Topic by Deepak
My boss loves golf.
When she is not platform-hopping checking production in the North Sea, she is busy swinging clubs at the wind-swept golf courses in Stavanger and Bergen.
With my annual contract due for renewal coupled with my eagerness to get a higher day-rate, I accepted her repeated offer to introduce me to this ‘wonderful game’.
Ok, so you don’t know golf.
Let’s get the basics. Well, in fact, there isn’t much of that.
You have long sticks with a bulbous head on one end. The size and weight of this head varies. I guess it is kind of proportional to one’s ego. These long sticks are called ‘clubs’. They have TW inscribed on them. To remind you not to mess around with 100 other women when you are well married. Then you have the ball which you simply knock into infinitesimally small holes in the middle of nowhere. Ok, I can sense your frustration build up. You think this is downright silly, isn’t it? Hush. This is golf. And we haven’t even started!
Earlier this autumn, on a fine weekend morning, I dragged myself out of bed at 4 am and rushed to Gdansk airport to board the Wizzair flight to Bergen. Admit it, budget airlines help you become a better contortionist. Sandwiched between two colossal mounds of mid-fiftyish Norwegians, I writhed in pain through the entire hour and a half flight.
Norway is a stunningly pretty country with picture-perfect scenic views. A cruise along the jagged west coast taking in the fjords is an once-in-a-lifetime experience. But this trip is certainly not about fjords and nature. A quick change at the hotel, I am off to the course.
The red brick walled façade is plain, with fir and spruce trees lining the edges. The car park has a fresh coat of asphalt and gleams in the mild autumn sun. The air is crisp, cool and menthol-fresh.
I enter the building and see my boss seated in the hallway; she smiles, walks up and offers her customary firm handshake. I wince in pain yet smile, remember I have a contract renewal coming up soon. We head to the members lounge on the right. Rows of maple cupboards line all the sides of the lounge with cups and trophies of varying sizes and shapes albeit all carrying a statuette of a man with a peaked cap swinging his club or a golf ball. We tuck into soft boiled eggs, smoked salmon, pickled herrings, lefse, and toast, washed down with tepid coffee. Several men, most of them old, mull around aimlessly peeping into the chafing dishes at the buffet while others are ‘blackberrying’ over breakfast.
I tip over the last coffee into my mouth and head out through the side door with my boss.
‘This is the course, isn’t it lovely’ she gushes like a five year old who just got his first red fire engine truck for his birthday. I nod in humble submission. Verdant velvety pastures, trimmed neatly amid rolling plains, straddled by tall fir and maple trees. Nearby, on a slightly elevated area, a 60ish man with horn-rimmed glasses and snow white goatee tees off. A group of 10 or so around him peer at the ball’s flight and God-knows-where-it-landed, break into cheers and applause. Soon it’s our turn. Amid stern instructions on how to place my leg apart, allow the upper torso to relax, I take a swipe at the ball and miss it. I hear a small crack in my back as my spine splinters into a few million pieces.
I huddle over to the nearest golf cart and we are off to the next hole. If one hole wasn’t enough, I am in for a shock when I hear there are 17 more to go.
Here’s a low-down on the terminology –
If you hit a bird with your ball, it’s called a birdie. And yes, if you hit an eagle, it’s called an eagle. No one hits an ‘eagle’ in Norway coz there aren’t any eagles here. So they stick to birdies.
Then there is a caddie; he’s the guy who carries your blackberry for you. As well as the golf sticks in a bag. And if you are not sure which stick to use for your shot, just walk up to the caddie and absent mindedly stretch out your hand toward him without eye contact; he will invariably give you the right one.
And now you are thinking it’s all fairy tale stuff and all golfers live happily ever after. Right?
No. The club also employs mentally deranged persons at exorbitant costs. These guys dig up the oh-so-pretty courses at a few locations for reasons unknown, fill it with sand and call it a ‘bunker’. Why they do it baffles me beyond reason. The bunker is also a place where golfers mutter four-lettered obscenities.
17 holes, a sore wrist, a broken spine and hours of boredom later, we are done finally! Yippee!!
I profusely thank my boss for opening new vistas in my life by introducing me to golf and leave her grinning ear to ear. Remember, I had worked on this mini-speech for two weeks now.
Norway is one of the most expensive places on the planet. A can of beer in the neighborhood kiosk can knock you back by 15 US. But this isn’t the time to argue about world economy. I hit the hotel bar straight. Few stiff vodkas and soother nerves later, time to leave for Gdansk in the late-nighter.
PS. I have signed my new contract. It is a sweet deal. Golf worked. I intend selling my TW clubs on a polish e-bay equivalent. I will survive.
Till summer next year.
When my boss invites me again for a round of golf.
My boss loves golf.
When she is not platform-hopping checking production in the North Sea, she is busy swinging clubs at the wind-swept golf courses in Stavanger and Bergen.
With my annual contract due for renewal coupled with my eagerness to get a higher day-rate, I accepted her repeated offer to introduce me to this ‘wonderful game’.
Ok, so you don’t know golf.
Let’s get the basics. Well, in fact, there isn’t much of that.
You have long sticks with a bulbous head on one end. The size and weight of this head varies. I guess it is kind of proportional to one’s ego. These long sticks are called ‘clubs’. They have TW inscribed on them. To remind you not to mess around with 100 other women when you are well married. Then you have the ball which you simply knock into infinitesimally small holes in the middle of nowhere. Ok, I can sense your frustration build up. You think this is downright silly, isn’t it? Hush. This is golf. And we haven’t even started!
Earlier this autumn, on a fine weekend morning, I dragged myself out of bed at 4 am and rushed to Gdansk airport to board the Wizzair flight to Bergen. Admit it, budget airlines help you become a better contortionist. Sandwiched between two colossal mounds of mid-fiftyish Norwegians, I writhed in pain through the entire hour and a half flight.
Norway is a stunningly pretty country with picture-perfect scenic views. A cruise along the jagged west coast taking in the fjords is an once-in-a-lifetime experience. But this trip is certainly not about fjords and nature. A quick change at the hotel, I am off to the course.
The red brick walled façade is plain, with fir and spruce trees lining the edges. The car park has a fresh coat of asphalt and gleams in the mild autumn sun. The air is crisp, cool and menthol-fresh.
I enter the building and see my boss seated in the hallway; she smiles, walks up and offers her customary firm handshake. I wince in pain yet smile, remember I have a contract renewal coming up soon. We head to the members lounge on the right. Rows of maple cupboards line all the sides of the lounge with cups and trophies of varying sizes and shapes albeit all carrying a statuette of a man with a peaked cap swinging his club or a golf ball. We tuck into soft boiled eggs, smoked salmon, pickled herrings, lefse, and toast, washed down with tepid coffee. Several men, most of them old, mull around aimlessly peeping into the chafing dishes at the buffet while others are ‘blackberrying’ over breakfast.
I tip over the last coffee into my mouth and head out through the side door with my boss.
‘This is the course, isn’t it lovely’ she gushes like a five year old who just got his first red fire engine truck for his birthday. I nod in humble submission. Verdant velvety pastures, trimmed neatly amid rolling plains, straddled by tall fir and maple trees. Nearby, on a slightly elevated area, a 60ish man with horn-rimmed glasses and snow white goatee tees off. A group of 10 or so around him peer at the ball’s flight and God-knows-where-it-landed, break into cheers and applause. Soon it’s our turn. Amid stern instructions on how to place my leg apart, allow the upper torso to relax, I take a swipe at the ball and miss it. I hear a small crack in my back as my spine splinters into a few million pieces.
I huddle over to the nearest golf cart and we are off to the next hole. If one hole wasn’t enough, I am in for a shock when I hear there are 17 more to go.
Here’s a low-down on the terminology –
If you hit a bird with your ball, it’s called a birdie. And yes, if you hit an eagle, it’s called an eagle. No one hits an ‘eagle’ in Norway coz there aren’t any eagles here. So they stick to birdies.
Then there is a caddie; he’s the guy who carries your blackberry for you. As well as the golf sticks in a bag. And if you are not sure which stick to use for your shot, just walk up to the caddie and absent mindedly stretch out your hand toward him without eye contact; he will invariably give you the right one.
And now you are thinking it’s all fairy tale stuff and all golfers live happily ever after. Right?
No. The club also employs mentally deranged persons at exorbitant costs. These guys dig up the oh-so-pretty courses at a few locations for reasons unknown, fill it with sand and call it a ‘bunker’. Why they do it baffles me beyond reason. The bunker is also a place where golfers mutter four-lettered obscenities.
17 holes, a sore wrist, a broken spine and hours of boredom later, we are done finally! Yippee!!
I profusely thank my boss for opening new vistas in my life by introducing me to golf and leave her grinning ear to ear. Remember, I had worked on this mini-speech for two weeks now.
Norway is one of the most expensive places on the planet. A can of beer in the neighborhood kiosk can knock you back by 15 US. But this isn’t the time to argue about world economy. I hit the hotel bar straight. Few stiff vodkas and soother nerves later, time to leave for Gdansk in the late-nighter.
PS. I have signed my new contract. It is a sweet deal. Golf worked. I intend selling my TW clubs on a polish e-bay equivalent. I will survive.
Till summer next year.
When my boss invites me again for a round of golf.