A Birdie in the hand

I would like to know the physics which dictate that a lateral stroke with a golf club translates into a perilous vertical ricochet action between floor and concrete ceiling at the local golf range.

On the same theme how can a well tried and tested swing cause such mayhem and pandemonium in the car park at the same venue.

As it appears I do not get on with the game of golf.

I have tried to make it my friend but it has invariably brought disappointment, potential injury and damage to third parties.

Why, I do not really understand.

I possess all the attributes of a great player. Above all I have the same name as one of the world's greatest players, the Australian, Peter Thomson.

This did work to my advantage on one single occasion. I was recruited, simply to make up the numbers, in a tournament hosted by the company that I had just joined straight from graduation. The fact that I could not play the game was not important. The fact that my namesake was the sporting hero of one of the guests was. The individual was, for the tournament, attired in the style of the great Aussie golfer. Trademark pale yellow jumper, probably Pringle, checked slacks, probably Burberry and a single leather glove arranged out of the seat pocket. I was understandably useless but managed to conceal the fact under the Stableford rules by which I could pick up my ball when necessary. My personal guideline for the ball pick-up was as soon as I got into double figures of strokes on any one hole.

The Client was becoming tiresome and tedious as early as the third hole in his overly enthusiastic celebrations in beating Peter Thomson albeit the very incompetent, club-fisted and unskilled namesake. That did make his day, or sad to say equipped him to dine out on the story for the rest of his lemony hued life.

I did have a reasonably early introduction to the sport. Most children under 10 years will have had a plastic golf club set purchased in readiness for a beach holiday. They were always found at the better stocked Emporiums of the larger seaside towns and promenades, hanging up in plastic netting bags and consisting of at least three oversized clubs, a putting target and two lightweight balls.

Their purpose for golf was soon forgotten as they were always more fun for fighting, excavating, annoying parents and inflicting plastic based friction burns on siblings. The balls always got lost first as with any effort to propel them they would arc, dip and drift in the wind out to sea, onto the highway or into the garden of the neighbour who hated you the most.

I found my place in the sport by caddying for friends. It was a few hours out on a nice day and if I took equivalent payment in shandy and roast chicken flavour crisps back in the Clubhouse then I was well happy and with no feelings whatsoever of exploitation by my peers. There was so much etiquette and decorum associated with the Private golf clubs. No noise on the tee, always replace your divots, let seniors pass through on a slow hole, do not chase rabbits across the fairway or probe molehills with a spare club, do not use the rough as a lavatory, and so on.

I had hoped that a visit to a less select Municipal course would be more relaxed but it was not.

Having arranged to be dropped off by my parents for a full day at the Scunthorpe Civic Course to play with a group of schoolfriends I was refused any access because the only footwear I had was my wellington boots. Surely, in my mind a most sensible choice for a possibly wet and muddy experience. I did not have enough pocket money to hire a proper pair of studded soled shoes and consequently spent the day hanging around the car park until the time I had arranged to be collected.

That put me off the idea of golf for some years. I did venture out many years later on a council-run golf course. It was a quiet day with an almost deserted course and my poor skills and patience would not be an issue in front of scarce other users. The course was hemmed in on all sides by a large local authority housing estate which, at that time, had a reputation of being a bit of a wild place. There were well worn shortcut pathways and motorbike trails all over the fairways and greens, accumulated rubbish and a goodly number of discarded fridges, cookers and gas bottles. The palisade fencing around the periphery was breached in many places by out of hours and unathorised use, some holes bearing the impact marks and paint scrapes from stolen cars. Putting these battleground scars behind me I soon got back into the swing of things. My scorecard was still in double figures but out of over 200 strokes for the 18 holes played I still recall my best shot. It was on the 12th hole, right at the back of the course and paralell to the boundary fence. A par 4 hole. Shots 1 and 2 advanced me to about half way and I was well placed centrally on the fairway. The flag was just in sight and with a clean strike I could possibly acheive a lifetime best score for a single hole. I chose a seven iron, not out of skill but because it was my lucky number. The ball was lying well between a burst bin bag and parts of a shopping trolley.The stroke was smooth and with a very satisfying sound of contact with the ball.

It flew straight and true. Fortunately, any loss of momentum from friction in the air was more than compensated for by the impact of the ball on the roof of a burnt out 1989 Vauxhall Astra GTE 16 valve which propelled the ball in a shower of scorched white paint fragments up to the edge of the green.

I am sure that the Rules of Golf may have something to say on the subject of playing off an obstruction but if that specific model of car is not mentioned then I will not dwell on any technical issues. Suffice to say, it still took me another seven shots with the putter to be able to move on to the 13th tee.