Doubt

“Fucking hell!” It had all gone so well last week. I was hubristically allowing thoughts that I may sometime not too far away possibly be just about capable of holding it together to play a round with the old man. And then today happened. I was awful. I went to the range before the class to get some practice in – I’d never used my trust Sports Direct fairway wood, or whatever it’s called. I’d used the driver as much as to smack the ball off the sides of the range bay and nearly take my, or someone else’s head off with the ricochet. But hey, I’m being keen, I’m a swot. I want to impress, I want to belong. I want Scott the Pro to be pleased with me, I want the comparative pros in the class to view me with just a tiny bit of respect. No, not even respect, who cares about that? Not to look like a total fanny, perhaps? What the hell? I’m desperately seeking acceptance from my peers… like Jag, who’s got all the gear and actually a vague idea, who is polite but his thin veil betrays understandable annoyance at being lumped as a twosome with me, thanks to my golfing buddy (sic), wild-toothed Alistair not turning up.

Phew, he does turn up. He’s worse than me. But I have already blown it: Scott takes one look, rolls his eyes and tells me not even a pro would warm up with a club like that. I try to explain, but the damage is done. Is there a level below amateur? Like, you haven’t got a hope, why are you even bothering, you twat? He hits a few with his teensy seven. He could hit it 200 yards straight with a toothpick. But I get a compliment on my 2nd shot to the 1st, a lofted straight with my trusty eight. Then Alistair, after instruction, hits a scarcely believable bunker shot. I’m jealous.

Scott leaves us to it. I’m relieved, pressure off, I’m not with Jag. He can go and join the big boys, the clever kids. But half an hour later I’m remembering failing my cycling proficiency three times. Like how do you fail to pass a test that involves cycling slowly round a playground? Not exactly test conditions. I fell off my bike into a bush. But it has always been like that with tests and me. Feel the fear and do it anyway. Or feel the fear and run away, take the easy option, muck about and take the piss out of the serious boys who’ll go to play cricket for England, be amazing, while cider and failure beckon.

It all goes wrong. Whereas last week I was hitting them straight, in the air, spending my energies on encouraging Alistair, who’d be flailing around the fairways like a squid on a mirror. But this week he’s improved, he’s getting better with every hole, it’s him who’s hitting it straight, being kind by not whooping ‘fuck yeah’ as it sails away and I’m already thinking about giving up after this hole. He peers up the fairway saying ‘I didn’t see where it went’, as if I was likely to hit it 150 yards bang up the middle. No mate, I’m over here, just to the left of that tree. On the other fairway. About 50 yards. Topped it.


“I’m cooking on gas”. Yes, he actually says that. It’s gone to his head. I lose a ball. He’s peering again – I break it to him and myself that it didn’t go anywhere, that I totally missed the ball and merely gouged a chunk of mud 30 yards off the tee. But we’ve established a level of friendship where he’s comfortable saying he’s going behind a tree. I did it last week ‘cos I was desperate, I had no option. After eight holes we decide that the next, the par 15 (so I joke, haha) 9th, will be our last. Even my putting has gone to shit. Walk away, walk away. I hope this isn’t terminal. Dad, I tried. I really did.