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Gust of wind.
Unforecast, 14 mph, arriving precisely at the top of the backswing. Nothing anyone in this field could have done.
A misleading flag.
The flag on the green was doing one thing and the flag on the clubhouse was doing another. I believed the wrong flag, as would you.
The wind switched.
It was left to right when I committed to the club and right to left by the time I got to it. You cannot legislate for that.
Too much help.
Twenty behind me and nobody mentioned it. I hit the club the yardage asked for and the wind took it clean through the back.
Straight into it.
Two clubs of wind, minimum. I took one and a half because the card says 178 and the card has no idea what it is talking about.
Swirling in the trees.
Down at the tee, across at the top, and into you at the green. That green sits in a wind tunnel and the committee knows it.
The sun.
Directly in both eyes for the duration of the swing. Both eyes. No hat in the pro shop covers that.
A 7:40 tee time.
The sun was sitting on the deck of the first fairway. I was aiming at a glare and I hit the glare beautifully.
Course playing long.
Eighty-four percent humidity. The ball is not travelling today. Everyone here is a club short; some of us just admit it.
Heavy air.
You could feel it on the range. Every ball came down forty yards early and I adjusted for thirty-five of them.
Sea level.
My home club is three hundred feet up. My yardages are calibrated for thin air and nobody warned me this place is basically a beach.
The pressure dropped.
Four millibars since the range session. That is measurable, it is documented, and it is not in my swing.
No feeling in my hands.
Six degrees at the turn and the cart has no heater. You cannot swing what you cannot feel, and I could not feel the club.
A cold ball.
Straight out of the boot of the car in November. A cold ball is a dead ball, and this one had been dead for two days.
The frost delay.
Ninety minutes on a wooden bench, then straight onto the first tee with no warm-up. That is not a golf swing, that is an ambush.
The shower.
It arrived at the top of the backswing, the way they always do. I was mid-transition and suddenly playing a different sport.
A wet grip.
No towel on the cart, no umbrella in the bag, and the club turned a quarter turn in my hands on the way down.
Dew on the greens.
An 8:04 tee time on a links green is putting through porridge. Everything is two feet short and everyone before noon knows it.
Standing water.
A visible puddle, in the fairway, with no relief offered by anybody in a blazer. The ball went one way and the water went the other.
Thirty-four degrees.
No shade for two hours and the halfway house was out of water. By the fifteenth I was playing on memory alone.
Fog on the low holes.
I could not see the flag, so I aimed at a tree I could see, and I hit that tree with the finest strike of my afternoon.
The ball moved at address.
A gust nudged it as I settled the putter. Under the rules I had to play it as it lay, and where it lay was worse.
Leaves across the line.
Three of them, blowing left to right, directly through my line as I started the stroke. I stopped, then I did not stop.
I could not hear the number.
My partner called 148 into a 20 mph headwind. What arrived was 168. I hit a beautiful 168 and the green was 148 away.
The thunder delay.
Forty minutes in the clubhouse with a coffee and a stiffening back, then out to hit the shot of the round cold. It did not go well.
Factor fifty.
On my hands, then on the grip, then on the shaft. I was holding a bar of soap and I was holding it as well as anyone could.
These sunglasses.
Polarised lenses flatten a green completely. There was a foot of break in there that the lenses simply declined to show me.
The forecast said eighteen.
It was nine, with a wind. I played the entire front nine in a shirt designed for a different afternoon and my turn never arrived.
Three layers.
A base layer, a mid layer and a shell. Somewhere in there is a golf swing but it could not get out through the shoulders.
My own sleeve.
The shell jacket cracked like a flag at the top of the backswing. I have been startled by my own clothing and I would rather not discuss it.
My hat.
It left my head on the downswing and crossed my eyeline on the way past. A man cannot be expected to finish a swing through his own cap.
Sand in the eye.
The wind lifted half the bunker into my face at the top. I completed the swing blind, which the group agreed was brave.
No run at all.
Everything plugged where it landed. Thirty yards of roll are simply missing from this golf course today and I am being scored as if they were there.
The greens were holding.
Too much. It pitched a yard past the flag, took one hop, and spun back off the front like it owed the green money.
Fairways like a road.
It pitched in the middle, took one bounce, and finished forty yards into the native grass. I hit that fairway. The fairway declined it.
Frost on the surface.
The first three greens had not thawed. The ball skipped, then gripped, then did something no putt has ever done in front of witnesses.
Drizzle on my glasses.
Two hundred beads of water between me and the target. I was chipping from memory and my memory of that green was optimistic.
Rain in my eyes.
Driving, horizontal, straight into the tee box. I could keep my eyes open or I could keep my head still. I chose eyes.
The pin against the light.
Late sun directly behind the green turns a flagstick into a rumour. I aimed at where a flag would be if I could see one.
The eleven o clock breeze.
It comes off the water at the same time every day and every member knows it. I was on that tee at 11:02, which is bad luck, not bad golf.
Unrepaired spike mark.
Directly on the intended line, four inches from the cup. The committee has been notified. Twice, in writing.
The greens were punched.
Aerated this morning, sanded at noon, and rolling like a gravel drive. That putt was never going in for anybody.
Somebody's pitch mark.
Unrepaired, on my line, six feet from the hole. Whoever played this green before me has cost me a shot and does not care.
Someone else's divot.
My ball came to rest in it, in the middle of the fairway, in the year of our lord 2026. No relief, no chance.
A divot filled with sand.
It looks like fairway and plays like a beach. I made a fairway swing at a bunker shot and the ball behaved accordingly.
An unraked bunker.
Two sets of footprints and a rake fifteen yards away. My ball found the deepest print available and the group agreed it was unplayable.
Plugged in the face.
Halfway up the wall of the trap, buried, with a lip above my head. There is no shot there and I proved it comprehensively.
Hardpan.
No grass, no cushion, and a wedge with a bounce angle designed for turf. That was not a lie, it was a driveway.
A tight lie.
Mown to nothing. On that surface a wedge is a butter knife and the ball is a marble, and everyone knows it except the scorecard.
Roots.
A visible root, an inch behind the ball, and no relief available. I protected my wrists, which is the correct decision and also a bad shot.
A staked sapling.
Planted in the middle of the right rough last spring. Nobody has decided whether it is an immovable obstruction and nobody will decide today.
A sprinkler head.
Struck it absolutely flush. The deflection was witnessed by two members of the group and one very reliable dog.
A drain cover.
Concrete, flush with the fairway, painted green as if that helps. The ball hit it and left at an angle no golf swing produces.
The cart path.
One bounce off the tarmac and it was gone into the trees. Concrete is not a golfing surface and it should not be in play.
Worm casts.
The entire green looked like it had been shelled. The ball hit three of them on the way and each one was somebody else's job to brush away.
What the geese left.
On the green, on my line, in quantity. I am not putting through that and I am not being blamed for what happened when I tried to putt around it.
Poa annua.
After four in the afternoon these greens grow visibly. That putt bobbled twice in the last two feet and the second bobble was fatal.
The grain.
Growing away from me on a downhill putt, which is a combination this green should not be allowed to offer. It went past like a taxi.
An undisclosed break.
Nothing in the read, nothing in the practice stroke, and then eighteen inches of movement in the last two feet. Ask the greenkeeper.
The false front.
Two feet short of the correct line and the green rejects the ball entirely. That is architecture designed to humiliate, not to examine.
A green that runs away.
There is nowhere on that surface where a ball can stop above the hole. I hit the correct shot into an incorrectly built green.
The wrong tier.
Pin high, eleven feet away, and a two-foot step between us. That is not a putt, that is a formality with a putter in your hands.
A tucked pin.
Four paces from the left edge with a bunker under it. Anybody attacking that flag deserves what they get, and I attacked it.
A Sunday pin on a Tuesday.
Front right, on the slope, for a members medal. Somebody in the green-keeping shed has a sense of humour and it cost me two shots.
Twelve on the stimp.
They were nine on Saturday. Nobody announced the change, nobody put a notice up, and I discovered it from eleven feet above the hole.
Cut twice and rolled.
For a Wednesday roll-up. I touched that putt as gently as a man can touch a golf ball and it is still moving somewhere near the pro shop.
The mowing pattern.
Cut into the grain, across my line, in stripes. The ball wobbled on every change of direction and there were four of them.
They raised the height of cut.
By two millimetres, apparently, and my entire short game is calibrated to the old number. Nobody sent a letter.
Temporary greens.
A mown circle in the fairway with a stick in it. That is not golf, that is crazy golf with better weather, and I am being scored on it.
Mats in the fairway.
You cannot take a divot, so you cannot compress the ball, so you cannot control it. I played a rubber shot off a rubber surface.
Cart path only.
Eleven thousand steps and forty minutes of stopping and starting. My rhythm was destroyed by a sign at the first tee.
Unmarked ground under repair.
Bare, scraped and clearly under repair, but with no white line around it, so no relief. The course is unfinished and I am the one penalised.
Missing hazard stakes.
There was no line, no stake and no way of knowing where the hazard began. I played the shot the course asked for and the course had lied.
A bunker that is new.
It was not there in April. It is not in the yardage book. It is exactly 247 yards from the tee, which is my number, which is not a coincidence.
That tree has grown.
Two seasons ago that gap was six yards wide. I aimed at the gap I remembered and hit the branch that has since occupied it.
An overhanging branch.
Directly above the ball, at the exact height of a normal backswing. I made an abnormal backswing and got an abnormal result.
An unfriendly kick.
It pitched in the middle of the fairway and moved fifty yards sideways. That is a contour issue and the contour has never been mown flat.
A crowned fairway.
Anything landing on the right half leaves the golf course. I landed on the right half by two yards and I have been in the trees ever since.
A blind tee shot.
You aim at a marker post and hope. I aimed at the post, the post is aimed at a bunker, and nobody has ever moved the post.
The yardage book.
It says 148 to the front. It is not 148 to the front. I played the shot the book asked for and the book has let me down.
The sprinkler yardage.
The plate said 152 and the laser said 141. One of them is wrong, both of them are on this golf course, and neither of them is me.
The tee markers.
Aimed thirty yards right of the fairway. I set up square to the markers, as taught, and the markers were wrong.
The teeing ground.
Ball above my feet by three inches on a par three. That is a hook waiting to be scored and it did not wait long.
We played the wrong tees.
Somebody said the whites and it was the blues. Four hundred and twenty-five yards is a different golf hole and I was not consulted.
Rental clubs.
The airline has my sticks. These lofts are a rumour and the shaft flex is a personal insult.
The airline.
My bag is in a different country. I am playing a set assembled from the lost property cupboard and one of the irons is left handed.
A borrowed driver.
Ten and a half degrees, stiff shaft, forty-six inches, and not a single one of those numbers is mine. It went where it wanted.
This driver has not been fitted.
I bought it off a shelf like an idiot. It is two degrees upright and it is turning every swing I own into a hook.
An eleven-year-old driver.
The shaft has gone soft, the face has gone dead, and the technology has moved on without me. This is an equipment gap, not a skill gap.
Worn grips.
Shiny, hard and eight years old. The club essentially left my hands of its own accord and I am the one being asked to explain it.
Brand new grips.
Too tacky. The club will not release, so the face will not turn, so the ball goes right, which is precisely what it did.
The wrong flex.
Regular, in a swing that needs stiff. The shaft is arriving late to every impact and I am being scored on the shaft's timekeeping.
A loose clubhead.
There was a rattle at the top of the backswing. You cannot commit to a club that is coming apart in your hands mid-swing.
The lie angle is out.
I had these bent one degree flat in March and they came back one degree upright. Every iron shot since has started left of target.
Modern lofts.
My seven iron has the loft of my father's five. The number on the club is marketing and I am the one who has to explain the yardage.
Worn grooves.
No bite left on the wedge. It pitched, it checked once out of politeness, and then it kept going through the back of the green.
A new wedge.
Fourteen degrees of bounce when I have played eight my whole life. It bounced off the turf like a skimming stone and so did the ball.
A new putter grip.
Thicker, heavier, and it has taken every ounce of feel out of my hands. That is a specification problem, not a stroke problem.
A borrowed putter.
Mine is in the car and this one is two inches too long. I stood over that ball like a man reading a newspaper on a bus.
Putter loft.
Four degrees when it should be two. The ball hops off the face for the first eight inches and no read survives that.
A three-season-old ball.
Found in the bottom of the bag, gone hard, gone dead, and gone off line. This is a materials-science failure with my name on the card.
A brand new ball.
Fresh out of the sleeve and it needs a couple of holes. Everyone knows this. Nobody wants to say it out loud.
The wrong ball model.
They changed the cover and did not change the name. It spins four hundred revolutions more than the one I learned to play and it shows.
The ball was out of round.
It happens more than the manufacturers admit. It came off the face true and then simply declined to hold its line.
Mud on the ball.
A visible clump, left side, and no relief available under the local rules. The physics took over from there.
A scuffed cover.
Cart path damage from the seventh, still in play because I had nothing else in the bag. A scuffed ball is a coin toss and this one landed badly.
Flat range balls.
Forty balls on the range, all of them dead. I warmed up with data that simply did not apply out here.
The wrong size glove.
They were out of mediums. There is a full centimetre of leather rotating between my hand and the grip on every swing.
A worn-out glove.
The palm has gone through. That is not a grip, that is a suggestion, and the club acted on the suggestion.
A wet glove.
Morning dew, no towel on the cart, and the club turned in my hands. You cannot swing what you cannot hold.
No glove at all.
Left it on the roof of the car in the car park, which I discovered on the first tee, which is where this round was decided.
I am in trainers.
The shoe policy was relaxed and I took the invitation. There is no anchor in a running shoe and my lower half went with the swing.
Worn spikes.
Bald as a bowling ball. On a wet tee my back foot moved four inches during the downswing and the ball noticed before I did.
Spikes too long.
Gripped the turf so hard my knee took the whole rotation. It is a shoe problem that is on its way to becoming a surgeon's problem.
New shoes.
Straight out of the box and not broken in. No traction means no turn, and no turn means whatever that was.
A blister.
Second knuckle, left hand, from a bunker lesson on Tuesday. I have been holding the club to avoid pain rather than to hit golf shots.
The rangefinder.
It read 141 and the flag was on 152. It has been a yard out all season and today it decided to be eleven out.
It locked on a tree.
Behind the green, thirty yards long, and I did not check the number twice because we were being pushed from behind.
The watch died.
On the ninth. From there I was pacing off sprinkler heads, and sprinkler heads on this course are decorative rather than accurate.
My phone in my pocket.
Buzzing against my leg in the downswing. I have since put it in the bag, which is where it should have been, which everybody now agrees.
The tee was too high.
I teed it for a driver and pulled a three wood, which is nobody's fault but is definitely a set-up error rather than a swing error.
The tee was too low.
Impossible to launch a modern driver off the deck like that. The ball came out at eight degrees and stayed at eight degrees.
The tee snapped.
Mid-swing, which moves the ball a quarter of an inch, which is a quarter of an inch more than a golf swing can absorb.
Carrying.
Fourteen clubs, a jumper, four bottles of water and a rangefinder for six miles. By the sixteenth my shoulders were finished.
The trolley wheel.
Locked up on the twelfth and I hauled it round three more holes. My right arm has done four hundred yards of towing and one golf swing.
The headcover.
Still on the three wood as I started the takeaway. Once you have seen the fluffy animal on the end of your club you cannot unsee it.
No alignment stick.
Left it in the garage, warmed up without it, and my feet spent the entire round pointing at the wrong half of the golf course.
No towel.
A wet grip, a wet face and a wet ball, all of which are avoidable, none of which are technique. I have ordered two towels.
Sand in the grooves.
From the previous bunker, unwiped because there was no towel. That wedge had the friction coefficient of a dinner plate.
The group ahead.
Eleven minutes on the tee box. Rhythm gone, tempo gone, warm-up gone. This is a pace-of-play issue with a scorecard attached.
The group behind.
They hit into us twice on the front nine. You cannot stand over a ball while a stranger's Pro V1 lands between your feet.
The cart girl.
Arrived mid-transition. A gentleman does not stop his swing, and a gentleman does not hit that shot either.
Loose change.
Someone jingled the coins in his pocket on my downswing. On purpose, I suspect, and he knows what he did.
Somebody's phone.
Full volume, at the top, from a man who told the first tee he had switched it off. I have nothing further to add.
My partner, talking.
About his own round, during my backswing, on the seventeenth tee. I have played with him for nine years and today was the day it mattered.
A camera shutter.
Somebody photographing the seventeenth for the club calendar, at the top, from eight feet away. Professionals get silence for this.
He filmed my swing.
Unasked, on the tee, holding a phone in my peripheral vision. I have seen the footage and it is not representative.
The caddie handed me a seven.
It was an eight. I asked, he confirmed, and the number on the bottom of the club is not a matter of opinion.
The caddie's read.
He said two cups right. It was straight. I putted it exactly where I was told and it missed exactly by the amount I was told to allow.
The caddie coughed.
Behind me, at the top, on a wedge. He has apologised, which is decent of him, and it does not change the number on the card.
A new caddie.
First loop of the season and he does not know these greens. Between us we produced a read that no golfer has ever produced alone.
No caddie today.
So no second opinion, no read, and no one to hold the umbrella. Every decision on that hole was made by a committee of one.
The marshal.
Pulled up in a buggy to tell us we were out of position while I was over the ball. Timing is a skill and he has none.
The starter rushed us.
Called us to the tee four minutes early with no time to stretch. I had a driver in my hands eleven seconds after leaving the car park.
We let a single through.
Waited on the tee, watched him hit, watched him walk, and then hit a cold shot ten minutes after the last one. That is not golf, that is queuing.
Deliberate gamesmanship.
He mentioned the water on the right as I took the club back. That is not conversation, that is interference, and it worked.
He conceded the putt.
So I had nothing to do on the green, no stroke to make, and no feel at all when a real one arrived two holes later.
He breathes heavily.
Directly behind me, audibly, for the entire stroke. I have raised it politely twice and I will raise it impolitely on Saturday.
My father in law's advice.
Offered on the tee, unsolicited, involving my hips. I have had one thought in my head for six years and now I have two.
There was money on it.
Only twenty pounds, but twenty pounds changes a golf swing in ways no amount of practice can undo. Ask any honest man.
My boss was in the group.
On the tee, watching, having said he was a scratch golfer in 2009. There is no version of that swing that comes out well.
A client.
Corporate day, four-ball, and a man from procurement telling me I looked athletic. I have never felt less athletic in my life.
A lesson on Tuesday.
Three days is not enough to own a new takeaway. I am mid-rebuild and I am being scored as if I were finished.
My coach's new takeaway.
One piece, wider, slower. It works beautifully on a mat with a mirror and it has never once worked on grass in front of people.
A video I watched.
Nine minutes on shallowing the club, absorbed at eleven at night, applied on the first tee. That is my mistake and also his fault.
Something I saw on television.
A tour player pausing at the top. I paused at the top. What happened next has no name in the coaching literature.
A drill from a magazine.
Towel under both arms, in the car park, twenty minutes before the tee time. My arms have never felt further from my body.
A stranger's practice swing.
In my eyeline, on the next tee, at the exact moment I started down. This course has tees eleven yards apart and that is the real story.
He stood in my eyeline.
Directly behind the hole, in a white shirt, on a green with no other white on it. That is a basic breach of etiquette.
His shadow.
Across my line, moving, as I set the putter down. I asked him to move and by then the stroke had already been ruined.
The geese took off.
Forty of them, from the pond, at the top of my backswing. It sounded like a marquee coming down and I reacted like a normal human being.
A crow took the ball.
Off the fairway, in front of the group, and dropped it in the rough. I played from where the bird left it because nobody could rule otherwise.
A squirrel.
Ran across the green during the stroke. I have been informed that the squirrel lives there and I have been asked to be more tolerant.
Deer on the fairway.
Three of them, standing on my landing area, refusing to move for a wedge. I aimed away from the wildlife and into the trees.
A dog on the fairway.
Off the lead, mid-swing, and heading for my line. I bailed out to protect the animal and I would do it again.
The greens mower.
Working the next green while we played this one. Diesel, at the top, from thirty yards. Nobody schedules that on purpose except this club.
A leaf blower.
Two hundred yards away and audible from space. It started as I started and stopped as the ball reached the trees.
A tractor.
Crossing the fairway ahead of us with a trailer of sand. We waited nine minutes, then I played the shot with cold hands and a hot temper.
The irrigation came on.
On the fifteenth green, during my stroke, in the middle of the afternoon. The ball got wet, I got wet, and the putt got worse.
A helicopter.
Low, directly overhead, for the entire pre-shot routine and half of the swing. Whoever owns it does not play golf.
A plane overhead.
Low approach, directly over the tee, at the exact moment of transition. The airport was built after this course.
The 3:14 to town.
Two hundred yards behind the sixteenth tee, on the hour, every hour. The timetable is public and the tee sheet ignores it.
Church bells.
Half past the hour, from the village, arriving as the club reached the top. Sunday golf near a church is a lottery.
A wedding on the terrace.
Applause, a speech and a microphone, all carrying down the eighteenth as I stood over the drive. I hit it into the applause.
Construction next door.
They are building sixty houses along the fourth and today they were driving piles. That is percussion, not background noise.
A chainsaw.
Tree work on the ninth, unannounced, during a members competition. I have written to the committee about the scheduling.
An ambulance.
On the road behind the second green. Everybody stopped, everybody looked, and then I was asked to hole a four footer.
The pool next door.
Screaming children, a diving board and a whistle, thirty yards from the sixth tee. The clubhouse calls it a family facility.
Music from a cart.
A speaker in a cup holder, playing something with a beat, forty yards away. Golf has rules about this and nobody enforces them.
The halfway house queue.
Twenty-two minutes for a bacon roll and a coffee. I stiffened up completely and the tenth tee met a different golfer.
An old injury.
Something went in 2011 and it has honestly never been right since. I am playing through it, which nobody has acknowledged.
Last night.
A dinner that became a session and a 6:50 tee time. This is a scheduling failure and I have taken responsibility for the scheduling.
Two at the halfway house.
On an empty stomach, in the sun, before the tenth tee. Nobody plays their best golf on hospitality and nobody admits it either.
No warm-up.
Car park to first tee in ninety seconds because of traffic. The first three holes were the warm-up and they are on the card.
Too much warm-up.
Sixty balls, all of them good, every one of them used up before the round began. There were only so many in there and I spent them on the range.
Three weeks off.
Work, family, weather, in that order. Nobody expects a violinist to sit down cold and play, yet here we are with a scorecard.
Thirty-six yesterday.
Walking, in the wind, with a bag. There is nothing left in the hands and everything left on the card.
A large lunch.
Steak pie and chips at the turn, which was excellent, and then a golf swing at 1:40, which was not. The kitchen is partly responsible.
A sneeze.
It arrived on the downswing with no warning whatsoever. There is no coaching solution to a sneeze and there never has been.
Hay fever.
They cut the rough this morning and I have not seen properly since the fourth. Antihistamines do nothing for a golf swing either.
A contact lens.
Dried out on the fourteenth, so I played the last five holes with depth perception from one eye. That is a medical matter, not a technical one.
A new mattress.
Three hours of sleep and a neck that will not turn to the right. The backswing has a physical ceiling today and I have found it.
Two hours in the car.
Straight from the motorway to the first tee, hips locked, shoulders locked. You cannot stretch that out on a tee box in front of strangers.
Between clubs.
Seven was too much and eight was not enough. This is a yardage-book failure that happens to have my name on it.
Two swing thoughts.
One about the takeaway and one about the hips, both live at the same time. A man can hold one thought over a golf ball. Not two.
I thought about the water.
You are told not to and then somebody mentions it on the tee and the thought is in there for good. It went exactly where the thought was.
No relief granted.
Casual water, a burrowing animal hole and a sprinkler within a yard of each other, and the ruling was to play it as it lies. Extraordinary.
They cut my handicap.
Two shots, after one good round in April, on the recommendation of a committee that has never seen me play in wind.
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