It started on the walk from the putting green to the first tee. Innocently to begin with. A series of disclaimers, caveats and health warnings from two gentlemen that had invited me and a friend for a game.
"This is only my fourth game of the year," said one of our hosts, whilst the other started to explain away the elbow brace he required to "...manage a nasty and recurring case of tennis elbow."
As we stood on the tee and waited for the group in front to progress toward the green, the negotiations intensified.
Which tees were we playing from and how many shots would be exchanged between us? It quickly emerged that my playing partner and I – both of a similar standard – were going to be giving our opposition shots in this friendly game. Lots of shots. Eight and ten shots respectively in our better ball game.
"Don’t worry," we were told. "We’re just a couple of old hackers. You two are proper golfers…"
Handicaps agreed, the conversation turned to the stakes we were playing for. As the guests of our opponents, we allowed them to suggest terms for our game according to "what they normally played for."
The proposal that followed would have made Enron blush: games within games, pounds and pints exchanged for various objectives being met during the round. Baffled but not wishing to seem rude, we acquiesced.
What followed was a masterclass in club level golf. Putts holed from 40 and 50 feet. Bunker shots hit stiff, leaving kick in birdies from two or three feet. Gross pars made on stroke index one, two and three.
I’m ashamed to say that despite playing reasonably, my partner and I simply ran out of holes to turn things around. We removed our hats and shook hands on the 16th green.
“It just wasn’t your day. I’ve not played like that in years," said one of our opponents. "Ham and eggs," suggested the other.
Buying drinks in the clubhouse, the barman enquired about my game: who I’d played with and the result of the match. When debriefed, he smirked. "Those two saw you coming," he said.
"You never stood a chance."
