I hate golf. A good walk spoiled? The whole day spoiled, more like. As with many cases of hate, it has its roots in love. You see, I just love the feeling of hitting the ball sweetly. If you feel the same way, then you’re into golf; if you don’t, then you’re not. But I am, and from the moment I struck a ball sweetly for the first time, I was hooked. It happened playing my first proper round of golf, off the third tee at the Gower Golf Club. Woomph. Making hardly a sound and barely seeming to make an impact as club hit ball, off it went. And that was me.
My logic ran that if I could play like that as an absolute beginner, imagine what I could do with a bit of practice. I strode up to my ball on the fairway and, swinging with great confidence, played an air shot. Missed it completely. Pretending this was but my practice swing, I tried again, and this time made contact with the ball, but mostly with the ground, causing lasting damage to the fairway. The ball advanced all of six inches. Welcome to golf.
