SITTING in the strange half-light which follows intensive celebrations – known to aficionados as Post-Excess Paralysis (PEP) – I was gazing hopelessly at a Carry On film and rapidly losing the will to live, when the subject of obesity came to mind.
It has been on a lot of minds lately, of course, but really, when everything that has been going on over the last few days is taken into consideration, it's a wonder anybody can move at all. It is also one of life's great puzzles that while some peop
le can
hardly look at a cheese straw without swelling like barrage balloons, others – and I am one of them – have gone through countless brain-blowing binges and remained more or less emaciated.
This is not as rosy a condition as it sounds, for there are times when it would be something of a comfort to have a bit of padding around to fill things out and add a bit of gravitas to the proceedings. I first became spare, as it were, in Cyprus, where, during Army service, I was smitten with dysentery. This was rife in the camp and I was officially pronounced a victim when the Regimental Sergeant Major swept into the tent where I lay awaiting the end and said: "All right lad, don't get up." Even in my weakened state, I had the presence of mind to think: "Fat chance, Mac." I didn't say it, of course, for I knew there were worse things than dysentery and the RSM was one of them.
However, the outcome of all this cheery camaraderie was that when I tottered wanly back into what passed as action in our neck of the woods, I weighed nine and a half stones and it has been an uphill battle ever since. Now, many years later and after a relentless blitzkrieg of regular meals and health-conscious diet, I stand, if that's the word, at 11 stone soaking wet and don't seem to be able to wring another ounce out of it. It's not that I want to be big, just big enough to make some sort of impression when I enter a room.
On the golf course, I always felt a few more pounds wouldn't go amiss. Early on, most of the golfers I admired were well set up. They weren't giants, but they were substantially built. Peter Thomson, for instance, was, on the face of it, fairly unremarkable physically, but he was compact, sturdy, and there was power under the sleek exterior. Bobby Locke was a tall, slim man who had slipped comfortably out of condition and looked all the better for it.
There was a bit of the John Daly about Locke, in that no matter the state of his girth, the South African, like the American, never lost his suppleness. His backswing was pleasingly full and, like Daly, his balance was superb. When Daly burst upon the scene in 1991 by winning the USPGA at Crooked Stick the wonder of it all was that throughout that slam-bang performance, he was never off balance.
He was hitting the ball immense distances and straight. His clubhead nearly finished in his left-hand trouser pocket on the backswing and yet it seemed he never had to so much as adjust his feet after he'd made impact. He's even bigger than he was then, but he still seems to control that billowing swing with ease. He swings a nifty camera too, which is a pity, for it is beginning to look now as if one of the game's great talents is about to be buried under the debris of a wayward lifestyle.
I've always envied golfers with rounded swings – that is, swings that appear rounded to me, though the description might not be technically accurate. In their heydays, Ronan Rafferty and Fuzzy Zoeller both seemed to make light work of the turn and the whole swing was accomplished with a rhythmic ease. Mark O'Meara is another who looks as if he could play all day and still be ready for a good night out. Angel Cabrera would be on the list if it wasn't that his inclusion seems a bit unfair. Strength like his isn't given to everyone, though it seems to have been dished out in lavish quantities to Argentine golfers. They're wonderful to watch but, for someone built like a stick, difficult to copy.
I first became conscious of the rounded swing when I played with a lad with whom I had been at school and who had subsequently joined the Merchant Navy. He was short in stature, but very solid, very strong. Had his high-speed swing been any flatter, he'd have been in danger of breaking his ankles. He hit the ball sweetly and, when he caught it right, about twice as far as I did.
During that phase, I did my best to swing like him, but it was no use. I even tried walking with his nautical roll in the hope that some of his yo-ho-ho would rub off on me, but I gave that up too when people kept asking me how my leg was.
The full article contains 873 words and appears in The Scotsman newspaper.
