Me 4: Going out in 39 at St Andrews
Perhaps the title of this blog has grabbed your attention and given you the impression I'm a far, far better golfer than I am or ever was. I was a useless golfer, I never got an official handicap, but, it is true, I did once play the first 9 holes at St Andrews in 39 ...
... let me explain. In my day, 15 or so years ago, there were 6 public golf courses at St Andrews. There are now even more, I believe. There was the Old Course, which is the home of golf and one of the most famous sporting venues in the world and, even if you're generally immune to golf's charms, a think of great beauty and wonder (which my bedroom in 1st year at University looked out onto); the New Course, another championship course, which my golfing friends used to tell me was actually harder than the Old Course; the Jubilee, another serious course, the Eden, likewise, and then there was the Strathtyrum, a beginner's 18 hole course with a par of 65, and the Balgove, basically a 9-hole pitch and putt.
I took 39 holes once to play the first 9 holes of the Strathtyrum. Don't get me wrong, I was thrilled, and this was far better than anything else I ever managed on a golf course but the Old Course it was not.
I've never been a golfer. A bit of pitch and putt when I was younger, one round at my local municipal Brent Valley when I was a teenager then nothing. Golf played no part in my decision to go to St Andrews. Which can't be said for a lot of the golf-obsessed youngsters who go there. "Golf chat" - it became a common and well worn phrase in my Hall of Residence. Awful lot of mingin' golf chat. All that first year, I resisted.
I got all the golfing kicks I needed from the Himalayas, the famously hilly putting course set between the 18th hole of the Old Course and the beach. The Himalayas was super, simple fun. Golf was intimidating and beyond me. I was already good at cricket and it had taken me years. I didn't want to learn a new hitting sport and be rubbish at it.
But eventually, in the summer, I gave in and bought myself a beginner's left-handed set ("beginner's"because the heads of the "woods" were extra-large - you wouldn't hit it as far but were less likely to entirely mishit it). I played a few times at Brent Valley and took my clubs up to St Andrews, paid the unbelievably-good-value-for-students £75 for the year to play all the courses except the Old Course whenever you wanted (it was only £95 to include the Old Course. This was for a whole year. I do believe that was one of the best deals, anywhere, for anybody, in the history of the world. Students sure have it tougher these days). As I anticipated, I played cricket shots - short sharp backswing, no elegance. The golf swing and the lofted drive are very very different motions and I had cricket far too embedded in me. I played damage limitation. Hit it short and low, use natural coordination to fumble may round. My playing partners might drive it 250m, I'd be lucky to make 150m, but I occasionally managed to keep it vaguely straight.
I played the Strathtyrum mostly - it was nominally a real golf course, but it was super easy, with very little in the way of genuine hazards. Over a couple of months, I really began to improve my scores pretty rapidly, from 120ish down to 110 to 100ish and a little below.
Then, this one bizarre time, on an unseasonably warm November day, I played the first nine holes of the Strath in 39. This was genuinely perfect golf for me. I couldn't have played it better (that's how bad I actually was!). It even contained my one and only birdie - on the extremely short Par 5, I shuffled the ball down the fairway, got it to 8 feet with my third and holed the putt. An actual birdie!
On the Back 9, I couldn't quite hold it together, but didn't do too badly - 47. So a round of golf of 86. It gives me a glow just to think of it. A golfer I would surely be ... I'm not sure I got within 10 shots of that any other time.
For that was my zenith. The steady improvement did not continue. After the Christmas break, and then exams, my friend Alex and I celebrated their completion by taking ourselves out to the Eden (a proper golf course, the Eden, with many perils, unlike the Strath) on a blustery Fife late January day.
I don't think the first went great, so my mood was already on edge. I hit a decent drive on the 2nd, then, from the fairway, hooked my second, way out into the undergrowth to the right of the green. An archetypal smiling old Scot sat on his hunting chair (is that what they're called?) looking wryly amused. I had a horrid lie. I addressed the ball. And hacked. And moved it a foot. Hmmm.
Try again. Hack. An inch. Again. Hack ... hack,hack, hack, hack, hack, hack, hack, hack, hack, hack, hack, hurray ... out it dribbles. "That'll be 16" my cheery old Scottish amigo announces. I walk up to my ball, pick it up and without a word, begin the trudge back to my flat, not to play golf again for several years.
Tough game, requiring a patience and dedication to technique which I was not capable of right then.
I never played a round in St Andrews again, preferring the safe haven of the Himalayas, but a year or two after I left Uni, back in Ealing, and having some week days off from my job at a bookstore, I took to playing quite often for £9.50 at Brent Valley. I really enjoyed the solitary stroll, the not having an old Scottish man watching, the playing my own shots my own way. I hated it whenever another lone golfer suggested joining up. "If I wanted a new friend, do you think this is where I'd be?" I'd think to myself, while saying "Splendid".
I think I did ok, was shooting in the mid to high 90s quite often (Brent Valley is a little harder than the Strath, but not that much). My highlight from that time was not a golfing one, as such. In late March 2002 (I think it was a Wednesday), I hit my ball down one fairway, a fairway which was shared with another hole coming the other way. I went to strike what I thought was my ball. "Hold on," a booming voice cried. "That's not yours". "I think it is" I replied, but the booming voice, which belonged to the actor Jim Carter (best known now for Downton, I suppose) insisted it was his playing partner's and pointed to where mine was. He was right. I apologised, as his playing partner looked on. As I walked past him and smiled, I saw that it was another familiar face. Jim Broadbent. Now, ok, nothing that amazing about seeing two British acting stalwarts playing golf, except that the previous Sunday, just three or so days ago, Jim Broadbent had won the Academy Award for Best Supporting Actor. Of all the ways to celebrate reaching the pinnacle of showbiz, scuttling back across the Atlantic to play on a £9.50 municipal course in deepest Hanwell is surely one of the most magnificent.
So, golf. That's me and golf. Never really was my thing, though I broke 40 on the front nine at St Andrews, lived next to the most famous view in the sport and rubbed shoulders with all the stars. Aah well, I guess I've got high standards ...
... let me explain. In my day, 15 or so years ago, there were 6 public golf courses at St Andrews. There are now even more, I believe. There was the Old Course, which is the home of golf and one of the most famous sporting venues in the world and, even if you're generally immune to golf's charms, a think of great beauty and wonder (which my bedroom in 1st year at University looked out onto); the New Course, another championship course, which my golfing friends used to tell me was actually harder than the Old Course; the Jubilee, another serious course, the Eden, likewise, and then there was the Strathtyrum, a beginner's 18 hole course with a par of 65, and the Balgove, basically a 9-hole pitch and putt.
I took 39 holes once to play the first 9 holes of the Strathtyrum. Don't get me wrong, I was thrilled, and this was far better than anything else I ever managed on a golf course but the Old Course it was not.
I've never been a golfer. A bit of pitch and putt when I was younger, one round at my local municipal Brent Valley when I was a teenager then nothing. Golf played no part in my decision to go to St Andrews. Which can't be said for a lot of the golf-obsessed youngsters who go there. "Golf chat" - it became a common and well worn phrase in my Hall of Residence. Awful lot of mingin' golf chat. All that first year, I resisted.
I got all the golfing kicks I needed from the Himalayas, the famously hilly putting course set between the 18th hole of the Old Course and the beach. The Himalayas was super, simple fun. Golf was intimidating and beyond me. I was already good at cricket and it had taken me years. I didn't want to learn a new hitting sport and be rubbish at it.
But eventually, in the summer, I gave in and bought myself a beginner's left-handed set ("beginner's"because the heads of the "woods" were extra-large - you wouldn't hit it as far but were less likely to entirely mishit it). I played a few times at Brent Valley and took my clubs up to St Andrews, paid the unbelievably-good-value-for-students £75 for the year to play all the courses except the Old Course whenever you wanted (it was only £95 to include the Old Course. This was for a whole year. I do believe that was one of the best deals, anywhere, for anybody, in the history of the world. Students sure have it tougher these days). As I anticipated, I played cricket shots - short sharp backswing, no elegance. The golf swing and the lofted drive are very very different motions and I had cricket far too embedded in me. I played damage limitation. Hit it short and low, use natural coordination to fumble may round. My playing partners might drive it 250m, I'd be lucky to make 150m, but I occasionally managed to keep it vaguely straight.
I played the Strathtyrum mostly - it was nominally a real golf course, but it was super easy, with very little in the way of genuine hazards. Over a couple of months, I really began to improve my scores pretty rapidly, from 120ish down to 110 to 100ish and a little below.
Then, this one bizarre time, on an unseasonably warm November day, I played the first nine holes of the Strath in 39. This was genuinely perfect golf for me. I couldn't have played it better (that's how bad I actually was!). It even contained my one and only birdie - on the extremely short Par 5, I shuffled the ball down the fairway, got it to 8 feet with my third and holed the putt. An actual birdie!
On the Back 9, I couldn't quite hold it together, but didn't do too badly - 47. So a round of golf of 86. It gives me a glow just to think of it. A golfer I would surely be ... I'm not sure I got within 10 shots of that any other time.
For that was my zenith. The steady improvement did not continue. After the Christmas break, and then exams, my friend Alex and I celebrated their completion by taking ourselves out to the Eden (a proper golf course, the Eden, with many perils, unlike the Strath) on a blustery Fife late January day.
I don't think the first went great, so my mood was already on edge. I hit a decent drive on the 2nd, then, from the fairway, hooked my second, way out into the undergrowth to the right of the green. An archetypal smiling old Scot sat on his hunting chair (is that what they're called?) looking wryly amused. I had a horrid lie. I addressed the ball. And hacked. And moved it a foot. Hmmm.
Try again. Hack. An inch. Again. Hack ... hack,hack, hack, hack, hack, hack, hack, hack, hack, hack, hack, hurray ... out it dribbles. "That'll be 16" my cheery old Scottish amigo announces. I walk up to my ball, pick it up and without a word, begin the trudge back to my flat, not to play golf again for several years.
Tough game, requiring a patience and dedication to technique which I was not capable of right then.
I never played a round in St Andrews again, preferring the safe haven of the Himalayas, but a year or two after I left Uni, back in Ealing, and having some week days off from my job at a bookstore, I took to playing quite often for £9.50 at Brent Valley. I really enjoyed the solitary stroll, the not having an old Scottish man watching, the playing my own shots my own way. I hated it whenever another lone golfer suggested joining up. "If I wanted a new friend, do you think this is where I'd be?" I'd think to myself, while saying "Splendid".
I think I did ok, was shooting in the mid to high 90s quite often (Brent Valley is a little harder than the Strath, but not that much). My highlight from that time was not a golfing one, as such. In late March 2002 (I think it was a Wednesday), I hit my ball down one fairway, a fairway which was shared with another hole coming the other way. I went to strike what I thought was my ball. "Hold on," a booming voice cried. "That's not yours". "I think it is" I replied, but the booming voice, which belonged to the actor Jim Carter (best known now for Downton, I suppose) insisted it was his playing partner's and pointed to where mine was. He was right. I apologised, as his playing partner looked on. As I walked past him and smiled, I saw that it was another familiar face. Jim Broadbent. Now, ok, nothing that amazing about seeing two British acting stalwarts playing golf, except that the previous Sunday, just three or so days ago, Jim Broadbent had won the Academy Award for Best Supporting Actor. Of all the ways to celebrate reaching the pinnacle of showbiz, scuttling back across the Atlantic to play on a £9.50 municipal course in deepest Hanwell is surely one of the most magnificent.
So, golf. That's me and golf. Never really was my thing, though I broke 40 on the front nine at St Andrews, lived next to the most famous view in the sport and rubbed shoulders with all the stars. Aah well, I guess I've got high standards ...
How long have you been sitting on that anecdote?!! (12 and a bit years, clearly)
ReplyDeleteOh, you know, I've got so many anecdotes I keep em in drawers, I even got them coming out of my paws. If I could just get Z-list famous I'd be perfect for the after-dinner circuit.
ReplyDelete