I played golf the other day, a 4-ball. Three of us know each other’s games well, though we play in different styles, and maintain different handicaps (or in my case, don’t. I have answered the question “what do you play off?” with “eleven” for longer than I can accurately remember (I was off eleven once, but that was probably after the Junior Invitation win in ‘86…).
Whilst standing on the first tee, I ask the same question of our fourth, and laugh as the answer comes back “plus four”. I thought he was joking, but three hours later, I know I am wrong. On his first outing on a top heathland track, with the added distraction of the other three spraying balls around the boundaries, he shoots an effortless sixty-six.
It was a joy to watch someone play the game with such ease, his swing and style so fluid, natural. He even had a bogey in there, but reacted to that with the same relaxed manner he did all the pars and birdies, and the many, many missed chances for an even lower score.
It was, apart from the lean scoring, like watching a child hitting their first, fearless putts, or playing tennis against a wall for hours. There was just a pure enjoyment in his face while taking on the challenge of each shot, and a surprised look when yet another one worked out.
The thing that stands out for me now, a few hours after this parade ended, was how simple it all seemed. It was as if his best shots weren’t alien to the rest of us, but that he had, through hard work and discipline perhaps, or maybe a wisdom of sorts, eradicated the clutter that didn’t belong in his game. His bag and clubs were exactly as he wanted them, and it felt watching him as if his mind must also have stripped out the superfluous, leaving only the essential.
In his eyes as he lined up every shot there seemed to be a glint, like he was once again facing that naughty little white ball, daring it to go right down the middle again, or to leap effortlessly into that glorious abyss of the hole. I am not sure he even saw the bunkers, or the heather, or the out of bounds, but just the intoxicating possibility in each shot.
I don’t know whether it is like that every time he steps out onto a golf course, but it felt like watching something deeper going on yesterday. They say monks and yogis hold a special energy about them, and that the vibrancy of their inner life, the serenity that comes with self-awareness, reverberates around the room.
He seemed to be giving this off from the centre of each fairway, and in a world filled with confusion and fear, it was a breath of fresh air to see someone so at home with themselves, and so filled with love for this wonderful old game. And, would you believe it, despite that glorious sixty-six, my old handicap of eleven saw us turn them over three and two, and even that couldn’t wipe the happy grin from his face.
What a wonderful game this is…