18 holes! Who has the time?

I’m a WhatsApp guy. I have family chats that exclude my parents. Friend chats that exclude my enemies. Secret friend groups that exclude my friends.

It wasn’t all that long ago that my favourite group chat comprised my regular four-ball. A notification from that social sanctuary arrived with its own distinct note – the joyful ping of a flushed message lighting the beacons for an overdue hit. Life put on hold as we compared calendars to find a tee time to fit all.

The pandemic was the origin of our Fab Four. For a time, besides avoiding the plague and Zoom quizzes, all anyone could do was play golf. So a bunch of my friends took up the game, significantly reducing the average age of golf’s membership while heavily bloating the average handicap.

I didn’t mind the “new normal” back then, at least once restrictions eased. The freedom to work from home was a godsend. The time lost to a weekly commute suddenly ripe for reallocation. A chance to get fit, write that memoir, dust off the XBox, bake sourdough or play golf.

So golf we did, safely, two meters apart, not touching flags or raking bunkers, just grateful for the gift of the game itself as higher risk sports waited patiently for the post-Covid green light.

But that was then. Fast-forward to Free Ireland in the summer of last year and my WhatsApp golf group had fallen into disrepute. To be fair, I was as much to blame as anyone, selfishly taking the scenic route to Australia via South America while shipping the clubs Down Under. The other three amigos were selfishly having kids.

The last time I dared dust off that old group chat I was greeted with a picture of a baby lying helplessly in its own excrement. I believe the term was “poonami” – a gravity defying natural phenomenon caused by an explosive nappy. Huggies should really look into that.

Sadly my once favourite chat had been commandeered by perplexed first-time fathers wondering how something so small could be so cruel. With their playing careers behind them, instead of discussing golf gadgets they compared prams and sleep deprivation. The impossible dream of nine holes had been replaced by an even more elusive target – nine hours’ kip.

With no mulligans in the game of life, I’m glad to say all three survived the year. I believe the babies have too. The lads even manage to eke out enough time for the very odd game, though lurking in the group chat shadows I can confirm that peace in Northern Ireland was more easily negotiated.

Is it any wonder that the average age of an active golfer in Ireland is 106 given the time pressures on young adults today? Carving out five hours on a weekend is a tall order for anyone, kids or not. I used to laugh at Mam when she’d tell me that running a house was a full-time job. Then I moved out.

Golf Unions have long obsessed over attracting a younger audience but time stands in the way of the traditional 18-hole version of the sport making strides. There’s simply not enough of it. Pace of play needs to be enforced more than ever while shorter forms of the game need to be seriously considered to ensure golf continues to thrive.

Nine hole comps are great but even better is a golf club I’m after stumbling across in Brisbane split into three six-hole loops. For about €15 you can squeeze in a competitive game after work and it only takes an hour or so to complete it. Don’t get me wrong, nothing beats 18-holes on a sunny day but something is better than nothing. It just takes some creativity to give a time poor generation access to a game for life, without the need for a twenty year break in between.

I say all this after one of the boys recently told his wife he had played golf when really he drove to the clubhouse carpark and reclined his seat for a few hours’ sleep. It was an imbedded lie… I’ll get my coat!