Wow!

Not often I use that word about myself but I think I deserve it. Wow. I am the only golfer left in all three of my club’s summer competitions.

Adam – he of the willowy and surprisingly dependable swing – and I – the 1970 shoulder spinner - have just reached the final of the handicap foursomes. Nothing flashy. A 3&2 win against Dave and Kevin.

So this is virgin territory. I’m already in the semi-finals of the scratch singles competition and the semi-finals of the handicap singles.

True, Adam and I won the foursomes last year – all Adam’s work, I have to admit, I was heavily subsidised - but I’ve never got this far in the singles. In fact, I’m not sure I’ve ever won a singles match before.

Mind you, I’d happily pass on all this very localised glory – Lindfield golf club, after all, is not exactly St Andrews or Augusta - in return for another handicap cut. I don’t want a trophy. I want a swing worthy of single figures.

Wow? Who am I kidding? I’m still a suspect golfer, somehow scrambling around in a slightly better score than other suspect golfers. Instead of a range session this afternoon I’ll re-read the early chapters of Dave and Steve’s prospective book…