Golf has aptly been defined as a game whose aim is to hit a very small ball into an even smaller hole, with weapons singularly ill designed for the purpose.
But the emotion, drama and angst surrounding this seemingly simple manoeuvre is enormous for the army of golfers everywhere.
And, it is exaggerated manifold if one such touchy being is challenged to a golf match by a wholly ignorant player like me, equipped with bizarre instruments like a hockey stick, croquet mallet and a billiard cue, with the express intent of mocking and showing up this wholly inane game.
For me, the hockey stick – an ersatz Big-Bertha driver to put it in golfing parlance – was to tee off, the mallet for a varied range of shots on the fairway and green, and the billiard cue to eventually sink the putt and clinch the deal.
The entire idea was to prove that the freemasonry of golfers and their expensive equipment was redundant, other than of course mocking the game.
My rival for this comical joust was a highly emotional, self-obsessed and complex man for whom – as for many of his peers – golf was not just a game, but an exaggerated metaphor for life. Unthinkingly, he subscribed to all the rubbish about how chasing a ball around in wide-open spaces was the ultimate test of human character and spiritual endurance.
Eager to establish his dominance over a cretin like myself, my opponent obtained the necessary permission for this wacky encounter from the quizzical secretary of a modest, at the time nine-hole club in New Delhi some years ago.
On the appointed day we both hired caddies; he to lug his hip Slazenger bag overflowing with an assortment of shiny, mittened clubs, and me for my minimalist, but way out, apparatus. Our attire too was a contrast: he in expensive designer golf clothing, including studded shoes, and me in a khadi salwar kameez and Clarke’s crepe-soled loafers. Both, however, sported snazzy gold caps.
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All went well for my competitor till the 8th, par-four hole when his concentration slackened as he realised what a foolish and nonsensical endeavour he was involved in. This of course, at my instance, was a dry or practice run, with the final encounter a week hence, complete with sports reporters in attendance to cover the ridiculous proceedings.
As his attentiveness loosened, his character test underwent severe strain.
Till the 8th he had sported a swagger and supercilious ear-to-ear grin, confident of nailing me for my disdain for his prime passion to the freeway.
But, as always, there is a God moving in mysterious ways, and he miraculously revealed himself at that fortuitous moment when my adversary’s concentration abated and he fumbled a few strokes. Triumphantly I holed the ball with my billiard cue, stretched out flat on the green, rendering me an incredible two strokes ahead, much to the delight of my caddy, who by now was well into the spirit of this odd battle and even offered tips on how to wield my hockey stick.
Obviously, I lost the ninth and he declared victory with a weak but haughty grin.
But I had grown my golf legs on the 8th and was already anticipating the final contest a week later amid coverage provided by a sports reporter colleague on the newspaper in which we both worked at the time.
Little was said thereafter over the customary omelettes-and-toast breakfast in the club house, surrounded by boastful, pot-bellied golfers swaggering around in their hugely expensive studded Japanese shoes, playing feebly at being macho.
Their meaningless but excited chatter centred round their respective encounters on the golf course riddled with excruciating, deathly boring detail. My challenger too tried to make light of our game, assuring surrounding tables and anyone who cared to listen of his valiant undertaking to preserve the sanctity of golf from mockers.
Understandably, the defeat at the 8th hole rankled my adversary. But like all things unpalatable in life, we followed the path of least humiliation and simply declined to mention it, talking instead around the issue. But the cheer of achievement was writ large on my face – and showed.
All restraint, however, lifted later in the day when a triumphal me, after full comprehension dawned of what I had really achieved, and eager for blood to seal my accomplishment, began calling my golfing foe on the hour – every hour – to deliver just one ominous message: Remember the 8th.
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The first few calls extracted weak, indulgent laughter; but progressively the responses became abusive. My final call at around 6 pm provoked unbridled, hysterical swearing and name calling, which alerted me to the reality that I had probably somewhat overstepped the boundaries of my victory – and my opponent’s good humour.
The entire episode, however, had a sad and unhappy ending.
Later the same evening, my golfing adversary burst into my house, hurling foul insults at me interspersed with accusations that I had – unfeelingly and boorishly – poked fun at golf that was so very dear to him and something he and his family held in high regard. In between his fulminations, he hurled abuses at my Punjabi antecedents, with the standard line that all the culture I had was agriculture.
No amount of reasoning or making light of the event served to placate him and he stomped out never to speak to me again, even though we were reasonably good friends earlier.
Alas, the final encounter, in which I had by now planned on letting my opponent beat me even on the 8th, never occurred, bringing to mind what John Updike said about the game of golf – that it appeals to the idiot in us and the child.
Just how childlike golf players can become is proven by their frequent inability to count past five, Updike said; or in this case eight.