Some people use golf to escape from the stress or the mundanity of life, which I can fully understand. It’s magnificent for mental health. I, however, use golf to escape from something different. Football. How refreshing to check the teams before tee off and check the final score at the end. None of the raging at the referees or the subs made by the gaffer. None of the heart attacks whenever the opposition attack, the devastation of a goal disallowed by VAR after you’ve just done a knee-slide in the living room as a grown adult.
A good front nine, solid around the turn and a spectacularly bad finish. I could just end the post there. Thankfully, it’s about more than just the scoring when you’re having a round of golf in Madrid.
A 9:10 teetime on a Saturday morning. As I have recently rediscovered after a long hiatus from golf, it truly is one of life’s great pleasures. Getting out of bed may be hopelessly difficult during the working week but on Saturday I was up, showered, fed and ready to go at the crack of dawn. Clothes ironed the night before, the golf bag tidied up, shoes ready by the door. Out into the beautiful Madrid sunshine while the youngsters were still stumbling home from the nightclubs, all in time for 45 minutes on the range.
My mate arrived ten minutes before tee off. Having sprayed it left, right and never centre, I didn’t have the best range session imaginable but it was definitely better than no warm up at all. “We playing for money today, James?” “Yeah go on then”. 1-0 to McGarry.
We were put with a couple of Spanish gents by the name of Santi and Jaime. Santi didn’t want to know us, to be fair. Full concentration on the golf, no time for idle chit chat. Upset about Brexit, I reckon. Jaime was a nice guy and we did a bit of language exchanging. He’s from Zaragoza. A nice little city on the way up to Barcelona. Tapas galore in El Tubo. But, like me, he’s a converted Madrileno now.
5 over at the turn and I was 25 quid up. My mate was having a mare. I almost felt bad for him. The low point came at 5. A big slice to the adjacent hole, he stood waiting for the group on that hole to tee off before he could even attempt to find his ball. The eventual search was fruitless. Is there anything worse than seeing the rest of your group up by the green while you’re still scrambling on the wrong fairway? I would’ve helped him but I too had a bit of work to find my ball, buried but playable in a bush.
I reached a peak of 30 quid to the good and I could sense Dom was starting to not enjoy his day out. Selflessly, I decided to completely throw my round away by nailing two drives out of bounds on the 15th and walking off giving myself an overly charitable 8. I’m a lovely bloke sometimes. On a serious note it’s never a good sign when you stop thinking about your gross score and begin to work out how many Stableford points you’re on. 0 points is easier to swallow than walking off with a 10.
Jaime and Santi were starting to get the hump with how slow play was. To be fair, it wasn’t really our fault, there was a four-ball in front that we often had to wait for. Dom nearly killed them with an errant approach shot on the back 9 which led to some animated conversations. “Fore” is simply “hola” in Spanish, by the way, which always tickles me for some reason. In what other sport are you required to shout “hello” to someone 200 yards away from you, to alert them that their life could be under threat, because of your own poor play?
We reached the end and I made myself a handsome 20 euro in spite of my pathetic back 9. Five over on the front, 11 over on the back. I just can’t seem to put 18 holes together. I think my swing starts getting tired, or the concentration begins to drop. There is, of course, the outside chance that I really am just crap and 16 over is my level.
Anyway. Two lovely glasses of Mahou later, we decided for a little pitstop on the way home. Two more lovely glasses of beer (Mahou Maestra, 7 percent, the little devils) and some delicious Morcilla (black pudding, essentially) later and it was time to call it a day. Home in time for an afternoon nap and a trip to the Asian food market with the good lady in the evening.
No disappointment at a football result out of my control, a few thousand footsteps to the good, a few laughs and the whole weekend still ahead. Perhaps golf should be the new way forward?
Into The Terraces 