Anyone for Golf? ...... Balls!

- an article by Darcy Moore

My son helped with a bit of house painting so I agreed to a game of golf. I'd played about 3 times in my life and the memories were, well, Chaplinesque. But a deal's a deal if you can't get out of it.
       Standing at the first tee in the early morning cool, seeing the green stretch expectantly before me, hearing the optimism of magpies and kookaburras .. at that moment anything seemed possible. Then I swung the club. As a large piece of lovingly manicured turf went flying I looked guiltily about. No stirring in the clubhouse and, TGIF, the course was empty of humans bar a distant groundsman on a ride-on mover. Overcompensating I struck a couple of air balls. My son muttered something about forgetting to bring Tolstoy, but lifted his head in what I hope was silent prayer when my fourth swing sent the ball onto a parallel freeway. By the time I sank my fourth putt I was well on the way to a calorific score. At a mere 3 over par, my son looked smugly superior.
       I'd love to say I improved as I hauled the golf bag through the course. I kept asking basic questions like, "How do you stand?", "How do you swing the stick?" and, especially, "Why did it do that?". I contorted my body, tried to swing like a 5th generation android and willed the ball to rise and stay on course. Occasionally I was lucky, but mostly I made my son look good and both of us look for balls. However I was grittily determined not to lose a single ball to a water hazard, even though that meant going around. With most unchristian satisfaction I watched several delightful curves and heard as many delicious plops as my son struck out boldly. And it was almost worth my embarrassment to see the look on his face as I continued to do inappropriate things to grass, balls, tees, and trees with the appropriate sticks.
       Then came the 7th hole. I teed off, having inexplicably (according to my son) beaten him on the previous hole. With self-interest we watched the ball head through trees dividing the fairways, landing near a bunch of reclining kangaroos.
       "You've got to play the shot from there, Dad. Animals are movable hazards. Just shush them off." Thanks son.
       Now I like kangaroos but I've seen enough of them and their wallaby cousins to know they're not cute and cuddly toys. As I approached they began to stir. A large buck rose menacingly, its hackles up. Staying well clear of them, I positioned myself to play the shot. Hearing a grunting noise I turned around. The buck came straight at me. I waved number 4 iron. It stopped abruptly and the females began to shuffle away. I'd resumed the golf with about half an eye when the buck charged again, his raking claws exercising my imagination. This time he ignored the golf stick so, forgetting all about my love for marsupials and my subscription to Greenpeace, I swung. It would have been another rotten golf shot but it checked the angry male. He stumbled, picked himself up, rubbed his head, then hopped after the females. Mixed with my regret for whacking him was a lot more relief.
       The last of the 9 holes were anticlimactic. When my son hit another water ball before the home green I hardly smiled. I congratulated him sincerely when he won. At the clubhouse I raised the matter of aggressive kangaroos, set off a stack of kangaroo stories from an old timer and got a commitment to have them declared unmovable obstacles.
       I wouldn't have believed it once but, contrary to appearances, golf is never boring. Also contrary to appearances, my son likes playing golf with me. We both know why.