“Sleep – why sleep is for wimps, for wimps I say…”
Open Week 2013 Day 3 arrived on a gorgeous sunny Sunday morning. Having only got to my bed at 2a.m. due to work commitments (on a Saturday – I know), 5.50a.m. seemed even more obscenely early than usual. Coupled with this was the minor matter of me not having a playing partner for the day – quite a risk to sacrifice beautiful & badly needed sleep just to mooch on in as a spare and hope that my dynamic personality and winningly large handicap would snare me a round. Could always mark a card, I suppose. Or walk home and crawl back into a still ever-so-slightly warm bed.
But good fate smiled upon me and I got to play. One minor feature of not always fully understanding the rules of the competition of the day (any day, really), I was somewhat disturbed to discover that ¾ handicap for poor ol’ me was a loss of a total of 9 (count ‘em – NINE) shots. In at the deep end I most certainly was.
Off we went, a family of co-competitors and I. My gallant playing partner carried the round easily for pretty much the entire day – AND he gave me a Kit-Kat at the start which meant that my sugar & dopamine fix was sorted. Alas, it did not overly assist my golf. Mind you, my eyes didn’t open fully for the first three holes and my instincts and reflexes are not quite fully developed enough yet to play the course by sound alone. And there was the added distraction of noticing that for the third sunny day in a row, not a deer or squirrel was to be seen – maybe they’d all gone to the beach but I do feel a little lost without my audience. There is nothing quite like the supportive squirrel flurry as I tee off the 8th or the slightly apprehensive eye contact from any does in the area as I approach virtually any of my shots.
If my recollection is correct, I may have given my team mate a wee break on the 5th, finally getting a score beside my name (whew). Alas the rest of the front 9 was an unfortunate combination of bad drive with no chance to recover or good drive but putt, putt, putting to nowt.
My 12 hole warm-up took longer than normal – I blame sleep-deprivation for same. But, by the 16th my eyes were open, by Kit-Kat was eaten (yummy, thanks) and I was caffeinated to just under the legal limit. I stood up to drive and hammered the ball down towards the wee white sign again. And again came quite close to hitting same. What an obscenely long drive it was. I had managed the same yesterday but suffered a nasty case of Evil Hops when my 2nd shot went to the bunker on the right of the green before suffering from a real nasty dose of the Evil Hops and disappearing into the Barrow to swim with the fishes.
The same would not happen to me today. I grasped my trusty 5-iron and lined up my shot for straight at the pin. I repeated my mantra of “there is no water there” and attempted to loosen my death grip on the club before I swung (relax, darn it relax…). Trusting to fate, I swung and made good contact with Loco, my trusty ball. And Loco flew so he did, flew. But he was not going to fly enough, the no water was coming up to meet him, to try to take him. So I did what I could and let a mighty roar of “get over it – bounce Loco, bounce”. And jolly well bounce he did – twice – on water – before settling down just off the green with a clean line to the pin. The resolute power of sound waves continues to fascinate me to this day. A tad unfortunately, being just off the green in two is of absolutely no use if all you can do is 4-putt. I mean, aaargh…
But we reached the 18th still all on speaking terms, with the glorious beacon of the Clubhouse / Grubhouse looming. I have to confess, for there were witnesses, that I duffed my drive and took 3 iron shots to end up pin high for the 18th. Now, when I say pin high I mean that I could see the pin, but there was a wee bunker in the way. Eep. And the Big Fella was lounging on the Clubhouse balcony, refreshing pint of cold orange squash in his hand. Right then, shot to make.
I took my trusty 600 wedge and addressed Loco (I mean actually addressed him – “look Loco, high pressure situation here – no beach playing today – over the bunker and then stop on the green and give me a chance, k?”) He looked at me impassively, as only a golf ball can, before indicating that he would do his very best, but I was gonna have to swing the club and make the shot. Good point. And so I did. And it worked. I mean, it really worked. Loco hopped over the bunker and compensated for my complete lack of ability to create spin by hurling himself at the pin and crash landing within about 3 feet of same. Whew, relief. The Big Fella’s spontaneous applause was lovely but created interest from the rest of the Brat Pack who came onto the balcony to witness my putt. My back to them, the weight of their stares kept my head down as I repeated my other mantra “please don’t muck this up”. Loco dropped obligingly into the 18th hole and I nonchalantly acknowledged the round of applause from the balcony by spinning round, removing my hat and attempting to bow.
Ready to meet any members of royalty I am not… Nap time approaches.