Ian Wood: Driven to drink by this fine game

Published on Sunday 10 May 2009 22:22

THE gulf grows ever wider. Darren Clarke was reported as having started off in the Italian Open with three bogeys or something of the kind, an occurrence which moved the TV commentator to remark: "That must have raised visions of an 80 coming up." It was a remark which summed up everything that is so unfair about golf and, in particular, the way the ability to play it has been distributed. I can't remember when last I had a vision of an 80 coming up, though I imagine that whenever i

Of course, I realise that where Clarke is concerned, things are different. He doesn't do 80s as a rule and, indeed, avoids them whenever possible. I, and others like me, on the other hand, chase them desperately. Scores in the vicinity of 80 are hailed as valid reasons for celebration and tend to set in train long and boring post-mortems of the type which can empty clubhouse bars in minutes. An 80-shooter just has to open his mouth and fellow members are seized with sudden longings for home and hearth and realise they have developed an urgent desire to spend more time with their families.

A boy with whom I used to play as a junior, was an inveterate post-mortemist. It didn't matter how long it had been since we had last seen each other, he'd insist on giving me a run-down on his most recent round. It was excruciating stuff, for his delivery was staccato and his delivery verged on the bizarre. "At the first," he'd begin (which was a bad sign), "hit a beezer off the tee – laughing – took a spoon, pulled it – burn – disaster. Drop out – playing 4 – chip short – groan – sinks long putt – 6 – phew." And so on for another 17 holes. Simply recalling these sessions makes me feel like turning myself in as a voluntary patient somewhere.

Another show-stopping moment in the Italian Open came when an Englishman, Marcus Higley, played an approach shot which finished a few yards short of the green. "Mmm," intoned the commentator, "a strange one that." The trouble is that these commentators become programmed to golf played at a freaky level.

They forget that for the vast majority there was nothing strange at all about that shot. Had high handicappers hit such a shot, they might not have felt any happier about it than did Higley after hitting his, but they wouldn't have thought there was anything strange about it.

For me, a strange shot is either a very good one, or a very bad one, and by bad, I mean appalling. I haven't played at Gullane for a while for the simple reason that conditions haven't been favourable – either my own condition, or that of the weather.

The moment I confront that hill on cold days with my eyes watering and the wind threatening to tear my clothes off, I seem to lose the will to live. I certainly lose the ability to hit a golf ball. On my last outing, I failed to return a score on the first hole which is about the easiest par 4 on the course. People drive this hole from time to time. It took me five shots to reach the green, or rather, to go through it, at which point a duffed chip completed the woeful set and sent me to the next tee broken in mind and spirit and utterly indifferent to what might lie in store, which, as it turned out, was plenty.

Things aren't always as bad, but the sheer hopelessness of that bout made me decide to forgo the delights of the seaside for a while, or at least until the summer sizzles in.

While on the subjects of Gullane and summers, it seems almost incredible now to reflect that I was driven to my first shandy on that very course in conditions of searing heat. I'd been taken along on an outing and was playing in a three-baller which included a very good golfer who was going well. The downside to his excellent play was that we were obliged to play every hole – it was our second round of the day – and exhaustion was hanging about in the wings.

Around the 16th, the third member of the party cracked, prized the iron cover off a greenside water point – there were no irrigation systems in those days – and drank deeply. I made to follow him, but was grabbed by the fine golfer. "Never spoil a good thirst," he growled and, with this enlightening thought in mind, we forged on with tongues like dried-out feather dusters.

Having completed the round, I was led to a hostelry, the cool interior of which was bliss to a 15-year-old about to spontaneously combust. It will be gathered from this that there was a cavalier disregard for under-age rules and regs, a point which was emphasised by the arrival of a foaming pint of shandy. At the risk of sending out subversive vibes, I have to report it went down like nectar.