According to the rules, I’m a loser. It’s just that I don’t feel like one. Which is, at one and the same time, very pleasant but rather confusing.
I’ve just missed out on a place in the final of my club singles scratch competition, losing my match against James down the 18th. No doubt I’ll be deemed a choker. I was two up with three to play, after all. But no, I didn’t choke. I parred the 16th and the 17th, only for James to go brilliant birdie, brilliant birdie. Can’t argue with that (I did, of course, drive behind a tree on the 18th to gift him the match… perhaps I’ll keep that to myself).
But I still feel like a winner. I went round in 78, while James went round in 79. That’s matchplay for you. Annoyingly, I forgot to declare my card for my handicap, so there’ll be no cut. But I hit the ball nicely for most of the round. Sadly, there were two misses from 4ft, but that’s how it goes.
Better still, I’d warmed up with a six-over-par round at Poult Wood, in Kent. I was a loser and winner there as well. That match, with some Reuters former colleagues, is an annual event in memory of our late friend Graham Griffiths, one of the worst golfers ever to grace the sport. By definition therefore, the annual trophy is presented to the worst golfer. So I lost by a mile. But it felt rather grand. Again, I hit the ball beyond my abilities.
The fact is, I’m playing better than I should be at the moment.
I remain hugely confident that writing the Knightsbridge book is having a huge effect on my game. And we’ve not even written half of it… there must be more to come!
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