For eleven years I was the man holding the umbrella.
My wife Lisa took up golf eleven years ago and promptly got rather good at it. She plays off 13. She was the first female captain in the history of Brynhill Golf Club, our home club in Barry. She has marshalled at DP World Tour events and kept the scorebook for Rory McIlroy’s group. For the last two years we’ve run a women’s golf clothing business together.
So I know a lot about golf. I can tell you which polo goes with which skort. I can carry a bag, hold a flag and say “good shot” with total conviction whether it was or not. What I couldn’t do was actually play the thing.
This summer, at the age of 64, I decided it was time. Some men buy a sports car. I bought a glove, and dug out a set of Wilson clubs that had been sitting around for about fifteen years. It came with two drivers, for reasons nobody can now explain, and one club so mysterious that when I showed it to the club pro he looked at it and said, “What’s that?” The bag was falling to pieces, so Lisa took pity on me and handed over one of her spare TaylorMade bags. Total investment in my new hobby: one glove.
Lisa has kept score for Rory McIlroy. Now she keeps score for me. I like to think it’s broadly the same job, just with more adding up.
Card one: 21 August. Shorts. In that.
To get a handicap you have to hand in three scorecards. I chose to start mine on the one Friday afternoon in August when Barry decided to recreate the monsoon.
Yes, those are shorts. Yes, those are white socks. In my defence, I’m Welsh, I’m 64, and between those two facts I really should have known better.
I went out in 67, which felt like a lot until I came home in 75. The 10th, a par 4 of 339 yards, took twelve. The 18th, a par 5 of 558 yards, took thirteen. I’ve since worked out that’s an average of 43 yards a shot, which is roughly how far Lisa hits a gentle chip.
Total: 142. Card signed, marker unimpressed, socks ruined.
Card two: better, and somehow worse
Late September, dry, and four shots better at 138. Progress! Except my Stableford points went down, from 27 to 24, because I’d saved all my good holes for the ones where I’d already run out of shots. I may be the only golfer in Wales to improve by four strokes and get a worse score.
A few days later, on 26 September, the handicap came through.
54.0. For anyone who doesn’t follow handicaps, 54 is the maximum. It’s the ceiling. The system simply refuses to go any higher. My actual scores worked out at about 57, so in a sense the World Handicap System has already knocked three shots off me out of pity.
Sixty-four years old and handicap 54. Somewhere there’s a joke about my age and my handicap catching each other up. I intend to make sure it’s the handicap that comes down.
Card three: Saturday 3 October. I made a par. Two, actually.
The 3rd at Brynhill is a par 3 of 148 yards. I took three shots. A proper par, the kind that goes on the card without an asterisk. I’d love to tell you I was calm about it.
Golf, being golf, then handed me a 10 on the 6th and a 9 on the 9th. The 9th is 133 yards. It’s the shortest hole on the course. Nine.
But then the 16th, 154 yards, another par 3. Another 3. Two pars in one round. I finished on 136, my best score, with 31 points, also my best.
Live commentary from the buggy
On one of these rounds Lisa decided my tee shots deserved a broadcast. She filmed herself from the buggy, sunglasses on, offering expert analysis while I lined up behind her. The sunglasses stayed on throughout. I’ve decided that was to protect her eyes from the glare, and not so I couldn’t see her wincing.
Here’s the hopeful bit
Three rounds. 142, then 138, then 136. Six shots better in six weeks, my Stableford up from 27 to 31, and two pars where there had been none. None of it is pretty yet. All of it is going the right way.
If you’re thinking about taking up golf and worried you’ve left it too late, I started at 64. If you’re worried you’ll be the worst player on the course, you won’t be. I’ve got the certificate to prove the spot is taken.
Golf is one of the very few sports where it genuinely doesn’t matter when you start. There’s no age at which the course stops letting you on, and thanks to handicaps a beginner can have a proper game with a good player. Lisa plays off 13 and I play off 54, and we can still have a real match. One day I’ll win it.
Everybody starts somewhere. The scores that feel embarrassing now are the ones you’ll be proudest of later, because they’re how you’ll measure how far you’ve come.
The plan
Off the yellow tees my course handicap is 56. Par 72 plus 56 means net par for me is 128. My best is 136. Eight shots. Get round in 128 and I’ll be playing to my handicap and dropping below 54 for the first time.
The big one is under 24 by the end of 2027, by which time I’ll be 65. That means getting round in the mid-90s, about forty shots better than today. Ambitious? Very. But Lisa marks my card, so if I get there, at least nobody can say I made it up.
Every round goes on the Handicap Tracker, the good ones and the thirteens. Along the way I’ll write about what I’m learning, the kit I try, and the gym sessions I’ve started, because at 64, four-and-a-half hours on a hilly course turns out to be exercise.
Next card, the number is 128. Wish me luck. Bring an umbrella.
