Broken
It's 11pm and I can’t figure out how the foot pump on my inflatable single mattress works.
As I circle back to the same failed technique for the 4th time, my fate is sealed. I lay the flaccid rubber rectangle on the ground, gingerly stoop down on top of it, and pull the blanket to my chin.
This isn’t the start I was hoping for.
I’m lying on the dusty office floor of Balmore Golf Club on the outskirts of Glasgow: the place where I learned to play golf.
I’m here because I’ve set myself a challenge, one that I already regret. I’m going to live in this clubhouse, in this room, until I break the course record.
Under normal circumstances, it's a ludicrous task, but there are a few historic details that tip the scales in my favour.
As a kid I spent long summers accidentally grooving a swing here. Unknowingly engaging in intense pressure practice for the £5 note in my pocket and taking every single opportunity to mark a card and improve my handicap. These fairways feel like home: every hump and hollow etched somewhere into my muscle memory.
On top of that, the current course record is a surprisingly mortal 5 under par. Course records are often mindblowing-black-out-scuba-diver-low rounds of -9 or better, but not this one. I’ve shot -6 a dozen times before: this won’t be unchartered territory.
Balmore is a comparatively short course, at just 5,500 yards, a good day with the driver leaves wedges into every par 4. Hole some putts, and you’re in the money.
But the scales tip both ways. I haven’t played a competitive round in two years. Haven’t practiced either. Haven’t once tried to silence the inner committee of self-doubt. Now, two cameras are pointed at me point blank like loaded rifles, reminding me of the £10,000-ish budget that’s been sunk into documenting my nostalgic torture.
These yays and nays have been weighing on my mind for the last 3 weeks as I meticulously planned the details of the shoot. A chorus of optimism, dread, self-recrimination and “what ifs.” They’re a broader example of the dichotomous, abrasive thoughts that plague my mind over each and every golf shot.
I pride myself on balanced thinking, on letting all voices be heard. Admirable over dinner with the in-laws or down the pub for the local derby, disastrous on a golf course.
Balance lets both sides approach the lectern and eloquently deliver their case as you weigh up your conclusion. But competitive golf is a war zone. Psychological warfare. The army of intrusive thoughts hurl grenades over the barriers, storming the barracks of your ego and capturing the flag amidst the smokey haze. Through the chaos, it's your task to seek out the remaining positivity soldiers and pep talk them into strategising and picking off the negative onslaught.
It’s exhausting. That’s part of the reason I stopped. Swing thoughts seep into your sleep, course management decisions colonise your thoughts. Being relaxed and present becomes a biannual luxury.
Yet as I step into the gauntlet of the course record breaking challenge it's clear that there’s only one way through this mess. I’m going to have to deliver one serious military pep talk and raise an army of confidence from the ashes.
Because no matter how well I play, the intrusive thought brigade will come, as they always do. And they’ll only be stopped by equal and opposite forces. My ammunition is old. But it's around here somewhere.
Time to reload.