Recently, I had a heart procedure.
It didn’t go as planned and after seven days in ICU I was discharged under strict orders to ‘take it easy, rest, and do not let your heart rate go over 80 bpm’.
It was also advised that I discard my heart-rate monitor on my wrist and ‘stop checking my pulse’.
Experts, hey?
The drugs they gave me worked, like a dream. The craziest dreams, mind you. In fact, that’s what spawned this column, which is being written 10 minutes after waking up on the Sunday morning after watching LIV Golf (Miami) late into the Saturday evening.
In this dream, I had been playing at the Dimension Data Pro-Am at Fancourt (that’s why it’s called a dream). It was across two days. On the first day (I’ve no recollection of which Fancourt course) I had a morning tee-off and shot a 79.
So happy was I that I got a number of pro golfers to sign the shirt I’d been wearing, and it was covered in black koki scrawls.
The next day my tee-off was 1:25pm. I laid out all my clothes in the locker room, but before donning them I channelled my inner John Daly and went for a beer in the clubhouse. I’ve never really been one to spend time on the driving range.
Teeing off from the 10th, I went back to the locker room at 1pm. Bag was sorted, clubs sorted, caddie sorted, Basically, I was sorted, with only the getting dressed part to do.
This is where things turned from dream to nightmare. I pulled on the same shirt that I had worn the day before – yes, I know – and an official came up to me and said that it was against the rules. I couldn’t wear a shirt that had signatures all over it. I protested, saying no one had told me that and ‘it was my lucky shirt’, which it actually would have been.
I had to go to the pro shop to get a new shirt. And trousers (I can’t recall that reason). The only trousers were several sizes too big for me and while one pair eventually fitted, that’s to say the waistline was between hip and bottom rib. Still, a new belt helped solve that. I was shirtless in the pro shop.
I recall feeling rather exposed and foolish. I was handed a turquoise shirt without any logos of manufacturers’ names and it was several sizes too big. Many Xs before the L. I tucked it into my trousers.
An official told me my group – which was the last of the day – had already teed off. I attempted to pay for the purchases with my new credit card, but it hadn’t been bank activated. I switched to my old credit card, which had expired.
I don’t recall how that was resolved but I raced towards the 10th tee, only to be told that my partners had already completed the 11th hole.
I ran to the 12th tee box with my driver in hand and where Keenan Davidse (I’ve never met him in real life) was about to hit his shot.
I ranted that I was late because I wasn’t allowed to wear the shirt I’d chosen. ‘You should check the local rules,’ he said.
I then woke up, heart pounding – sorry doc, I blame golf – but then started thinking about the rules.
I’m guessing if my playing partners had already finished two holes I’d get a DQ? Even if I’m in the last fourball, and I’m an amateur (ring, ring?). It was not matchplay. I don’t actually know.
Is there an actual dress code – and yes, call me old-fashioned but watching the haphazard dressing of the LIV golfers on TV the night before surely triggered all this? Who tells you that you are not wearing the proper attire? What happens if the payment mechanism in the pro shop is not functioning and you’re not carrying cash?
And that’s how my Sunday started.
– This column first appeared in the May 2024 issue of Compleat Golfer magazine.
Photo: Pexels
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