Jingle Balls

The distant sound of questionable Christmas radio played the soundtrack, while the unmistakable aroma of stale beer - our reminder of the night before. It was 8am on Christmas Day, which meant it was time for our annual, unofficial Texas Scramble.

We were six, a group that broke golf's official rules and made finding a tee time a challenge, but guaranteed chaos and camaraderie. 'The Slightly Frostbitten and Hanging Six,' as our bloodshot eyes and clenched jaws fit us best.

The morning frost was thick, transforming the fairway into a crunchy, white carpet shimmering under the weak dawn light. Bundled in bright, new golf gear topped with silly Christmas hats and jumpers, we resembled a poorly assembled arctic expedition. Yet, the energy of Christmas morning fuelled our excitement.

Our plan was straightforward: Aggressive Birdie Golf combined with the goal of preserving our Quality Street collection. With a shared high five, we gripped our cold clubs, ready to make history - or more likely a delightful mess of it.

The six-man scramble is both a beautiful concept and a comedic chaos in practice. The idea is simple: every player hits their ball, the group selects the "best" drive, and this continues for each shot. However, this process often turns into a painfully democratic experience, functioning only because of our years of friendship and competitive spirit.

We kicked off with misplaced confidence. My mate, the group's self-proclaimed bomber, delivered a stunning drive that sailed far but cruelly landed two feet into the out-of-bounds fairway. The collective groan of "Yeah, we’ll probably take that one" was almost as loud as the shot itself. The other drives were a humorous series of blunders - one veered off into the woods, another skipped across the frozen turf. At the same time, the rest trailed behind the bomber's spectacular, albeit misdirected, effort. "Right, we take his," declared the pragmatic one.

Soon, we developed a knack for picking the 'best' drive, usually the least catastrophic option, no matter how absurd the evidence - like a ball lodged in a deer track - suggested otherwise.

By the turn, the sun was making a weak, utterly ineffective attempt to penetrate the persistent mist, and we were officially Level Par, thanks almost entirely to a glorious, consistent lack of quality shots. The club record of 5-under, held firmly since a sober, fluke effort in 2022, looked increasingly and safely out of reach.

But the true drama, the most consistent source of pure comedy, always unfolded on the green. This is the stage where our collective delusion reached its brilliant, shimmering apex. Six balls, all carefully lined up, all tracing the exact same, perfect, imaginary route to the cup. We surrounded the hole like a team of surgeons contemplating a delicate operation—only these surgeons were wearing novelty Santa hats and smelling vaguely of residual beer.

First up was the designated "range finder" - my putt. It was predictably way too firm, zipping past the hole and requiring a frantic, frosty scramble to prevent it from rolling entirely off the green. Next, the obligatory Correction Putt died a meek four feet short. The two putts that followed were the highly anticipated "Perfect Line Putts." They both tracked beautifully, right into the hole’s very mouth, and then, with agonising symmetry, lipped out, one to the left, one to the right.

The simultaneous tink-tink was the sound of our collective spirit temporarily leaving our bodies. The fifth player, the lad who had been bringing in the Sambookers' shots the previous night, tried the overconfident "Just leave it with me, Lads" putt and lost all concentration; it slid sideways, wide of the target.

Finally, the designated "Saviour" stepped up. The immediate pressure was gone, the manic energy had dissipated, and someone - usually the quietest bloke - just gave it a soft, almost accidental tap. It went in.

The last green arrived mercifully quickly. We tapped in for a stress-free par, having already exhausted all our emotional energy. We looked slightly blue around the edges, our golf trousers dusted white with frost, but we were all grinning like maniacs.

We totalled the final scorecard in the comforting warmth of the clubhouse foyer. We had needed a 9-under to tie the club record. We settled, proudly, for an extremely respectable, utterly un-record-breaking 2-under. Maybe 3-under, we rationalised, if we counted that one accidental chip-in on the 7th that we all unanimously agreed was our 'selected' shot (it definitely wasn't).

The enduring joy, however, wasn't in the number. It was in the fierce camaraderie, the shared delusion of competence, and the sheer, simple pleasure of playing golf on a day when the rest of the world was perfectly stationary. We grabbed the promised, ice-cold beers - a necessary anti-freeze - and clinked glasses, the instant condensation freezing our fingers.

The Frostbite Scramble lives on. We’ll get 'em next year. Promise.