The humble golf course I call home has been in the market for a second-hand tractor to mow the rough. With due ceremony, it arrived in late August, just in time to join battle with grass made bold by the arrival of spring.
In order to help pay for it, a golf day was organised at the end of September, and a rather famous former Springbok rugby player honoured us with his mighty presence. It was my job to chauffeur him around the course in an attempt to play one hole with every fourball. I like a challenge.
To add to the complexity, at the scheduled 10am shotgun start, the mercury had already climbed to 28ºC. By midday, it was 36ºC and the strain was beginning to show on the faces of some of our more long-in-the-tooth members.
The more youthful fourballs brushed the unwanted heat aside, wisely prioritising hydration above all else. These wise golfers had filled their carts with cooler boxes, from which emerged copious containers of ice-cold beer.
One group in particular caught our eye. There were eight of them moving across the fairways from left to right, like mine sweepers. Upon inspection, it transpired that only four of them were playing golf, while the others, resplendent in floral shirts and ballet tutus, acted as barmen and caddies.
The back story was that they were all involved with a Rugby World Cup Superbru league. The rule for the golf day was that the top four in the current standings got to play, while the bottom four had to caddie for them in fancy dress. It was quite apparent that they were enjoying the time of their lives.
The former Springbok and I were greeted with smiles wherever we went. He, being a local boy, had a connection of one kind or another with virtually every fourball. Many had played golf with his father, others knew his wife’s family or had been to the same school as him. One chap said, ‘You won’t remember me, but we had our knees reconstructed at the same time. I was in the same ward as you.’
After a splendid boerewors roll at halfway, we headed back out to discover a logjam at the par-three 10th. It transpired that two independently minded groups, unaware of the logistical complexities of a shotgun start, had jumped holes in an attempt to speed up play.
The net result of this, as any regular golfer would know, was complete chaos. It had the effect, however, of sharpening the thirsts of a few participants, some of whom took copious advantage of the proximity of the 10th to the bar.
They were lured there, too, by the overpowering aroma of the spitbraai parked by the putting green. As Napoleon observed, an army marches on its stomach, and any bad experiences on the golf course were quickly salved by the application of juicy lamb to the wound.
There are daily reasons to believe that the country is going to the dogs, but on days like these, I wouldn’t want to be anywhere else.
– This column first appeared in the November 2023 issue of Compleat Golfer magazine.
