I lived in Jakarta for almost 6 years. During that time, despite what was inevitably perceived as a crying need as well as a business protocol and despite having performed that ritualistic abomination for over two decades elsewhere, a soundless shudder went through my spine every time an invitation for an event landed on my desk. Of course, the disadvantage with that kind of a shudder is that my colleagues and the secretary could not feel a thing because it was silent. They went about their chores, enviously mumbling `Lucky Mr.Varad - he gets to go to all the glitzy events'. If only they knew!! The primary reason for the activation of that minor quake was simple - within 45 seconds of meeting anyone i.e. even before he lets go off your hand, the first question popping out was `How is your golf?'. And I didnt play the game! I had no problem not playing the game because that was a very conscious choice, but it was terribly upsetting that I had to confront those arched eyebrows, tilted heads and vague smiles, which were simultaneously patronizing and distancing, if you know what I mean! As if one did not belong if one was not a golfer.
Members of the the expatriate community, especially Indians, initially sounded as if everyone was part of the PGA Tour and was a practice partner of Tiger Woods (he had kept all his shenanigans still buried under those `greens' then). Even after getting to know each other much better, during group conversations, they would turn to me and reconfirm that I had not, by mistake, commenced golfing. And all those patronizing signs would shine again, like high-beam-headlights. I quickly learnt an effective counter. Having been conspiratorially told by a good friend that most of these were pretend-golfers and had handicaps in 4 digits (they probably reached the green after a few days, that too with considerable help after losing their way), I put on my own condescending look and innocuously asked these chaps at an opportune moment, when everyone in the group was listening, `Oh, good....you must be very good? What is your handicap?'. With that one query, most people did feel deflated enough to steer clear of me, towards neutral territory. But I had nothing against golf and was determined to take it up, but in my mind it had its time!
The reason I chose not to play golf then was that I spent all my Sundays in the cricket field, being active in Jakarta Cricket League games. My rationale was - when I could still run about, let me play cricket and when I could only walk with a stick in hand for support, let me take up golf - more or less. I did see golf as very slow and that opinion has not changed significantly today, after I have commenced playing.
So, when I finally arrived at a course in Bangalore, along with another former University level cricketer friend who had a similar, healthy dislike for the pace of golf during our cricket days, I was apprehensive about not lasting long. The coach sized me up, asked me why I was taking up the game so late. I could see he had made up his mind that I would live forever with a 4-digit-handicap until I breathe my last, still in search of my first green, actually any green, with a pitching iron in my hand. He did not seem impressed when I said I was playing other games, so did not have time for this august sport. The baleful look in his eyes told me he was thinking of `marbles', `gilli-danda' and the like, that too during school-days. He shrugged and physically moved me some distance from the other, fit-looking youngsters, swinging golf clubs in the range, as if he would want to hide me away. He explained the posture, the permitted and prohibited movements during the shots and left me to swing my free arms for the next half hour. That half hour seemed, to me, pretty much like what grim-looking doctors, doubtfully looking at complex panels, call the `most critical half hour' that will determine whether the patient has a better chance of after-life than life-thereafter. Nothing in hand, bent into an unnatural and therefore uncomfortable slouch, swinging my hands in an arc from back to front, with the upper and lower limbs struggling to keep their required positions and the ankles assuming some weird final angles at the finish - I was ready to acknowledge that our friend Woods was fully entitled to all his skirmishes and more as perquisites, if he was doing this for a living for years!!
After what seemed an eternity, the coach materialised with an `iron' and a bucket of balls, indicating that it was not yet time to trigger his plan to abandon the sinking ship. He asked me to pay attention, placed a ball in front of himself, used the club to hit the ball sweetly some 100 yards without any seeming effort, even before I could get a look at how he was doing that; repeated this ritual a few times - I could still not manage a complete look at a single shot - and smiled very pityingly at me as if to say `It is that simple, but am not sure you can do it'. But he mouthed some encouraging platitudes, to acknowledge the coaching fees I had paid earlier and gave the club to me and said `Have a go'. Then he took a position behind me, resigned to the anticipated outcome.
The first ball I hit - no, that is not an accurate statement from an honest scribe -
rather, I tried to hit, stayed firmly and stubbornly exactly where it always was, even after I had finished my stroke. I was confused because I knew I had hit something with a thump and that flew in front of me in a lump. I looked around and found that my first golf stroke had dislodged about 0.5% of the grass that the golf course owned and that chunk had flown a few feet in front of me, leaving a crater about one foot behind the obstinate ball. The coach looked at the crater, assessing the damage to the real estate and whether it was prudent to collect the penalty after every stroke or at one go after the session was over. He seemed to conclude the later option made more sense and asked me to try again, helpfully moving the ball a bit away from the man-made crater. Somehow, I felt he was just ensuring that the crater did not get enlarged. This time, boy, I was exhilarated by the fact that I connected alright. I looked ahead, up in the air, to locate the ball and realised that I had played what was probably the straightest of straight drives, all along the ground - something I had been trying to do in vain for over 35 years in cricket. What do you know, the coach seemed more relieved than me and was almost convinced that I could continue at least for the rest of the session.
Then various shots flew in all sorts of unintended directions - there were inside out lofted drives over deep point, lofted cover drives, on-drives through mid-wicket and mid-on, you name it and I had hit the shot that day. "Spraying" is the word that comes to mind. It was almost as if the `iron' had recently acquired a mind of its own, apart from its head, and was working independent of the intentions of the golfer and was out to prove who was in control. I was no match for it and was beaten hands down. Another thing that happened repeatedly was that while there was adequate space around the ball, I was bent upon hitting the top of the ball (pretty difficult, you know, even if you actually `try' to do that) with the bottom of my club. Instead of soaring up, the ball kept sinking deep into the mud. The coach was grimly commentating all the time -`back swing is not coming down straight', `upper body is moving', `look at your feet, not where they should be', `you are not looking at the ball when making contact', `you are lifting your head', etc etc. And all those about 250 things had to be co-ordinated for every stroke. If about 10 are not right, one played a handsome, Sehwag-like lofted cover-drive, except that the ball was unfortunately very different. I understood why one should start early with golf, kind of.
Well, I think I hit about 150 balls in that session and got some 10 or 15 to go where all of them should have. Very depressing it was, to me. But the coach seemed very satisfied, not with my game but with his own prognosis having been on the coin. Then we moved to the putting green. After the usual demonstration and theoretical explanation of the posture, the movement etc by the coach, I tried my hand in that too. I felt that whenever I had pushed the ball towards the hole (and it was no further than 18 inches away) and it was almost in (let me assure you that was not frequently), I swear the hole shrunk significantly, having received direct communication from the approaching ball. Obviously, the result was the ball, which was 18" away from the hole earlier ended up about 18 feet away. The ball, the hole, the putter - they were all in cahoots to embarrass and humiliate the first time golfer and sap his spirit. And the coach must have orchestrated all this during the half hour I was swinging my arms wildly.
And what is the current status, you ask?? Well, it has been a few months now. I still hit some balls on the head and some go to deep point, cover and mid-wicket, but generally am able to move in the direction of the green. I suspect the course authorities, after my first few sessions on the driving range, widened everything for people like me and the holes were also apparently made larger (since they had no control over the size of the ball and anyway this was the easier option) so that people like me don't feel discouraged, slighted and frustrated. But, I realise one thing. When you play for fun, it does not matter when and after how many strokes you reach the hole. I don't even count most days. It is indeed a great walk in the vase expanse of green and the Bangalore weather is a great bonus. The smell of grass is absolutely sensational, especially after the overnight rain and the gentle breeze is so soothing. What is more, you don't need anyone else to play golf with. You just take a caddy and go along your own way; let people in a hurry pass; take your own time over your shot. It is a journey for a few hours and that is what matters. I enjoy that alright.
But, what about cricket?? You know what, ready for that any day!! And I am glad I played club level cricket until the state of the body pushed me to the driving range. Instead of running, I am walking now, but I have old friends bellowing to me `Atta-boy, so, finally you are ageing gracefully, with golf'!! Yes, indeed and I am happy.
Members of the the expatriate community, especially Indians, initially sounded as if everyone was part of the PGA Tour and was a practice partner of Tiger Woods (he had kept all his shenanigans still buried under those `greens' then). Even after getting to know each other much better, during group conversations, they would turn to me and reconfirm that I had not, by mistake, commenced golfing. And all those patronizing signs would shine again, like high-beam-headlights. I quickly learnt an effective counter. Having been conspiratorially told by a good friend that most of these were pretend-golfers and had handicaps in 4 digits (they probably reached the green after a few days, that too with considerable help after losing their way), I put on my own condescending look and innocuously asked these chaps at an opportune moment, when everyone in the group was listening, `Oh, good....you must be very good? What is your handicap?'. With that one query, most people did feel deflated enough to steer clear of me, towards neutral territory. But I had nothing against golf and was determined to take it up, but in my mind it had its time!
The reason I chose not to play golf then was that I spent all my Sundays in the cricket field, being active in Jakarta Cricket League games. My rationale was - when I could still run about, let me play cricket and when I could only walk with a stick in hand for support, let me take up golf - more or less. I did see golf as very slow and that opinion has not changed significantly today, after I have commenced playing.
So, when I finally arrived at a course in Bangalore, along with another former University level cricketer friend who had a similar, healthy dislike for the pace of golf during our cricket days, I was apprehensive about not lasting long. The coach sized me up, asked me why I was taking up the game so late. I could see he had made up his mind that I would live forever with a 4-digit-handicap until I breathe my last, still in search of my first green, actually any green, with a pitching iron in my hand. He did not seem impressed when I said I was playing other games, so did not have time for this august sport. The baleful look in his eyes told me he was thinking of `marbles', `gilli-danda' and the like, that too during school-days. He shrugged and physically moved me some distance from the other, fit-looking youngsters, swinging golf clubs in the range, as if he would want to hide me away. He explained the posture, the permitted and prohibited movements during the shots and left me to swing my free arms for the next half hour. That half hour seemed, to me, pretty much like what grim-looking doctors, doubtfully looking at complex panels, call the `most critical half hour' that will determine whether the patient has a better chance of after-life than life-thereafter. Nothing in hand, bent into an unnatural and therefore uncomfortable slouch, swinging my hands in an arc from back to front, with the upper and lower limbs struggling to keep their required positions and the ankles assuming some weird final angles at the finish - I was ready to acknowledge that our friend Woods was fully entitled to all his skirmishes and more as perquisites, if he was doing this for a living for years!!
After what seemed an eternity, the coach materialised with an `iron' and a bucket of balls, indicating that it was not yet time to trigger his plan to abandon the sinking ship. He asked me to pay attention, placed a ball in front of himself, used the club to hit the ball sweetly some 100 yards without any seeming effort, even before I could get a look at how he was doing that; repeated this ritual a few times - I could still not manage a complete look at a single shot - and smiled very pityingly at me as if to say `It is that simple, but am not sure you can do it'. But he mouthed some encouraging platitudes, to acknowledge the coaching fees I had paid earlier and gave the club to me and said `Have a go'. Then he took a position behind me, resigned to the anticipated outcome.
The first ball I hit - no, that is not an accurate statement from an honest scribe -
rather, I tried to hit, stayed firmly and stubbornly exactly where it always was, even after I had finished my stroke. I was confused because I knew I had hit something with a thump and that flew in front of me in a lump. I looked around and found that my first golf stroke had dislodged about 0.5% of the grass that the golf course owned and that chunk had flown a few feet in front of me, leaving a crater about one foot behind the obstinate ball. The coach looked at the crater, assessing the damage to the real estate and whether it was prudent to collect the penalty after every stroke or at one go after the session was over. He seemed to conclude the later option made more sense and asked me to try again, helpfully moving the ball a bit away from the man-made crater. Somehow, I felt he was just ensuring that the crater did not get enlarged. This time, boy, I was exhilarated by the fact that I connected alright. I looked ahead, up in the air, to locate the ball and realised that I had played what was probably the straightest of straight drives, all along the ground - something I had been trying to do in vain for over 35 years in cricket. What do you know, the coach seemed more relieved than me and was almost convinced that I could continue at least for the rest of the session.
Then various shots flew in all sorts of unintended directions - there were inside out lofted drives over deep point, lofted cover drives, on-drives through mid-wicket and mid-on, you name it and I had hit the shot that day. "Spraying" is the word that comes to mind. It was almost as if the `iron' had recently acquired a mind of its own, apart from its head, and was working independent of the intentions of the golfer and was out to prove who was in control. I was no match for it and was beaten hands down. Another thing that happened repeatedly was that while there was adequate space around the ball, I was bent upon hitting the top of the ball (pretty difficult, you know, even if you actually `try' to do that) with the bottom of my club. Instead of soaring up, the ball kept sinking deep into the mud. The coach was grimly commentating all the time -`back swing is not coming down straight', `upper body is moving', `look at your feet, not where they should be', `you are not looking at the ball when making contact', `you are lifting your head', etc etc. And all those about 250 things had to be co-ordinated for every stroke. If about 10 are not right, one played a handsome, Sehwag-like lofted cover-drive, except that the ball was unfortunately very different. I understood why one should start early with golf, kind of.
Well, I think I hit about 150 balls in that session and got some 10 or 15 to go where all of them should have. Very depressing it was, to me. But the coach seemed very satisfied, not with my game but with his own prognosis having been on the coin. Then we moved to the putting green. After the usual demonstration and theoretical explanation of the posture, the movement etc by the coach, I tried my hand in that too. I felt that whenever I had pushed the ball towards the hole (and it was no further than 18 inches away) and it was almost in (let me assure you that was not frequently), I swear the hole shrunk significantly, having received direct communication from the approaching ball. Obviously, the result was the ball, which was 18" away from the hole earlier ended up about 18 feet away. The ball, the hole, the putter - they were all in cahoots to embarrass and humiliate the first time golfer and sap his spirit. And the coach must have orchestrated all this during the half hour I was swinging my arms wildly.
And what is the current status, you ask?? Well, it has been a few months now. I still hit some balls on the head and some go to deep point, cover and mid-wicket, but generally am able to move in the direction of the green. I suspect the course authorities, after my first few sessions on the driving range, widened everything for people like me and the holes were also apparently made larger (since they had no control over the size of the ball and anyway this was the easier option) so that people like me don't feel discouraged, slighted and frustrated. But, I realise one thing. When you play for fun, it does not matter when and after how many strokes you reach the hole. I don't even count most days. It is indeed a great walk in the vase expanse of green and the Bangalore weather is a great bonus. The smell of grass is absolutely sensational, especially after the overnight rain and the gentle breeze is so soothing. What is more, you don't need anyone else to play golf with. You just take a caddy and go along your own way; let people in a hurry pass; take your own time over your shot. It is a journey for a few hours and that is what matters. I enjoy that alright.
But, what about cricket?? You know what, ready for that any day!! And I am glad I played club level cricket until the state of the body pushed me to the driving range. Instead of running, I am walking now, but I have old friends bellowing to me `Atta-boy, so, finally you are ageing gracefully, with golf'!! Yes, indeed and I am happy.
1 comment:
golf as cricket!
Post a Comment