The Putt
I crouch down low, look over the top of my ball and stare into the teeth of a wild Welsh wind, a wind that is wresting rivulets of sea-salted tears from my eyes and strewing them across my numb cheeks. I’m searching for some understanding of how the ball will move once I've struck it, but everything is just a watery blur. I take a handkerchief from my pocket, dab my eyes and swipe it across my nose to give me a few moments of dryness in which to reach some decisions. Which line should I set it off on? How far back to take the putter head before swinging it through the ball. What happens if I miss the hole? Can I make sure I leave myself a tap-in? Too many questions. Deep breath. Clear the mind. Think about something else instead - football, work, the burger I had for tea last night, a beautiful woman - anything other than this putt, which is, after all, by far the most unimportant thing in my life right now. So why can't I get it out of my mind? Does the fate of nations depend on me making it? Of course not. It's just a putt on the third hole in a purely social round of golf and yet it means something to me. I don't know why, but it does, so I must get to that moment when I commit, hit the thing and hope for the best.
It's fifteen feet, left to right. The wind is flying in from the sea and strong enough to exercise some influence over the ball so it needs to start off a little further left than it would in more benign weather. I take up my putting stance and place the head of my putter just inside the ball. A last glance up at the hole and then I return my attention to the small white globe with which I have a turbulent relationship. Come on, behave for me little fella. I move my putter behind the ball and pause. The ball is oscillating in the gale and the putter is trembling. Today, there is no point in searching for the moment of stillness, within and without, that must under normal circumstances be reached before committing to striking the ball. This time, I just have to go for it. My nerves are being as buffeted by the wind as my limbs, and in these conditions two putts over this kind of distance will do me just fine. I stroke through the ball, sending it on its way, left of the hole.
As expected, it arcs in the direction of the hole, seeming to shiver in the chilling wind on its way. It keeps rolling and I watch with curiosity and then hope as the ball nears its destination. It keeps on turning and amazingly still seems to be moving in the direction of the target. Hope turns to optimism and then finally to disbelief as the ball slows and gently drops, with a last shudder, into the centre of the cup.
I hide it well, but I'm euphoric. It's strange how a small white ball dropping into a hole can make you experience a moment of ecstasy. A decade or two ago I may not have described holing a putt with such an extravagant noun, but age and experience have worked their magic on my pleasure sensors and they are now much more prone to be stimulated by such simple treats as a cup of tea, a stranger's smile or a ball dropping into a hole.
Billy, my son, catches my eye and allows a faint smile to curl the corner of his lips. There are moments when I think he can see into my soul and read the markings that are there. He understands how I feel. And that slight grin seems to confer some snippet of approval. The old man can play - occasionally. Or perhaps it is more a look that says, you lucky old devil.
