Private Dreams

‘A tremor shakes my entire body from head to foot and instantly I am shamefully aware of my own inadequacy...”

Sometimes a man has to do what a man has to do. Yesterday I needed to be alone, away from prying eyes, far from family, neighbours and acquaintances, somewhere where I could indulge my secret passion without fear of being recognised or interrupted.

I drive to Tournerbury, a remote corner of Hayling Island where I had learnt that there was a place that could satisfy my needs. Having negotiated the dusty track to the ramshackle premises I shyly pay the required fee to a grizzled retainer, making doubly sure that I haven’t been followed. I then take the proffered bucket and with feelings of misgiving and foreboding go to my allotted cubicle, unfurnished apart from a clothes hook and an uncomfortable-looking green mat cast untidily on the concrete floor.

After hanging up my jacket I try to flex my arms and bend my knees in preparation for the coming ordeal. It has been a full year since I have experienced anything like this. Nervously I stretch the supple leather glove over the fingers of my left hand and then, a moment of indecision before, hesitantly I lift a five iron from my ancient bag of clubs. A couple of practice swings, then place a ball on the mat and crash! A tremor shakes my entire body from head to foot and and instantly I am shamefully aware of my own inadequacy as the club-head thuds into the matting a good six inches ahead of the ball. The jarring agony as I realise that the mat gives scant protection from the unforgiving concrete underneath. The club almost comes out of my hands and I feel the same sort of resounding sensation as a great church bell when the hammer falls.

Yup, the golf season is upon us once more and, once again, I have been wondering if it is worth the hassle of trying to pretend that I am really a latent golf champion who just needs a little quiet fine-tuning to smooth out a few technical hitches before taking on the best of them at the Augusta Masters (or my sister and brothers, even).

To my surprise the comfortable if ungainly swing of old (the one where the shaft of the club thuds into the back of my neck on the back-swing) has deserted me. I’m just too rusty, old and unfit and crumbly now. I think that the best option is to sell the old clubs on ebay and put the proceeds towards the purchase of a nice comfy armchair with matching footstool. I’ll then sit and watch golf on TV, placing the odd bet*, and mutter happily how everyone else’s golf swing is rubbish (except the redoubtable Mr Jeev Milkha Singh).

* Every year I tend to place a Masters bet on someone I haven’t previously heard of. Previously this system has unearthed Anthony Kim, Aaron Baddeley, etc. This year’s hope is Nick Watney (I liked the name) winner of the 2009 Buick Invitational.