How many excuses has the average golfer used to back out of a game when the elements are against him? It’s going to rain! My golf car is in for a service! I have to fetch my wife from the hospital! I broke my driver and the pro has not finished the job yet!
Not that any of his playing partners ever believe the story, it just goes with the territory. Fair weather golfers rule! Period!
Well, not always…and not everywhere?
While on a call to St Andrews yesterday to book a tee-off time on the Old Course for a client, I heard from Jack (he’s the man with the available tee-off times) that it was minus 8 degrees when he was driving to work that morning. Now that is really cold… anywhere!
And it reminded me of when I made a courtesy visit to Nairn Golf Club, just outside Inverness up at the top of Scotland, a number of years ago. It was the first week of February. The countryside was under a spectacular blanket of snow, farms were only identifiable by the fence poles which stuck up out of the snow. Even the fluffy sheep beside the road looked cold.
“Grin and bear it”, I told myself, looking forward to the visit to the Johnnie Walker Distillery at Cardhu on Speyside later in the morning. That would warm me up if nothing else did.
As I drove into the empty car park at the club, Jim the manager (I am eternally amazed at how many golf clubs in Scotland are managed by someone called Jim) was at the door, waving his arms and showing me to be careful on the icy tarmac. The mug of steaming hot chocolate pushed into my hands as I walked into his office was as warming as the wee dram or two on Speyside would be later in the day.
“Minus 8, with a 25 mile an hour north easterly….that’s around minus 12 with the wind chill factor,” Jim advised me. Despite the warmth slowly seeping through my frozen bones, I kept my jacket securely zipped.
From Jim’s office I could see across what I learned was the North Sea. It looked grey and menacing and certainly not the placid blue water a golfer on Phuket or even the Costa del Sol would look out on.
As Jim poured a most welcome refill of his legendary hot chocolate, the scrunching of tyres on snow made us look out the window to the car park which had just doubled its occupancy. Out of an old Ford Escort climbed four figures, totally unrecognisable in their puffy jackets, balaclavas, gloves and thick leggings. From the boot they took four large bags and disappeared around the side of the building.
“Well, at least your staff made it in today”, I said, thinking I was stating the obvious.
“No, laddie”, Jim replied. “They be the Tuesday 9:26 fourball…they play every week”.
Jim must have noted my expression, I felt my mouth hanging slightly open as I looked at the Jack Frost scene outside.
“Ay’, he said to me.
“They are golfers”.