A recent survey shows that more than 20 percent of Canadians are swingers.
Club swingers, that is. Golfers.
According to the survey by the Royal Canadian Golf Association, in 1998 52 million Canadians, 20.5 percent of us, played golf, up eight percent from 1966.
Canadians play more golf than any other people in the world, outdistancing New Zealand (12.6), Japan (12.5) and the United States (11.9). No mention of Scotland, where the game began.
Women and juniors showed the greatest percentage increase in the survey, though men still lead the pack; 72 percent of those on the links are of the male persuasion.
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With 32 percent of our population as golfers, Saskatchewan leads the pack followed by Alberta at 30 and Manitoba at 27.
I’m pleased to say that, when the 1999 figures are tabulated, I will be counted in, having “golfed” recently at the annual Saskatchewan Weekly Newspapers Association annual tournament held this year at the Harbor Golf Club at Elbow.
I place “golf” in quotes because, alas, though my father taught me many things, how to golf well was not one of them.
I can blend in nicely with the scenery: acceptable golf clothes, good stance, proper grip on the club. But when the time comes to hit the ball, all is revealed. I either miss it entirely or, having hit it, miserably watch it dribble down the fairway.
At a driving range one time, a friend told me that I looked like a golfer until I hit the ball.
Too true. On a good day, I can make a par three hole in 10 strokes if the wind is in the right direction.
The best part of my day at Elbow was riding around on the golf cart. It was more than 30 degrees in the shade that day, and the only breeze was when the cart was moving.
The first nine holes weren’t bad, but the second nine were a nightmare. We had to hit over trees and gullies. The experienced golfers in our foursome loved it; the best I could do was play old balls because it was a foregone conclusion that, once hit, they were gone for good.
The redeeming feature was that we were playing a Texas scramble, so we got to play the team’s best ball. We had to play four of mine, but I was able to lean most of the time on my teammates.
A few days after the tournament, having got over my nightmares and the worst of my sunburn, I found a joke in the newspaper. A fellow is taking golf lessons from a pro who says his problem is with his timing. “It’s time you sold your clubs,” the hapless golfer is told.
That’s no joke.
