Heart Beat:P G Wodehouse in his introduction to the omnibus edition of his golf stories candidly admits "I was never much of a golfer". Neither am I.
The golf courses of Ireland have become very crowded over the past week and Padraig Harrington is to blame. He ought to have known that his victory would bring folks of all ages and physical conditions into the clubs, with all sorts of consequences. In no other sport is the illusion that it is easy, so quickly dispelled.
It dawned upon me early in my career that golfers like surgeons don't happen by accident. They have to work at it, very hard indeed. Everybody knows the great golfers practise exhaustively, knocking countless lumps out of Mother Earth in the process. It's a bit similar with trainee surgeons with countless bits being removed from patients. Well, we all have to learn, don't we?
There is of course a difference. Not everybody can be a surgeon, but everybody, surgeons included, think they can be a golfer. Accordingly in the aftermath of Padraig's famous victory, there sallied forth onto the green fields of Ireland, a motley group, of both sexes, the halt, the lame, the otherwise physically challenged motivated by the conviction, "I can do this".
I leave out of this collection the hardened addicts who know the real score. They are the folk who set forth in hope rather than expectation and who know that in golf there are only two kinds of shot, "that'll do" and "f*** it". They include those who pontificate wisely about every golf course and every aspect of the game.
Such high handicappers, modestly including myself, can become very low handicappers, indeed almost scratch golfers upon arrival at the 19th hole and that their prowess may exponentially increase with each hole played thereafter. The Highest Authority assures me that I am one such. Who am I to argue?
Rather, I am talking of those who appear after a performance like Padraig's, unwittingly hazarding life and limb not only for themselves but for others. They are viewed benignly by manufacturers and purveyors of golf equipment who reckon they can recognise suckers when they see them.
About the only golfing gimmick I have not yet seen is a golfers St Christopher medal, with the saint holding a golf club rather than a staff. Such a medal would be apposite as golf courses are dangerous places, a fact all too easily forgotten. The more crowded they are and the less experienced the practitioner, the higher the risk. Golf ball strikes are not uncommon, sometimes with serious consequences.
The risks can be lessened by adherence to the etiquette of the game, such as not standing ahead of the player making the shot. Standing behind is usually safe. The wayward ball should be accompanied by the cry of "fore", warning those in the vicinity that they stand in mortal danger and allowing them to cover their heads.
On the other hand, a ball dispatched wildly and threatening those in the immediate vicinity is often accompanied by a strangled cry of "Jesus watch out". The Lord is often called upon in such circumstances. Those in danger from such a flying missile and hearing no warning cry almost invariably seek guidance, "Jesus where did that come from?"
Common sense is not an attribute normally associated with golfers but it would seem elementary to those indulging in this or any other physical pastime that they should be reasonably fit. "That was a great game of golf," said Bing Crosby in 1977 before promptly expiring. There are a substantial number of heart attacks on golf courses, some fatal. Many clubs have their own "coronary hill" and such should be approached with care by those whose fitness or medical history calls for caution. Many clubs have invested in cardiac defibrillators although I have often wondered what use such might be to the unfortunate who drops on the 11th, far from the clubhouse.
It is not solely unfavourable terrain or lack of fitness that can cause such an attack. Look around the club bar. We all know golfers who regard the world as pitted against them when they venture forth. A million irritants can provoke a tantrum; slow play ahead, the state of the greens, the bloody committee or the captain for not doing something or other.
Such would have been the Cork golfer who, in response to the introduction of gender equality in his club, was reduced to the apoplectic comment of "we only let them in to make the tae and now they want to take over the club".
I leave aside the ankle, knee, hip and back complaints visited on the occasional golfers and the source of so much revenue for the poor doctors and physiotherapists. It's not me, not that I'm unfit, or that my hand eye co-ordination is awful, or that I can't keep my head still and that I wave about like a sapling in the breeze.
If only I had a square headed driver or a belly putter, I'd be invincible. If acquiring the latter please note if it's for a concave or, more likely, a convex belly.
Maybe golf should be banned lest people enjoy it. "It is statute and ordained that in na place of the Realme there be used Fute-ball, Golfe or uther and unprofitable sportes," ordained James IV of Scotland in 1491. Me, I'd rate it as dangerous as passive smoke, bonfires and chewing gum.
Golfer Maurice Neligan is also a cardiac surgeon.