tenner, purchased by Gary down at the entrance to the gyppo camp that very morning. It was a nice additional income stream for the gyppos: selling mishit golf balls back to the people who mishit them.
‘Not a pure golf shot,’ Bert was saying, pulling a fresh ball towards him with the toe of the club. ‘Ye know whit it feels like when ye catch it right, don’t ye?’
Even a golfer as terrible as Gary knew this: the feeling of energy perfectly released into the centre of the universe.
Bert teed the ball up on a tuft of blonde grass. ‘Now what you’re not doing is getting a full shoulder turn. You’re freezingup because you’re already scared something bad is going to happen. You can’t play golf like that, son. Ye need tae…’
Bert swung again, simple and elegant, effortlessly pinching the ball cleanly off the ground and sending it arcing towards the green, fading slightly from left to right as it came down. ‘Ye see what ah mean?’ Bert said, still watching his shot as he stepped back and motioned for Gary to try. Gary reached into his golf bag.
‘Whit ye got there?’
‘Seven.’
‘Naw, son, try the nine.’
‘Eh? I can’t hit the nine-iron 150 yards.’
‘Whit?’ Bert said. ‘Away and don’t talk rubbish. Look at ye! Look at the muscles oan yer forearms. Yer like bloody Popeye! Ah’m an auld man and ah can hit a soft seven-iron through the green fae here. You’re telling me you cannae get there wi the nine? C’mon now.’
With a shrug Gary let the seven-iron fall back and pulled out the nine.
Nearly three hundred yards away, to their right and uphill from them, Billy Douglas and his playing partners walked onto the first tee.
Gary addressed the ball. He flexed his knees. Sit down into it. He swung back carefully, his left shoulder dipping down and pointing at the ball, but, as he began to bring the club down, the thought proved impossible to resist– never get there with a nine . He accelerated crazily and, in trying to hit the ball far too hard, succeeded only in topping it, sending it skittering off along the ground and coming to rest a miserable fifty-odd yards away.
‘Christ, sorry, Bert–
‘Shhh, come on now.’ Bert was already placing another ballat his feet. ‘Don’t swing so hard. Find the rhythm. You’ve plenty club there.’
Billy Douglas reached into the pocket of his golf bag. He took out the silver-and-orange cardboard sleeve containing three new Spaxons. He opened the tube and the number 3 saw the light of day for the first time.
Gary swung again. This time he buried the clubhead into the turf two inches behind the ball, the force of the thwarted energy vibrating up his arms horribly, the ball skittering forward a few inches.
‘FUCK IT!’ Gary screamed, his voice carrying far over the crabgrass and trees.
Billy Douglas and his playing partners looked up into the distance. ‘Who’s that?’ one of them asked, looking across to their right, towards the tiny figures over on the far side of the next fairway across. ‘Somebody practising,’ Billy said, teeing up the Spaxon.
Bert laid a hand on Gary’s shoulder. ‘Calm down, son. It’s no the Open. We’re just out here hitting a few balls. Don’t take it so seriously.’ Bert knew this was ridiculous advice. Golf was indeed like a love affair: if you took it seriously, it would break your heart. If you didn’t take it seriously–what was the point? ‘Just try and empty your mind. Ye want a bit of a draw here.’ A draw: moving the ball right to left in the air. Gary understood how this was done. He had read countless articles on the subject. He just couldn’t make his body do what his head understood. He set up his stance again anyway, aiming slightly right of the green. He regripped the club. He was breathing hard.
Bert’s hand was on his shoulder now and the old man’s face was close to his. ‘Come on now, son.’
Gary looked up into Bert’s eyes. The irises were pale blue, the whites rheumy
‘Not a pure golf shot,’ Bert was saying, pulling a fresh ball towards him with the toe of the club. ‘Ye know whit it feels like when ye catch it right, don’t ye?’
Even a golfer as terrible as Gary knew this: the feeling of energy perfectly released into the centre of the universe.
Bert teed the ball up on a tuft of blonde grass. ‘Now what you’re not doing is getting a full shoulder turn. You’re freezingup because you’re already scared something bad is going to happen. You can’t play golf like that, son. Ye need tae…’
Bert swung again, simple and elegant, effortlessly pinching the ball cleanly off the ground and sending it arcing towards the green, fading slightly from left to right as it came down. ‘Ye see what ah mean?’ Bert said, still watching his shot as he stepped back and motioned for Gary to try. Gary reached into his golf bag.
‘Whit ye got there?’
‘Seven.’
‘Naw, son, try the nine.’
‘Eh? I can’t hit the nine-iron 150 yards.’
‘Whit?’ Bert said. ‘Away and don’t talk rubbish. Look at ye! Look at the muscles oan yer forearms. Yer like bloody Popeye! Ah’m an auld man and ah can hit a soft seven-iron through the green fae here. You’re telling me you cannae get there wi the nine? C’mon now.’
With a shrug Gary let the seven-iron fall back and pulled out the nine.
Nearly three hundred yards away, to their right and uphill from them, Billy Douglas and his playing partners walked onto the first tee.
Gary addressed the ball. He flexed his knees. Sit down into it. He swung back carefully, his left shoulder dipping down and pointing at the ball, but, as he began to bring the club down, the thought proved impossible to resist– never get there with a nine . He accelerated crazily and, in trying to hit the ball far too hard, succeeded only in topping it, sending it skittering off along the ground and coming to rest a miserable fifty-odd yards away.
‘Christ, sorry, Bert–
‘Shhh, come on now.’ Bert was already placing another ballat his feet. ‘Don’t swing so hard. Find the rhythm. You’ve plenty club there.’
Billy Douglas reached into the pocket of his golf bag. He took out the silver-and-orange cardboard sleeve containing three new Spaxons. He opened the tube and the number 3 saw the light of day for the first time.
Gary swung again. This time he buried the clubhead into the turf two inches behind the ball, the force of the thwarted energy vibrating up his arms horribly, the ball skittering forward a few inches.
‘FUCK IT!’ Gary screamed, his voice carrying far over the crabgrass and trees.
Billy Douglas and his playing partners looked up into the distance. ‘Who’s that?’ one of them asked, looking across to their right, towards the tiny figures over on the far side of the next fairway across. ‘Somebody practising,’ Billy said, teeing up the Spaxon.
Bert laid a hand on Gary’s shoulder. ‘Calm down, son. It’s no the Open. We’re just out here hitting a few balls. Don’t take it so seriously.’ Bert knew this was ridiculous advice. Golf was indeed like a love affair: if you took it seriously, it would break your heart. If you didn’t take it seriously–what was the point? ‘Just try and empty your mind. Ye want a bit of a draw here.’ A draw: moving the ball right to left in the air. Gary understood how this was done. He had read countless articles on the subject. He just couldn’t make his body do what his head understood. He set up his stance again anyway, aiming slightly right of the green. He regripped the club. He was breathing hard.
Bert’s hand was on his shoulder now and the old man’s face was close to his. ‘Come on now, son.’
Gary looked up into Bert’s eyes. The irises were pale blue, the whites rheumy
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