Golf is practically the family religion. Forget god, unless the godhead resides on the green. In it's purest form it's like meditation. To play perfect golf, simply achieve perfection and then just do what comes naturally. Like deep meditation, this takes an awful lot of practice. When you finally see the light you have to let it all go and become one with the course, the club and the conditions. The ego falls away and the strike becomes simply a moment in time - no ball, no club, just a gesture.
I’m not sure Poz has this in him, although it’s a bit too early to say for sure. He’s standing next to me having already brushed his teeth and therefore won the getting-ready-to-go race. He doesn't lack in competitiveness and like most kids his age he's a terrible loser.
“I’ll stand on this and see how old I am.” He says emphatically, jumping on the bathroom scales. He peers at the numbers and says slowly, “three...and a half” mimicking an adult reading off a fluctuating scale.
“That’s right Poz, you’re three and a half and soon you’ll be four.” I burble, past my toothbrush.
“I’ll be four tomorrow,” he says with stentorian splendour, “for it is my birthday.”
“Not quite,” I say, rinsing my brush, “but soon.”
Chances are little Liza will take up the cudgels under the expert tuition of Auntie Gilly, like our mother once was, she is the hottest golf property in the south west. If Poz is anything like me, he will be too easily distracted for the rigorous mindset of golf and already Liza shows more focussed determination in pursuit of anything that takes her fancy, such as the TV remote. Once she’s got a bead on it, she’s after it, like a missile on lock, albeit a damp and pinchy wobble-winder.
Like many males, Poz’s typical recourse when under pressure, like when Liza touches his stuff, is physical. “She will learn from you,” I tell him sternly, “if you snatch stuff off her she’ll do the same to you, when she’s bigger, I’d watch it if I were you.” This advice does not compute, yet, and by the time it does Liza will have had her day and poor old Poz will be left somewhat bewildered in her wake.
Dropping the boy at nursery, I notice a scooter in the corner of the play garden with a stop end missing from the handlebar. It could be the one that cookie cut his eyebrow not so long ago and I’m pretty pissed off to see it still in service. I repress my instinct to accuse the nearest employee of wilful negligence and talk to his key worker about it. If I see it in there again next week, it’ll be a more formal complaint. I hate complaining but it’s important, it could have olive pitt his eye out which would stuff his ability to gauge distance and might even wreck his game.
