I have never liked golf. In fact, I am of the firm view that it should be spelt backwards — flog!

I have never understood the logic in hitting a ball and chasing after it. In cricket, when you hit a ball, 11 chaps rush to retrieve it and give you many more chances to hit it again from the same spot. So to me, golf is nothing but self-inflicted fruitless labour.

I also object to its timing. I feel amazed when I see my neighbour, a perfectly sensible chap in all other respects, taking off for the golf course at the unearthly hour of 5 am, pushing a trolley and returning sweating in the scorching sun at 11 am. Being over 70, he then takes to bed and is seen again only the next morning, trudging along to the same route to self-torture!

The only thing good in the game is that it has many other critics like me. This has in turn spawned a whole new genre of literature — one focused solely on unravelling the mysterious allure of the game, which has often been labelled as “the rich man’s way of playing marbles”.

Every time I am made to feel like a lesser mortal, I turn to one of the many golf stories doing the rounds and get my own back.

A golfer was once seen taking an unduly long time to hit the ball. As he swung the club forward and backward many times he was asked the reason for this delay. He explained that his ma-in-law was watching him play from the course balcony. He was told then that he was wasting time, as he would never be able to hit her with the ball from such a distance!

... contd.