Is there anyone more utterly divorced from reality than an irregular golfer?
Golf fans everywhere will know the type.
“I reckon if I had started early enough I could be playing on tour,” they say confidently, “If only I hadn’t hurt my shoulder back in high school.”
The irregular golfer will watch endless hours of the PGA Tour as swing tip videos fill their social media timelines.
Rory McIlroy, Jon Rahm and Scottie Scheffler would no doubt pay top dollar for some insights from Johnny on his couch in Ballito, if only he could get his chance at glory.
Far from being confined to their homes however, these people will hone in on you at a social gathering, finding any chance to segue the conversation to a discussion of top moments on the course.
“Trust me boet, when I’m feeling it I can compete with anyone. Just ask the 18th hole at Umhlali in 2011. If not for a freak gust of wind I would have holed out for a 59.”
Probing questions as to the veracity of these claims are fruitless.
And, unfortunately, I know these people intimately dear reader, because well, I am prone to some flights of fancy on the golf course myself.
Over the past week, Zimbali Lakes hosted an ‘Only One’ golf event on their completed signature 4th hole, where players competed for a chance to win a R3-million plot in the development if they made a hole-in-one.
Twenty-one men and one woman qualified for the final on Sunday morning, undeterred by the rain and ready to claim their prize.
I was among that group after sneaking through in qualifying on the media day last Wednesday, having only hit one of my five balls on the green.
Nevertheless, reality and logic mean little to the irregular golfer, and despite my creaky swing I was quietly confident that Sunday would be my day.
Of course I would never say as much if asked, but like any amateur golfer I have a completely unearned confidence and optimism in my game.
On a sunny Saturday morning you could probably convince me that loadshedding would end next month, such is the positivity with which I think when on the course.
So despite the drizzle, 22 golfers readied themselves, making idle chat about the weather while calibrating their rangefinders.
Players are called up to the breach at random, trying their best to fake confidence in front of the cameras.
The golf is poor to start – slices, chunks and duck hooks rule the morning.
“All the better for when I pure one,” I think.
Eventually my time comes in the middle of the pack and I stroll languidly to the tee to take a few practice swings.
But for the small issue of having to hit the ball, my practice swing is surely good enough to compete in a major.
I set my feet, take a deep breath and start thinking about which colour to paint my brand new house.
There’s dead silence as I draw the club back in perfect form, slicing through the heavy air with elegant grace.
But unfortunately something goes amiss on the way back down and I shank the ball so badly that I almost take out a cameraman jumping for cover.
My ego is admittedly slightly bruised but I quickly shake it off – there’s always the next game after all.
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