The late shift

An afternoon/evening poppette at the acros served up another 50+ including another Spanish bird (this time from the Madrid scheme). However all this is nigh-irrelevant given the happenings earlier in the day,...

I'm on the eighth tee (par three, uphill all the way to an elevated green) it's been a mixed round to this point but I'm comfortably ahead, the pressure's off, the swing relaxed, the natural talent flowing untrammeled through mind and body. The visualized shot is a gentle fade, pitching short (into the top half of the front bank) and releasing up to the pin cut a few yards on. The swing was effortless and, like a perfectly timed cover-drive or a sweetly struck free-kick, the moment of contact barely perceptible. The second it left the club face I knew it was a laser-guided sphere of Exocetness headed straight for the flag,... I also knew I'd over hit it a little. Time slowed, the ball described perhaps the most beautiful arc a ball can describe and gracefully homed in on the 4.25 inch gateway to golfing heaven. Unfortunately, the raised green meant I could only see the top third of the pin but the audible 'thwock' and vigourous quaking of the flag had me legging it down the fairway and the colour draining from my playing partner's face. Approaching the green, sweat beaded, opponent floundered in wake and a Christmas morning sense of anticipation fluttered about the belly. As my eye-line reached green height the ball was nowhere to be seen, there was still a real possibility of it having pinged clean off the putting surface. Three strides on and,... WOOHOO!!! There's my shiny little pock-faced baby, beaming up from the the hole, wedged between stick and cup,... a no-bounce, no messin', club-to-crevice hole-in-one! Out comes the camera-phone for the obligatory clichéd posery (and not a little unwipe-offable ear-to-ear grinnery), cap sails skywards and thin worms of begrudging congratulations are extruded through my adversary's gritted dentures. The remainder of the round was pretty much a warm fuzzy blur, then off to get some champers and home for fizzy celebration.

Look at the quality of that putting surface. Chipping straight in is your only hope.

And the best bit of the whole episode? The nice chap who hands out the knackered clubs and collects the money at the Rogerstone Welfare Pitch & Putt let me keep the ball and tee as a trophy,... yay!