good enough to have a handicap. Even with an eight-hole start, I would probably lose.
My third drive flew weak but straight, to land just below the hillcrest, fifty yards behind his.
I lugged my clubs to where my ball sat, while Ollie trolleyed onward to his. A three-iron struck properly would have got me to the green but there was no power in my shot — without the help of the down-sloping, sun-hardened fairway, I’d have reached only halfway instead of ending up a mere thirty yards short. Ollie was less lucky: his ball landed right by the pin but didn’t hold up, bouncing and running on into the bunker. From there he wedged his sand shot to within five feet, whereas my pitch veered off wildly, to the far left edge of the green. But my long putt finished close to the hole — a gimme — whereas his short one caught the lip and slipped away. A half, then. Though my five shots were really seven, I didn’t argue. I needed all the help I could get.
‘Beginner’s luck,’ I said to Ollie, imagining I’d used my quota. But his arcing drive on the second tee took a freakish bounce into tangled rough, whereas mine kept low and ran on nicely. Two underhit shots from me, and a retrieving slashand perfect six-iron from him, and our balls sat close together on the green. His putt teetered on the brink but failed to drop. Mine, wildly overhit, would have run thirty feet past but, being straight, hit the cup en route, bobbled up and plopped down three feet away. Another gimme. Another half. ‘Good stuff,’ he said, as we walked to the par-three third.
Ollie’s tee shot looked a beauty, heading green-centre, but a sudden gust took it left into a bunker. Mine was under-strength, but the same west wind — now getting up — saved it from a clump of gorse bushes and the grassy mound beyond nudged it diagonally to the nearside of the green.
‘What club did you play?’ Ollie asked, as I plucked my tee from the earth.
‘A three-iron.’
‘A three-iron,’ he said, giving me a look like one I’d recently had at the gym, when some muscled freak saw how few weights were on my triceps bar. ‘It’s only 150 yards to the green!’
‘You know what I’m like, Ollie.’
‘I’d forgotten. But it’s coming back.’
I’d always suspected that he liked playing golf with me as a break from serious competition — because he didn’t have to push himself to win. Still, as we walked up the third in the late-afternoon sun — the heather simmering with heat haze and bees — I realised I’d got him worried. I heard him cursing in the rough as his first pitch squirted ten feet and his second flew over the green. He recovered well from there, almost holing out with a chip, but meanwhile I’d three-putted, ineptly but safely, for a four. Third hole to me, which because of the two-hole advantage I’d been handed at the start put me three up with six to play.
Even if I lost in the end — and win or lose didn’t really matter to me — I was making a game of it.
The fourth was a par five, 450 yards, about 400 yards toofar for my liking. Both our tee shots were lamentable, mine sliced, Ollie’s hooked, but he was the less lucky since his ball — which I crossed the fairway to help him look for — couldn’t be found. That meant him dropping a shot, as well as playing out of tangled rough, so he was on four before reaching the fairway. For a moment I imagined winning this hole, too. But my second shot was topped, my third found the ditch, and the fourth, fifth and sixth failed to get me out of it, so I was still 200 yards short of the hole when I played my eighth, the maximum number of strokes permitted by Ollie’s system. I pocketed the ball. After his wretched start, Ollie’s fifth and sixth shots were beauties, and he’d a ten-foot putt for the double bogey that would win him the hole. He missed — just. I was still three ahead.
I began to contemplate winning — not by virtue of my own efforts but because Ollie (moodily silent as
My third drive flew weak but straight, to land just below the hillcrest, fifty yards behind his.
I lugged my clubs to where my ball sat, while Ollie trolleyed onward to his. A three-iron struck properly would have got me to the green but there was no power in my shot — without the help of the down-sloping, sun-hardened fairway, I’d have reached only halfway instead of ending up a mere thirty yards short. Ollie was less lucky: his ball landed right by the pin but didn’t hold up, bouncing and running on into the bunker. From there he wedged his sand shot to within five feet, whereas my pitch veered off wildly, to the far left edge of the green. But my long putt finished close to the hole — a gimme — whereas his short one caught the lip and slipped away. A half, then. Though my five shots were really seven, I didn’t argue. I needed all the help I could get.
‘Beginner’s luck,’ I said to Ollie, imagining I’d used my quota. But his arcing drive on the second tee took a freakish bounce into tangled rough, whereas mine kept low and ran on nicely. Two underhit shots from me, and a retrieving slashand perfect six-iron from him, and our balls sat close together on the green. His putt teetered on the brink but failed to drop. Mine, wildly overhit, would have run thirty feet past but, being straight, hit the cup en route, bobbled up and plopped down three feet away. Another gimme. Another half. ‘Good stuff,’ he said, as we walked to the par-three third.
Ollie’s tee shot looked a beauty, heading green-centre, but a sudden gust took it left into a bunker. Mine was under-strength, but the same west wind — now getting up — saved it from a clump of gorse bushes and the grassy mound beyond nudged it diagonally to the nearside of the green.
‘What club did you play?’ Ollie asked, as I plucked my tee from the earth.
‘A three-iron.’
‘A three-iron,’ he said, giving me a look like one I’d recently had at the gym, when some muscled freak saw how few weights were on my triceps bar. ‘It’s only 150 yards to the green!’
‘You know what I’m like, Ollie.’
‘I’d forgotten. But it’s coming back.’
I’d always suspected that he liked playing golf with me as a break from serious competition — because he didn’t have to push himself to win. Still, as we walked up the third in the late-afternoon sun — the heather simmering with heat haze and bees — I realised I’d got him worried. I heard him cursing in the rough as his first pitch squirted ten feet and his second flew over the green. He recovered well from there, almost holing out with a chip, but meanwhile I’d three-putted, ineptly but safely, for a four. Third hole to me, which because of the two-hole advantage I’d been handed at the start put me three up with six to play.
Even if I lost in the end — and win or lose didn’t really matter to me — I was making a game of it.
The fourth was a par five, 450 yards, about 400 yards toofar for my liking. Both our tee shots were lamentable, mine sliced, Ollie’s hooked, but he was the less lucky since his ball — which I crossed the fairway to help him look for — couldn’t be found. That meant him dropping a shot, as well as playing out of tangled rough, so he was on four before reaching the fairway. For a moment I imagined winning this hole, too. But my second shot was topped, my third found the ditch, and the fourth, fifth and sixth failed to get me out of it, so I was still 200 yards short of the hole when I played my eighth, the maximum number of strokes permitted by Ollie’s system. I pocketed the ball. After his wretched start, Ollie’s fifth and sixth shots were beauties, and he’d a ten-foot putt for the double bogey that would win him the hole. He missed — just. I was still three ahead.
I began to contemplate winning — not by virtue of my own efforts but because Ollie (moodily silent as
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