An attempt at becoming Happy Gilmore….and failing. Badly.
A white lighter again. Only this time for a different reason: golf.
When I was younger, I was given two slivers of vital advice when it comes to playing golf: “just tap it in” and “it’s all in the hips, baby”.
Okay, I lie. I wasn’t really, I just ripped that from Happy Gilmore. But I do think about it whenever I play (or try to play) golf. Although those two quotations form the basics of playing the sport, there is a lot more to it than one might think. You have to gauge your shot, learn the green and then pray the wind is low. For me personally, I just pray that I can hit it.
So when Luke and George, my best mates from school, invited me along to play, I thought ‘why not?’. If I embarrass myself here, the only people who will know is these two. And every reader of this article.
They first suggested that we get some practice on the driving range. Here, I discovered that unfortunately you can’t run up and drive it 400 yards like Happy did. Do that and you will become a total muppet because you will miss it several times and end up on the ground. Luke was the only one of the three of us to be able to drive the ball anywhere: the only one to redeem our pitiful golfing skills. George was busy swinging his driver around and making music against the metal barriers behind him. Everyone nearby was distracted by his loud tune and turned to narrow their eyes.
Typically, I only managed to get the hang of it when I had two golf balls left. And when it came to doing the actual golf? I decided that retreating was the better option.
I know what you are thinking: coward. Truth be told, you are spot on. I am much better at putting. Real golf is harder than it seems and I tip my hat to those who can actually play and play well. I don’t watch it because I personally find it to be the most boring piece of- (you get the idea).
With the general consensus being that no-one wanting to humiliate themselves attempting the real deal, we left. That was the best news; I could avoid another round of embarrassment.
Next time, I’m thinking crazy-golf because everyone knows crazy-golf is where it is really at. Crazy-golf is my kind of game. I would decimate anyone. The courses are easy. The windmill? Laughable. The Clown round? Ha! The problem is that there is no crazy-golf nearby. It is always by a seafront, annoyingly, or a place too far for us to get to.
So, what did I learn from my day of sensible, strict, standard golf?
Simple: it’s better to be crazy.