Drawing A Line In The Sand When I was young, I lived in a small town in the central lowlands of Scotland. It was what would today be called, a "blue-collar" town with a history of steelwork and coal mining, but with the boom times disappearing and a prosperity then sadly declining. It was a proud town though, determined to retain its independence and resistant to any attempt to see it linked to either of the major cities to the East and West. Fiercely cold in the dark, and short, days of winter and seemingly incapable, even in the height of summer of existing without the strongest of winds, it was a place with the warmest of hearts. A place where children such as I, could walk the streets to and from school without fear; cocooned safe in a society that policed itself and where retribution for any act of violence would be likely to come swiftly on those responsible. It was a place with fewer Policemen than public telephone boxes! It was a world for me in which really only two sports were played; soccer and golf. I had played soccer at school and in Representative teams at District and County levels, and had briefly held thoughts of where my skills in that game might take me, but the reality was that I had not been blessed with the best of eyesight. I had no problem when it came to reading (although my teachers probably thought otherwise), or in the basic requirements of daily life, but poor vision at distance meant the use of spectacles from an early age, which meant that the playing of soccer - at least for anything else other than fun, was clearly out of the question. These were times long before the advent of contact lenses. And so it was to golf that I turned. I started, as many youngsters did, by using old clubs - in this case my Father's. Of course they were all too long and heavy for me and they had hickory shafts, heads of iron and leather-wound grips, which quickly became devoid of traction at the first sign of moisture. One of the benefits of living in a small town was that nowhere was very far from anywhere else. At first I practised in the local park, and then the school grounds; then, it was some land next to the local golf course which became my practise area: my sanctuary, my 'home-away-from-home'. I would walk there after school, carrying my bag of clubs and a few balls and, family circumstances being what they were, usually had the luxury of being picked up and taken home by my Father in the small family car afterwards. Although Father was a reasonably good golfer, his extensive work commitments prevented him from playing on a regular basis and, up to that point, he had not even bothered to become a Member of this local golf club. The land that had become "my practise area" was in fact owned by the Club, although I did not know that at the time, and my presence there was rather more tolerated than authorised. That said, no one ever stopped me and I passed many a summer evening - and even autumn evenings - into near darkness, with just my clubs, my golf balls and a few "four legged grasscutters", as sheep were known, for company. It would be fair to say that my interest in golf was probably increasing at the same pace as my ability to hit the ball and, although my friends at school openly talked of their joy each year at the approach of the Christmas period, the onset of winter was the most miserable time of my year. Daily practise was rendered impossible by snow on the ground and that it was near dark by the time the school day was finished. My yearly calendar could truly be broken down into "..times I can play golf" and "..times I can't". One day, as the dreaded winter was thankfully migrating more fully into the next spring, my Father told me to get my bag of clubs and said he was taking me to the Club. Although I had been taken there in the car a few times before, I remember thinking it odd that he had emphasised that he was taking me to ".the Club" and not to my practise area. Had there been perhaps some problem or complaint about me? Or was there some other change that had taken place, over the winter period, which would mean that "my" practise area was about to be taken away from me? Fortunately my concerns were groundless, because Father quickly expanded his initial comment by saying that he was taking me to the Club to see someone. Apparently I was going to "..meet an Old Man ". He said he had thought for some time that I had actually been starting to show a little potential in the game - certainly enough to start matching my interest in it, and that it would be a good idea for me to have my game looked at by someone. Unknown to me up to that point, some people had seen me diligently practising and had spoken favourably about me to Father; he had then, again without my knowing, come up several times prior to the winter break to watch me. To say that I was surprised (and at the same time delighted), would be an understatement. Yet, not to put too fine a point on things, I felt very nervous about the whole situation, and the short drive to the course passed in almost total silence. Even now, over fifty years later, I remember vividly what happened when we got there. We got out of the car and Father went and spoke to a lady I had never seen before while I got my clubs out of the car, shut the boot, and walked over towards them.. Later I found out that she was the sister of one of the officials at the Club, and responsible for many of its administrative activities. As I approached, the lady shook hands with Father and turned to leave but not before nodding in my direction and giving me a giving me a wave and a warm smile. "She tells me he's over at the Practise Area," Father said. "Let's get a move on". Now, this was somewhere I had never been. This was a place for "Club Members Only", as the large sign confirmed through what seemed freshly-painted lettering. I suppose by the standards of today it would be considered somewhat basic: it was after all just a flat area of land - perhaps about fifty yards wide and a coupe of hundred yards long - but it was, to my eyes, hallowed ground. I was so engrossed in being there that I didn't notice when Father separated himself from my side and went towards a small tree-shaded area to our left. When I eventually turned, I saw him approaching a person who was then just rising from an old wooden bench. As he stood, I could see that he was about six feet tall with grey hair, and had an upright stance, the likes of which I had previously seen in people from either the Police or the military. I took this person to be the 'Old Man' who had been the subject of the earlier conversation. Although I have no real recollections of my thoughts at that time, I do still maintain that I had a the feeling that something significant was about to happen in my life. As was the custom in those days, I was not involved in or welcomed into, this initial conversation between the two of them, but after a little time, Father turned towards me and said " Laddie, I'll be in the Club when you are finished. I expect you to listen and learn." And with that he was gone. The Old Man and I did not shake hands but after my Father had made himself scarce, he simply said, "Okay Laddie.let's get started." I am not sure what I had actually expected but I was more than a little surprised when he simply sat back down on the bench and said, "Okay. Now leave your practise balls on the ground here, go a few yards over there, take some practise swings with any club you like, and let me hear what you can do." Hear..? What did he mean 'hear'? I soon got the message. His challenge to me was quite simple. I had to swing the golf club at low speed, backwards and forwards, making consistent contact with the ground at the point where he told me to imagine the golf ball would have been. I could hold my wrists tight or I could allow them to flex if I wanted to. He didn't instruct me in anything at all. In fact, he didn't seem to care how I swung. All I had to do was swing fifty times - effectively twenty five swings in both forwards and backwards directions - and I was to count each swing out loud. Never once through all this did the Old Man raise his eyes to look at me or at the contacts being made by the club on the ground. He just sat there on the old wooden bench puffing on his pipe.and he listened. If he didn't like what he heard - if I either missed the ground or made excessive contact with the ground - he would simply call out, "One", and I would have to start the process all over again. He was looking for fifty contacts with the ground that were the same; fifty contacts which made the same sound. Imagine my frustration at getting to about 45 swings only to miss the ground and hear him call out, "One". I'd never been asked to do anything like this before. As the session progressed he challenged me...
