Luck... or Skill ??

The Golfers' Hell post has stirred some comment - my old school chum Malk recalls a ridiculously skied shot that was followed by a punt on to the green and a regulation par, with my brother chipping in with the following -

"My dad and I have endured many more moments of Stumpy jamminess, oh yes, many, many moments, since your account took place. King of the daisy cutter, finder of the gap in the wall and the only person I know who could say "I meant that", when you are watching with your mouth open and inwardly performing such language as to make Mr Ramsey blush."

His feeling is that Lady Luck looks upon me more favourably than perhaps other golfers, and that I am overly blessed with golfing good fortune. My high handicap and empty mantlepiece would suggest otherwise, but it's an interesting perception. Much of it stems from what he calls "daisy cutters", but these are not lucky - these are the result of a sound swing and decent fundamentals, undone by a slight topping off the ball, or playing a fairway wood off a hanging lie.

This disparity in perception is best summed up by an incident during our annual "Friendly Family Foursomes", where my other brother and I take on my youngest brother and the auld yin.

It's the 1st hole at Kingsbarns, and all four drives are nicely away. So all on the 2nd shots, and my brother (the only golfer stroking at the first hole) hits a peerless 7 iron to 15 feet. His smug smile says "there for net 1 - beat that".

Undaunted, I survey my approach (and, yes, I did outdrive him). Being a links course, there's more than one way to skin a cat - in this case, a full bloodied 7 iron, or a knock down 6. Given the clear approach to the green, I elected the latter, and nonchalantly punted a low 6 iron up the fairway. A few hops and skips later, the ball bounces up on to the green, and finishes 8 feet from the hole.

If the look on my brother's face at that point in time had gone to auction, bidding would still be going on now - it was priceless. All credit to the wee fellah, although visibly shaken, he did nudge his putt to 3 feet, leaving me with my 8 footer - a cheeky wee left to right downhiller.

Well, the outcome was never in doubt, the ball rattling sweetly into the middle of the cup. A lesser man would have crumbled, but I doff my cap to my swarthy sibling, he dribbled in his 3 footer for a fighting half. Unfortunately, we lost the match in the end (mainly because I suddenly lost my game halfway up the 10th fairway), but the first hole is a moment I'll enjoy for the rest of my life. And one that my brother will never forget either, but perhaps for different reasons.