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Who Moved My Golfball?

There is a marketing shibboleth that the upper-mid-level-management cheese-shifters roll out every few cliche-ridden paragraphs. It goes along the lines of this...

"If you keep performing exactly the same things exactly the same way, how can you expect different results?"

In other words: unless you change the way you do things, what things do will not change for you. In other words: you are stuck in a rut. In other words: the way you have been doing things is wrong, it's bad, it's the dead salesman's technique. It may work, but it needs to be replaced. For the sake of it. The world is in flux, as Heraclitus maintained; fire moves through all the elements back to fire again and your lazy arse is smouldering. If you don't move with the world, the world will move without you. In others words: get out of the fucking way, there's a new bunch of MBA interns coming through with new best-selling paperback text-books under arm-pit, ready to surf the boardroom tsunami on new jargon and ever-fluctuating TLAs. In other words: nothing you could ever do is ever right, nothing that currently works well would not work better by being dismantled and starting over until it is nearly good enough again (as your annual target budget continues to go up despite the quadrupled number of meetings discussing the new ways to free up time). Anything is possible if backed by the right Powerpoint slides, so step aside or jump aboard.

In other words, "change" is a synonym for both "progress" and "improvement".


But not golf.

Everyone knows that for the Rules of Golf, 'the rules' do not apply.

You need to do the same thing every freaking time with golf. Exactly The Same. There MUST NOT be change. Variation is anathema.

Every swing has to be a clone of every other. A simple scientific axiom: reduction of variables. Relax out those kinks, stay aware, don't sag, get it right, the same, smooth, even and never fail to waggle that fat bum exactly the same way. You absolutely HAVE to have a kinesthetic routine, muscles memory must be programmed in a constant cycle through repetition on repetition. Practice makes for perfection.

Everything has to be the perfectly the same for only then will everything go...

To hell in a handbasket...

A perfect spear of random destiny pierces into that speciously complex combination of address, waggle, grip, swing-plane, swing-speed, steady heady eyes-down, locked left elbow, weight-shifting, rolling feet, bending knee, ball-foot-position, shoulder angle, even-stance, and all the rest.

It is a charge of unexpectedness, a black swan on the lateral water-hazard of life, a mathematical certainty that no-one has a clue about. It is Fermat's Theorem with a bunch of pick-up-sticks fractally scattered across the fairway of fate.

It's a game called Whack, Fuck!

Your 2-month golfer* never changes, like a stubborn old-school salesman, he knows better than to fuck with the unknown. His swing never changes - neither progress nor retrogression. His bum waggle never changes, it's still neauseating and hazardous to children. His clubs might change, but that's blaming the tools and a perfectly acceptable compromise at $2,000 per set, says the Clup Pro who is on 15% commission).

For every shot is in the hands of the Gods. And the Gods are unappeasable... The Gods are pissing themselves.

What actually happens at that crucial interface of club-face and golf-ball, in those infinitesimal subtleties of power transference (like in the hierarchies around the Lee family dining table board-room table), is anybody's guess.

This one goes right, swinging sharply even further right at the last minute, way up high over the trees, over the fence and onto Links HwY, where it lodges in the tray of a passing truck and makes for Kuala Lumpur.

This one stumbles off the tee and clatters into the red markers on the ladies' tee and ricochets back behind you into the lake of the previous hole.

This one rolls over itself, leaps high then plummets down like an unconscious small white dimpled round Greg Luganis in an attempt to drown itself in the turf for the shame of you having hit it, finds a small clumps of bushes and burrows into the roots.

This next one goes wonderfully low and long, rising slightly as it draws to hold up courageously against a stiffening breeze and finally falls unmistakably square in the middle of the fairway, bounces truly, manfully, on the smooth cut grass, rolls to rest just over that rise out of sight and as you walk proudly up... it slips into a parallel universe never to be seen again.


I would have broken ninety today except for what Skippy-san calls a Snowman (8) on the ninth. Three pars and a birdie.


*Plays once every two months but would love to lower his handicap but fears that like his body-weight it is genetically pre-programmed at an intractable way-too-much over par.


Posted by: expat@large on Sep 23, 07 | 1:11 am | Profile


Too funny! And thus my handicap hovers where it has been for the last for years.

Such a happy game. I'm going to be thinking about this when I play golf here in N.C. with my brother in law Wednesday.

Posted by: Skippy-san on Sep 25, 07 | 11:13 am

As my waistline blooms...

FYI, great reading: - P.G. Wodehouse's Golf Omnibus... 30+ brilliantly amusing golf stories. Absolutely perfection of the short story writers art and, as a bonus, about the greatest topic ever! Nothing anyone could ever write about golf and/or human relationships has not been presaged in these gems.

The Beeb made an hilarious TV show out them in the 70's.

Posted by: expat@large on Sep 26, 07 | 12:16 am


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