
My golf, as regular readers will know, is a mixture of disappointment and disaster mixed up with a smattering of anger, frustration and bad luck.
I am never, ever lucky and when push comes to shove I always lose on the last - like last week in the club doubles. Add to this the fact that, on account of my putting so badly on Sunday, my putter is now in putter hospital (ICU) I was not feeling overly confident about beating my mate ‘Senor (El Bandirto ) Chris Rough’ in the Club Handicap championship first round
When he announced that, far from his handicap being cut because of his Mexican tendencies, it had just gone UP and consequently I was faced with the challenge of giving him a full six strokes my heart sank.
Disaster loomed.
Sure enough, I quickly surrendered an early lead to go one down but scrambled to the turn all square.
Neither of us were playing the beautiful game. In fact it was like an East Stirling v Dumarton relegation play off match. Huff, puff and a lot of fecking swearing.
But gradually Chris succumbed to my pressure (Actually he just drove like Nikki Lauda - on the burny day) and I found myself on the 16th tee two up. Sure enough, he won the 16th to take it back to one and somehow I managed to grind out a half, despite giving him a stroke, on the 17th.
Dormy one.
All there to lose.
Chris hit his best drive of the night to the par three 18th (20 feet from the pin). I hit a piece of shit to 40 yards, left, in the rough. My second was so-so leaving me a 15 foot downhill putt from off the green. Chris, meanwhile, was 10 feet away from a three.
That was when life deviated from the script. The pin removed; Gorman stood over the 15 footer, gently nudged the ball holeward and with the very final roll of the ball it dropped.
Victory.
Poor old Chris. How will he ever live it down!