7:45 am – I adorn my body with the fresh kit that I have chosen to spend my money on and not on golf lessons which the nosey course pro keeps suggesting I invest in. Raw talent doesn’t need tutelage.
8:00 am – I do a few calf flexes in front of the mirror, God I look like a professional. I look like an Aussie Tiger Woods before he let the pitching wedge in his pants ruin his career.
8:30 am – Before tee off. I take a few deep breaths and affirm to myself that I won’t let the game break me today. Before the first swing there is always false hope and I relish in it.
8:25 am – I upload a photo to social media with the witty caption “day for it”. I bet everyone’s thinking I’m going to par this course.
8:35 am – Faaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaarksss saaaaaaaaaaaaaaaake cuunnn… I restrain myself from completing the profane outburst. I lifted my head, topped it and as a result my first drive failed to go past the ladies tee. I am told I owe a carton.
9:00 am – my show off mate has hit a couple of birdies. As a coping mechanism I under report my latest hole as a +8 rather than a +9. He gives me a look to suggest I am only cheating myself. Alas, it’s all I’ve got right now.
9:30 am – ha ha, call me bob cat because I just did a little excavating. By this, I mean I have slammed my putter through the green in a fit of rage after missing yet another 1 foot putt. An old feller nearby shakes his head in disgusting.
10:00 am – I down a couple of froffs I snuck in and feel myself calming down. I ignore the thousands of YouTube golf tips that had been swirling around in my head and decide to just grip and rip. It’s airborne, it has a tasteful draw, it’s beautiful.
10:10 am – after 10 minutes of stubbornly searching for the ball I see it has rolled down the bank and into the water. I am not in a good place mentally.
10:12 am – it appears my faffing about has angered the golf bogans behind me who felt it was a good idea to hit up on me. Admittedly, I lose my cool and go to hit the bloke’s ball right back at him. Alas, I airball it and manage to let go of my club. Their laughter rips through me like a Servo kransky at 3 am.
10:30 am – at the next hole my friend brokers a peace treaty and we shake hands. I grin through the indignity of it while fantasising about the demise of his firstborn. I will literally never forgive him.
11:00 am – ha ha my mate is hitting even better on the back nine as he did the front nine. Isn’t that AWESOME? After landing in another bunker I ask him how many more fkn holes to go. He tells me to grow up. I take 9 shots to get it out ha ha.
11:30 am – I’d be lying if the events of the bunker half an hour ago weren’t still with me. 9 shots ha ha. How funny. How good. Thoughts start swirling in my head that my misso thinks I’m a loser and this is why. This is why. This is why.
12:00 pm – Well, what do you know? Last hole and I finally get my eye in and sink one off a chip. Where was this for the last fkn 4 hours? I am unable to feel any joy from this achievement and instead walk off and wrap my trusty wedge around a tree.
12:30 pm – my mate reckons I’d benefit from anger management but I tell him that’s what the 19th hole froffs are for. He has the audacity to tally up his score in front of me. 86 he proclaims while feigning humility. He asks me if I want to know my score. I don’t.
1:30 pm – I arrive home and take a shower. I hear a knock on the door asking if I’m alright. Can’t a bloke take a 45 minute shower anymore?
1:35 pm – the misso asks me if I’ve been crying and I tell her only tears of joy. As I tell her about sinking a hole from 45m out with a wedge. She jokes that Cam Smith better watch out. I can sense the insincere tone in her voice and ask her if the very sight of me disgusts her. It does.