hit engineered by the Cape Town Padel Mafia?
I was invited to play in a fourball at Clovelly a few weeks ago. It is a marvellous course nestled in a picturesque valley which doubles as a wind tunnel. Trees here have mutated over time to grow bent. Nature has evolved with the wind. Clovelly was built by the Ackermanns when the grandees at Royal Cape refused them membership on account of their religious beliefs. It’s astounding how people got away with behaving so poorly in the ‘good old days.’ In fact, I am amazed that anyone who uses that expression isn’t summarily executed with an anti-aircraft gun in the town square (like they do in North Korea) given the history in this country.
Anyway, I digress – back to the golf. My day got off to a bad start. First, I received a text before I left home at 6.15 am that two of our fourball pulled out. I had left my clubs at Royal Cape (they have improved) and had to collect them before driving on to Clovelly. I ignored the advice of my AI-driven satellite navigation system and got stuck in Muizenberg rush hour. That expression should be an oxymoron. Where were all these people going? Perhaps there was a special on a new strain of ganja seed or the waves were too peachy to miss for boring old work?
Golf is a difficult game that requires a quiet mind and a lithe body. Prudent golfers arrive thirty minutes early, hit a few balls on the range, practice some putting, and if it is post 11 o’clock, some have a pint to settle the nerves.
I screamed into the Clovelly car park and rushed to the first tee with two minutes to spare in bare feet with my golf shoes in my hands, planning to put them on while the others teed off. My back was in spasm after 90 minutes in a traffic jam. When I examined my golf shoes, I realised that I had brought one right golf shoe and one right tennis shoe. I managed to borrow a pair of shoes from the helpful caddy master who looked like he was accustomed to dealing with these types of emergencies. The borrowed shoes were too narrow for my high arches, but I squeezed into them. I was in a blind panic. It is not done to arrive late for a golf tee-off time.
Golf thrives on momentum and confidence. I had neither. Miraculously I drove the ball down the middle of the fairway at the last second before the waiting fourball claimed the tee box. I had made my third par in a row when I realised how much someone else’s golf shoes were hurting me. By the fifth tee, I was walking like a Firewalker who had fouled up his preparation. I couldn’t endure the pain any longer and removed my shoes altogether. This was an alarming sight for golfers we passed at the old school who shook their heads at the indignity of it – what was the world coming to? Fortunately, they almost forgave me when they saw the blood running from the blisters on both heels.
I hit my ball onto the green and made a twenty-foot putt for birdy on the first hole after removing my shoes. The greenies recommend walking unshod on the earth on the basis that it connects us directly to the main vein of the mother planet. I recommend putting barefoot to those in the PGA – somehow the ball rolls truer when your toes can grip onto the green.
Things were beginning to improve. Golfing wise. Then the lady captain gave me a tongue-lashing on the tenth hole as I strode to hit my second shot. She threatened to have me bull-whipped behind the caddy shack before I showed her a personal note signed by an Ackermann condoning my unshoddiness. Before I reached my ball, my caddy thrashed at a hive of bees with my three wood and two soldier bees from the kamikaze squadron sacrificed their stings in my left nostril. I managed to wave away the rest of the squadron with my bucket hat. More pain enveloped me. Nerves are concentrated in our noses. My face swelled and my eyes streamed in an immediate allergic reaction, but I banished these from my consciousness and knocked a rescue onto the green and drained the put for another birdy. Then I explained to my caddy the valuable role that bees play in our environment and implored him to cease taunting Mother Earth. I was not sure I could handle any further recriminations.
I finished the round without further incident apart from several pars with a brilliant score. Then I had a couple of beers on the balcony to calm the nerves.
When I turned left towards Kalk Bay from Clovelly Road on the drive home I was ushered to the roadside by a traffic cop. My nose was bulbous, and my eyes were streaming.
“Ag Shame,” she said, looking carefully at the photo on my driver’s license. “Is this really you? Drive on. The Padel Mafia think you have suffered enough for today.”