MB loves golf. He just watched Rory win The Open today – the third of the four ‘majors’ at age 25. Were it not for some wild play at Augusta in 2011 he would have all four. History and historic. As MB watched in the company of a cold Italian Sauvignon Blanc. Maybe a glass too many. Bliss. Blissfull. Blissfullest.
MB plays a bit. Or used to before the sojourn in the desert climes. In recent times, during the Saudi adventure, MB introduced a young Saudi called Mohammad (what else) and two young Sudanis to the game at Riyadh driving range. Great fun. Especially for MB who enjoyed seeing younger guys with ‘gung ho’ attitudes making fools of themselves while the seasoned older fox MB split the fairway 230 yards away. Easy when you know how.
MB loves the mentalist side. You hit a shot like Tiger or Rory. You hit the next one like Tiger’s or Rory’s dog. There’s no logic or God earthly reason why this happens. It’s as if the golfing Gods are playing their own game with you. This week you think you have it mastered. Next time out it masters you. No explanation. No logic. No reason. You the player. You the plaything. For the sport to laugh in your face. Great score last weekend. You thought you had it licked. Now it’s licked you and kicked you most severely in the crotch. Ouch. Back to the driving range. I need a new driver. I need a new putter. Bullshit. You probably need a few lessons from a teacher. A pro. A guy who somehow makes a living at it. A modest one. If he was real good he wouldn’t be wasting his time giving you lessons for God sake.
MB loves the honour of the game. You are your own referee. You made a mistake. Broke the rules. Nobody saw it. In another sport you might duck and dive. High five. I won. But not in this game. Call the man. The ball moved a fraction. I screwed up. No. Definitely it moved. Two shot penalty. I’m calling it on myself. Yes sir. Your call. Nobody saw it but you. Sign your card accordingly. Thank you Sir.
Arjen “The Flying Dutchman” Robben admitted in the recent World Cup that he dived deliberately a few times when he was lightly tackled as he tried to con the referee to his own and his teams advantage. MB also loves that sport. But no reprimand. No sanction for bringing the game into disrepute. For giving bad example to kids who love the sport and want to be the next Arjen Robben. For child abuse. Sad. Change is required. And when it happens maybe they can look to golf. As the ultimate in how it should be. And if they hit the 50% of golf honour level MB will eat his hat. Which will leave him exposed to serious sun burn in the desert. But no such fears. Will never happen. Sader.
And the skill level. Bestowed on a chosen few. Calculations. Distance. Trajectory. Wind speed. Angle of the club face. Make the ball turn left or right. Roll forward or back spin. Which way is the grass cut. Keep the head down. Full shoulder turn. Follow through. Drive for show. Putt for dough.
One of Britain’s greatest poets was so excited on scoring a 3 on a par 4 hole (a ‘birdie’ in golfing parlance), that he wrote one of his more famous poems as a result. Nice way to finish this slightly inebriated post. Plus a few too many golf pics for you all from MB’s pic library. First pic is MB’s fav by a mile – MB2 age 5, blazing away at Ballyneety GC back home. The apple does not fall far from the tree.
And down the fairway, far along
It glowed a lonely white;
I played an iron sure and strong
And clipp’d it out of sight,
And spite of grassy banks between
I knew I’d find it on the green.
And so I did. It lay content
Two paces from the pin;
A steady putt and then it went
Oh, most surely in.
The very turf rejoiced to see
That quite unprecedented three.
Ah! Seaweed smells from sandy caves
And thyme and mist in whiffs,
In-coming tide, Atlantic waves
Slapping the sunny cliffs,
Lark song and sea sounds in the air
And splendour, splendour everywhere.
If Carling did Golf Course signs…..!
A Saudi called Mohammad
MB grips it and rips it