Spice of Life | Iron hand in velvet glove: Golfer’s fairway defence

Golf reminds us that despite our triumphs elsewhere, we are merely human—the ultimate corrective against sinful pride.

My wife and I sat immersed in newspapers, soaking in the morning bliss following my early round of golf. Suddenly, she let out a deep sigh—the sort you would normally ascribe to a despondent soul.

Nothing but misery can come of the union between a golfer and an outcast whose soul has not been purified by the noblest game. (HT Photo)

I looked up with concern and coaxed her to spill the beans.

After a moment’s hesitation, she declared, “Golf is such a waste of time and money, yet people are drawn to it like bees to nectar.”

This was my ‘Et tu, Brute’ moment. I was alarmed by her perception of the sport and pained that one of the two hearts beating under our roof—hearts meant to resonate in symphony—could strike such a discordant note.

Evidently, she needed to be schooled. But schooling one’s wife requires caution.

Accompanied by a flurry of sweet endearments designed to warm even a heart of steel, I ventured: “Golf is no wasteful activity, my dear. It is an engaging pursuit offering exercise and quality time amid nature. Besides, the finest gentlemen—the very epitome of etiquette—strut across those greens.”

“Etiquette?” she scoffed. “I’ve seen men muttering profanities, gnashing their teeth, slamming their clubs, and haggling with caddies. They make absolute spectacles of themselves, and you call them gentlemen?”

Alarmed by the onslaught, I rose to defend the fraternity. “A golfer,” I countered, summoning my utmost persuasion, “possesses the soul and profundity of a Buddhist monk. His mind brims with wisdom drawn from the game’s uncanny resemblance to life itself—its highs, its lows, and the grace to overcome both with a smile. Do not join the cynics, who, as Oscar Wilde noted, know the price of everything and the value of nothing.”

To drive the final nail into the coffin, I added: “The greatest virtue of this noble pursuit is that it acts as medicine for the soul. It teaches us that whatever petty triumphs we achieve elsewhere, we are merely human. It is a corrective against sinful pride.”

Her brow cleared somewhat, as my meaningful monologue sank into her conscience, but only briefly. The clouds of doubt crossed her face again and she retorted, “Then why do most women have an aversion to their husbands playing golf, and who are golf widows?”

I smiled wistfully and rattled off a quote by PG Wodehouse: “Nothing but misery can come of the union between a golfer and an outcast whose soul has not been purified by the noblest game.”

“That misery,” I concluded, leaving her deeply ponderous, “is a self-inflicted wound. The cure is simple: Pick up your mashies and trudge off to the greens with me.” j.mahesgrover@gmail.com

The writer is a retired judge of Punjab and Haryana high court.