11. Old Man Golf
It’s official: in less than eight months l will become a veteran golfer.
There’s a competition coming up at Royal North Devon for a trophy bearing the name of my dearly departed friend, Mervyn ‘Fudgey’ Fudge. I contacted the secretary to see if I could enter.
“It’s a veterans’ comp,” he replied. “You’ll be eligible later this year.”
I feel like I’ve been playing ‘old man golf’ for some time but now it’s official: in less than eight months l will become a veteran golfer.
These are some of the signs of old man golf:
Long irons are purely for decoration — like an air freshener in a car — or for punch out shots beneath the branches of trees
My swing speed is now equal to the top speed of my 2006 Skoda Fabia.
The left side of the golf course is not in play. Ever.
The collapsing knees. Not even at impact, but after the ball has gone. What’s that about?
An appreciation of the educated thin — one of the most underrated shots in golf.
Holding the finish as the ball lands 60 yards short of the green.
The 70-yard putt (in fairness, I was playing this shot in my thirties).
Ball flight like the Wright brothers.
Zero interest in back tees.
Multiple rescue clubs.
36 holes in a day or being waterboarded? Not much in it.
Flushing a 6-iron at the Trackman range and seeing 142 yards appear on the screen.
Hitting rescue clubs into par-3s.
Involuntary noises when collapsing into a chair after the round.
Being completely and utterly knackered after 18 holes.
Side pocket of the golf bag resembling the pharmacy counter at Boots.
Downhill into the wind = total fear.
Greens in Regulation? Means nothing.
Post-round naps.
Bogey is now my friend.
In play rather than good.
Trolley. Every time.
I’ve tried these theories out on Julian, my regular golfing partner in south Devon. Jules is a few years older than me, plays off a very commercial 11, and is an RNGC Hall of Famer having played in every edition of the Invitational.
Jules loves his golf — really loves it. He was a member of Woking for many years and recently confessed to once owning multiple pairs of tartan plus-twos.
As well as being reliably good company, Jules is highly competitive; in our first game he went seven up after seven before closing out the match on the 11th, a defeat I have yet to live down. He loves a beer — before, during and after the round — and has become a good friend over the nearly four years we’ve been living down here.
We talk about all sorts of things when we play golf together but during a restorative 18 holes along the clifftops at Thurlestone last week, we spent a good deal of time discussing ‘old man golf’, which I am now embracing enthusiastically ahead of my debut as a veteran.
Julian was adamant that the label was too negative, and that it should be called ‘mature golf’. He talked admiringly about this stage in a golfer’s life and how it was an age for true connoisseurship.
I like the lack of expectation that comes with old man golf, and the creativity it fosters
I like this thinking because while I do miss being able to hit the ball out of my shadow, I am enjoying the more cerebral challenge of playing within my physical limitations. More than anything, I like the lack of expectation that comes with it, and the creativity it fosters.
Thurlestone is an absolutely stunning spot on a calm day. The sea is visible from every hole and while this lesser known Harry Colt design is let down by some repetitive holes on the back nine, the views are on a par with Pebble Beach.
As we discussed the positives of old man golf — the reliance on golfing IQ rather than power; the acceptance and understanding of one’s game and creaking body; the total absence of pride in hitting three clubs more than younger playing partners; the chiselling of a score from very average or substandard shots — my game just got better and better.
All this superannuated chat seemed to unlock something deep within, and I found myself channelling Tom Watson at Turnberry in the 2009 Open Championship, the ultimate display of old man golf, albeit from a man with eight majors to his name (rather than a 2006 Skoda Fabia), including five Opens.
After our round, we sat in the clubhouse devouring pints of Guinness and bacon baps as I savoured a rare victory. It was not 8&7 but enough to briefly redress the balance.
As we talked, a man in his late sixties hobbled across the lounge, oblivious to the Africa-shaped piss stain he’d just left on the crotch of his tan slacks.
Outside, another elderly gentleman limped across the terrace towards the car park, blissfully unaware that around 34% of his buttocks were on show to the people behind him.
‘Now that’s old man golf,’ said Jules.
I’d like to think I still have a little way to go.
5 Great Displays of Old Man Golf
Arnold Palmer shooting his age on the PGA Tour in 2001, aged 71
Jack Nicklaus shooting 71 in a Pro-Am in 2017, aged 77.
Sam Snead firing rounds of 67, 66 at the Quad Cities Open in 1979, aged 67.
Tom Watson finishing runner-up at the 2009 Open Championship, aged 59
Arthur Thompson shooting his age in 1972 at Uplands GC, British Columbia, aged 103
One of the downsides of old man golf is you start losing your golfing friends. Fudgey was the first a couple of years ago. This is what I wrote for his memorial service.
Fudgey was a big kid at heart — a very big kid in his case. He always retained a childlike enthusiasm for golf — the game, the places, the people, the camaraderie.
Having been raised by a rugby-obsessed, Welsh-speaking father, there was so much about Fudgey that felt familiar. What mattered to him most were being a stand-up guy and dependable friend. They were values that had been instilled in me in rugby changing rooms with my dad. Unlike his putting, Fudge never came up short in these departments.
“Dear boy” was the typical greeting, delivered in a distinguished Welsh accent, usually at the crack of dawn as strode onto the very back Kashmir Cup tee on the 1st hole at Royal North Devon. Collars up, shorts pressed and moustache bristling with excitement about the 36 holes that lay ahead.
He’d have a couple of practice swings and we’d pose for our obligatory first tee photo — my head level with his chest. Then it would begin.
Fudgey was a very good golfer in his time, but those days were behind him when we became regular partners in the Kashmir Cup, a brutal, exposing and white wine-fuelled examination of links golf that closes the August Meeting at Royal North Devon.
We settled into our usual state of togetherness, which was as participants in a very small, painfully intimate self-help group
Our annual pairing became known as the Mencap Twoball. We were both afflicted by numerous golfing demons. Within a few holes we had given up all pretence of being competitors and settled into our usual state of togetherness, which was as participants in a very small, painfully intimate self-help group.
Fudgey would invariably three-putt the 1st for an 8 (after putting one if not two in the burn). A knifed chip though the back of the 2nd would bring on more agonising and self-loathing, before some encouraging words and an impassioned appeal to his inner warrior saw things settle down for a bit.
Unfortunately, the respite was always too brief. We both knew that the 10th and 11th lay in wait. By this stage, Fudgey would be leaking oil, and hope, at the prospect of spraying balls into the rushes like an unmanned hose. Inevitably, the wheels came off and careered into the pit lane, taking out mechanics and spectators.
It never mattered where or when the letters NR went on his card. We were having too much fun. We loved being out on the links, we relished the challenge and we really, really enjoyed the craic – however tough it got. But what we enjoyed more than anything on Kashmir Cup Saturday was lunch.
Fudgey was a man made for the clubhouse. He was at his best when holding court in the corner of the bar, under the ancient honours boards.
There he’d sit, telling stories of his golf in better days and roaring with laughter while his moustache picked up radio frequencies ranging from Heart FM to BBC World Service.
If we weren’t in the bar, we’d be sitting in the restaurant area, ice buckets filling the table as yet another bottle of Chablis came out to dull the pain of a No Return. These are the days I will remember and cherish.
Fudgey was part of the fabric of Royal North Devon, to my mind the greatest golf club in the world. When I first became a country member, he welcomed me into the fold. He did the same for countless others over the years. He was a giant – both literally and metaphorically, and his enthusiasm, bonhomie and sense of fun were infectious.
The Fudge was loved for his foibles and his quirks. We loved him for the fact his head resided in a different weather system. We loved him for the way his knees collapsed when he chipped and for the anguish brought on by his reliably awful short putting. We loved him for his Swiss Tony moustache. Most of all though, we loved him for his warmth.
The links and the clubhouse are emptier places without him, but the memories of all the good times endure. Thank you for all those good times, Fudgey. And thank you for being a great bloke and an even better friend.
If there were honours boards for such things, your name would be everywhere.
I loved the story
I definitely feel old now that I’m 15 years older than some who play in the Mid-Ams. Also being more than double the age of my opponent in a play off this year was funny. My Necky cut of the tee foxed him. My only real concession though is that I have dumped the GPS. I don’t need to know. I hit what it feels like .