Wednesday, August 02, 2006


When I was in my late teens and early 20s, I got into golf. No skateboarding or BMXing for me, no sir. That was for the cool, athletic kids who were popular with the girls. For a few years, I probably averaged 1 or 2 rounds per week. Then, I lost the lovin’ feeling and didn’t play much at all for a decade or so.

A few months ago, Belgian J – who has just got into golf himself – convinced me to drag my old clubs back to the Philippines. I’ve since had something of a golf reawakening. It turns out there are quite a few courses in the region, including one that I can play almost for free (they have a deal with my workplace) apart from the caddy fee.

Yes, a caddy fee. When one plays golf in the Philippines, one gets a caddy. It took some adjustment. For several holes in my first caddied-up round, I felt like a neocolonial wanker. But, familiarity breeds complacency and I now ignore such feelings and make sure the blighters feel the sharp end of my boot if they hand me the wrong club.

A few weeks ago, one of the senior scientists here asked me to join him in a charity-fundraising golf day at a swish course nearby. Charity! Fundraising! I thought. Count me in – I live to give!

It turns out the funds were for the club’s “ladies golf team” – probably one of the richest sub-populations in the country. I think some of them only had one BMW. So you can be assured that SW’s money is going to the people who really need it.

It was all good fun until about the 13th hole, when a storm hit and the lightning warning siren sounded, and we had to take shelter for an hour. We then played the last 5 holes in rain. On the 15th hole I hit an incredibly bad shot and clocked one of the caddies square in her side.

She was in pain for a few minutes but otherwise OK (though I’m sure she had a nasty bruise), but I felt like a right idiot. I limply apologized and she apparently got upset because nobody yelled “fore!” (as one does in golf). Instead, I’d let out a garbled yelp. It wouldn’t have made any difference though – there was no way she could’ve got out of the way in time.

Then – to remind me I’m in a different culture/country – my caddy came to me and said that the caddy I hit had asked that I don’t complain to course management. Apparently if I hit a caddy, I have the right to complain (I think because she should’ve been behind the ball when I hit it – though, where she was, she should’ve been safe if I didn’t completely bugger up the shot). And if I complain, she could be suspended for a month.

What did I do?

Did I:

1. assert my neocolonial right and complain that my caddy had deliberately damaged my ball with her ribs?


2. assure my caddy that I wouldn’t complain, give up on competing for the remainder of the round, and continue to profusely apologise?

YOU decide. This is like a choose-your-own-adventure book, no?

Let me know if you’d like more golf stories. Ooooh, I got plenty.


Anonymous Anonymous said...

I can tell you a golf story about SW, having played with him in the tailing off period of his first golf career. The moral of the story is that SW is a very bad W to be around when he hits a poor shot. Behaviour includes the deepest self admonishment, with probing questions into his general self worth and 'club jamming' into his bag (when without caddy).


7:15 am  
Anonymous Anonymous said...

I think that you would have done the special SW CLAW upon yourself and then upon your caddy, followed by some more quality SW foetal gear in the lush changerooms.

8:40 am  
Anonymous Anonymous said...

Clearly number 2.

Ash. I remember you had to make SW play golf so we could prepare a birthday party.

Great Days

10:14 am  
Anonymous Anonymous said...

ah yes, and upon returning there was a great surprise and feast, with many ponies and monsters.


12:09 pm  
Anonymous Anonymous said...

Hitting a caddy means:

1. Better keep the day job.
2. Pro tour, here we come. FOOOOORE!

PS: Keep the golf stories coming...

9:39 pm  
Anonymous Anonymous said...

Wombat, if you'd hit the lady on the chest, you might have said 'Hey, I shoulda yelled Two!'

Wombat and I once played a round on Augusta National.

Port Augusta National.

The Standpipe Motel at Port Augusta Golf Course.


He was a former greenskeeper about to become the Masters Champion.

9:25 pm  
Blogger DonkeyBlog said...

He Heh, making golf fun ... that's what I like!

Also, being a young, red-blooded Aussie male living abroad, I too have had to get used to other people doing things for me like scrubbing me smalls by hand and ... well, I goota say ... after a minute or two of discomfort, I got to like it.

As for the discomfort in my now-starchy smalls, which has lasted considerably longer than a minute ... well, I'll have to post a thing or two on the Blog about that one.

Thanks Wombey

1:14 pm  

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