The time is now. The little white ball awaits propped up on a tee, ready to be abruptly sent off into the distance, heading for a green runway of well trimmed grass - the fairway.
I focus on the lessons I've had over the past few years.
I rehearse my technique and go through all the points to a successful, consistent golf swing:
Adjust your stance; square up your feet; keep your left arm straight; keep your head down; shift the weight gently from left to right and back to left on the downswing; cock the wrists; let the club head do the work; focus on the ball; watch the shoulders...
I attempt to relax while a crowd of people watch me as I ready myself for hole # 1, and a myriad of instructions cloud my cognisance.
I square up, wiggle my lower body to loosen up and I commence swinging the driver back.
I release a tempestuous strike of fury on the downswing.
The ball (and the nearby surrounding turf) rockets off toward the right, through a bunch of trees, eventually landing somewhere in the nether realm to be found by my tracker. Normal golfers call this man a "caddy". I needed a tracker with the exploration skills of Bartolomeu Dias.
People are kind - "Well, you have no problem striking the ball." or "You certainly have the distance component worked out".
What they meant was "Oh my goodness, that was terrible. Maybe you should take up baseball" or "The distance only counts if it's in the right direction".
After the 5th hole I realised I had wasted money on golf shoes and should have worn my hiking boots instead. My tracker was incredibly helpful. We found my ball 99% of the times I had hit it into the grasslands of the Serengeti, which was about 80% of the game.
We find the elusive ball in the thick stuff and the caddy (tracker) recommends a 7 iron.
I take the 7 iron in my hands. This is my favourite club - it's the one used throughout most of my lessons. I feel confident. On a driving range, this one makes me look really good.
The caddy explains that getting underneath the ball as much as possible would help to get it over the shrubbery crowding the path back to the fairway.
No problem. I take the shot.
The ball lands on nice, green short grass - on a fairway.
On a fairway in the opposite direction of where I was aiming for.
A fairway we had played two holes ago.
This is mostly because trying to hit this particular shot is like attempting to peel an orange with an elastic band.
What was I thinking? Trying to hit a ball buried in mud and long veld grass with a tree in front of me and a bush directly behind me?
My caddy should have recommended a spade - it would have been far more effective.
It's amazing how we forget everything we're taught when under pressure.
I was holding those clubs like my life depended on them.
Finally, I had a good shot, and the ball landed nicely on the fairway, ready to be played onto the green with a 9 iron. I take the shot. NASA should be worried. I could have taken out a satellite.
Eventually, the ball lands in a bunker. Inevitable.
The caddy hands me a sand wedge and explains how to hit the sand underneath the ball in a smooth swing, just to get the ball out of the bunker. Sounds easy.
My caddy (tracker) is an incredibly patient man. I think playing golf teaches one this virtue.
After emptying the bunker and filling the green with sand, I eventually got the ball to move from this bunker to another bunker.
My sense of humour was failing.
Lunch time is coming and my patience is going.
At this point it was difficult to see how people could find enjoyment in chasing a little white ball around undulating terrain with a bunch of rather expensive sticks.
"Gentlemen Only, Ladies Forbidden" was the original acronym for golf.
I've decided I would change it to "Golfers Only, Laughing Forbidden" in my case.
I fail to see how anyone could maintain their composure as a gentleman (or lady) on the golf course with those levels of frustration.
Like many people joke, "My handicap is golf", this is the case for me.
I've realised, in retrospect, that it can be fun if you have a few pints beforehand.
One finds that it loosens the joints and helps prevent taking the game so seriously.
I still need to figure out why it is that when I drive a ball, it ends up in Afghanistan.
I'm doing something wrong (one would think).
I would have called the sport something else, though.
Just like football or basketball - I would have called it "goneball".
Or maybe like running and swimming, I would call it "finding",
or something descriptive like "swinging and cursing"..
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