The Lost Ball Saga- Travails of a Golf Ball

I come from a very distinguished family of golf balls. I am a Titleist. I was happily playing in the golf courses from Delhi to Munnar to Shillong and Simla. My owner had a ‘single handicap’. He also used to hit long and straight. This is borne by the fact that I have travelled over the fairways of so many golf courses across the country. And got used to sleeping in the same pocket of the golf bag with the same set of friends for a long time.

But alas, all this changed one day!! My owner decided to gift me to his nephew when he heard him wailing about how many balls he loses every day. I shifted to Bhopal. I had a new home in an old golf bag.

My first view of the SCEPTA course at Bhopal made me fall in love with it. It was the month of December. The fairways were well manicured and the greens lush with sharply nipped velvety grass. While sailing over one of the fairways, I happened to look to my right and saw a flock of spot-billed ducks talking with even greater number of egrets in the water body. The barn owl on the bare tree in the centre of the lake just squinted at me as if knowing that very soon I shall be diving. But I landed fairly on the fairway. I flew over blossoms of ‘Kachnar’, lantana bushes and power lines. But at the end of two hours was safely put back into my new home. O it was exhilarating!!

Next day I was joined in my pocket in the golf bag by a host of riff- raff. I think they were 20 in number. They all looked like tramps. Dirty, their names faded and some of them carried injury marks. Poor things. Most of them were from the Callaway family and others from Taylormade and Srixon. There were a couple of Dunlops too. Any way being the first occupant of the bag, I welcomed them all and wished them safe journey across the fairways whenever they had to. We all became friends.

Each morning at the crack of dawn two of us would be taken out and the rest of us would brace themselves for a bumpy ride for the next couple of hours. I knew something was wrong when after about fifteen minutes two more of my new friends were taken out of the bag. I overheard the caddies talking to each other, “ Sahab ko khelna nahi aata hai.” Any way at the end of the day, while four Callaways had gone into battle, only one returned along with a Srixon.

I am not sure why I was not put on the course, but five times a week, two friends were taken out of the bag at the crack of dawn and another two to three over the course of next two hours or so. The first two never used to come back. Of the other three, one odd fellow was put back in the pocket. The first Sunday, which is the day of rest, we were just six left from the original twenty-one. There were other five homeless tramps who had joined us that week.

Sleeping in my bag kept in the balcony, I was woken up by the discussion my owner was having with his daughter who is a student of psychology. He was telling her how he had lost over 15 balls that week and had found 5. “Dad, that’s stealing. You must return those 5 balls to their owners.”

“But beta I do not know who do they belong to.”

“Then you should just put them back where you found them.” “Maybe they will come back looking for them when there is no pressure of the four-ball behind them pushing for a pass”, she replied.

“But what about the balls that I have lost?” he asked.

“That’s your problem. You should improve your game” she replied with finality. Discussion over. My boss had no opportunity to explain the concept of ‘finders-keepers’ for lost golf balls. He was marked a thief.

Entire next week we found ourselves in the driving range. None of my friends were taken out of the bag. Apparently balls for practice were taken and returned.

After that there was a slight reduction in the number of balls not returning home. With the approach of summer months and the undergrowth vegetation drying up, new tramps kept turning up every day. Our joy knew no bounds one day, when even though we lost three friends over nine-holes, we found four new ones.

All the new ones had very interesting stories to tell. There was a dignified Callaway who having helped his owner register the longest drive, just could not be found in the rough at the next hole. He was destined to be part of my family three days later when we were looking for a Taylormade in the same rough.

In the mean while I had made a small hole in the bag and enjoyed the scenery outside. The spring time saw the flowers in full bloom and the riot of colours was simply enchanting. I thoroughly enjoyed the bumpy rides.

There was another Callaway in a fairly good shape who joined us later that month. He was telling us how his boss used to discount the number of times he was hit from a tee to it’s green and then from the next one and so on for every hole. Now that is cruelty unleashed. We balls know that we are made to be hit. That’s our destiny. But the least that can be done to honour us for services rendered is to record diligently the number of times we are hit and not discount that. The poor Callaway was lamenting that this had been happening for quite some time. Over a round of 18-holes the poor ball used to be hit at least a hundred times but for the record his boss mentioned only 80 to 85. Having got sick of it he decided to just drop into the water hazard close to the 8^th green. He remained submerged and happily hibernated for three months before coming up once the water dried.

My daily bumpy rides continued.Since I was the only Titleist, I remained in the bag as a lucky mascot. New generations of Callaways and Dunlops came and went. As my boss’ game improved, the number of tramps reduced gradually. Tramps were being replaced by new shiny balls. We slowly got to know each other and shared stories. The two soldiers who went out everyday came back happy and tired. We had very few casualties in those months.

As the saying goes, it was too good to last. My boss had a heart problem and we remained off the course for four months coming back after the monsoons. The water hazards were full, the fairways were like rough and the rough were really rough. And to add to my worries the boss had forgotten to hold the club properly let alone swing it.

It was simple massacre over the next few weeks. Each day was like a battle. So many new balls went out of the bag and very few remained. It was time to go the driving range. Even that had enough grass to trap the balls. So, after two days the boss conferred with his caddie and went back to the course. But the new balls in the bag were replaced by tramps again.

It’s been two months now and our losses have come down. The guys going out report back that they were getting into the holes at ‘one to two over’ consistently. On a good day two to three pars were also reported.

My bumpy rides continue, beginning at the crack of dawn. I enjoy the light breeze, the lush greens and the fairways. I am happy to note that my boss is walking more briskly and he is able to hit straight. Turn over of the balls in the bag is at its lowest and we are enjoying ourselves as one big golf family from one round to the next. Only I wonder when will my turn to sail over the fairways come? I feel I need to do my bit.