I’ve written a couple of Christmas themed golf articles for Inside Golf over the years. This one appeared in the 2014 December issue of Inside Golf.
‘Twas the day before Christmas, when out on the greens
A golfer was playing, in t-shirt and jeans;
The signs were quite clear by the shop and first tee,
To be dressed like a golfer, not a poor Christmas tree;
The members were lunching on pudding and cream,
When the vision of this uncouth golfer was seen;
The club captain roared “Now this is abhorrent!”,
Before spilling the Grange ‘59 in a torrent.
Then out of the trees came a rumble and clatter,
The greenskeeper’s cart came to see to the matter.
Club members looked out of the windows like flash,
Streamed on the new balcony of European ash.
“Who is this person who steps foot on our club,
Dressed as a vagrant, on his way to the pub?”
Then the jeans wearing golfer teed off on the tenth,
With a beautiful swing and almighty length,
He got to his ball, the greenskeeper arrived,
The members were angry and tensely they spied.
The greenskeeper marched over, then stopped on a dime,
He laughed, gave a shrug and shook hands two, three times;
The two were now chatting, smiling and healthy,
The greenskeeper turned round and captured a selfie.
“What in God’s name?!” bellowed the club captain.
“I’ll sort this thing out!” as he tore off his napkin.
He jumped in a cart, down the fairway he stole,
As the golfer played wedge, two feet from the hole.
The captain caught up with the pair at the green,
The members looked on, transfixed to the scene.
The captain walked over to confront this young scrag,
But instead he trod lightly and pulled out the flag.
Then, the t-shirted, lined up and he holed it
The captain and greenskeeper clapped and high fived it.
The flag was then waved, as if calling a truce
Back on the balcony all hell then broke loose.
This was preposterous, they couldn’t stay put,
The members all scattered in carts and on foot;
The captain had now flung the clubs on his back,
The trio set off for the tee down the track.
The next was a short, simply faultless par three
And the jeans wearing golfer, set ball on the tee.
The first signs of noise were nothing but rustle,
And then came the members, all hustle and bustle,
Dozens and dozens, gnashed teeth and sweaty
And stopped with wide eyes, if they’ve just seen the yeti,
Jaws were a-dropping as the man played his shot,
The man that they’d cursed was indeed Adam Scott!
The nine iron dropped gently, a few feet from the hole,
The crowd roared so loudly it shook the north pole.
A twirl of the club and a wink of his eye,
Scotty looked sheepish and appealed to reply.
“Sorry ‘bout the get-up, thought you’d give me a roast,
Off to the family who live up the coast”
“I’d heard your lush fairways were not to be missed,
The pro shop was closed and I couldn’t resist.”
The members were silent and hung on each word,
And laughter broke out as if rules were absurd.
“Never a bother”, the club captain said.
“We’re just glad to have you no matter the thread.”
Then more rules were broken, with welcomes completed.
Mobile phones took photos and tweeted.
And Scotty played on, members watching in wonder
He finished his round, new record eight under.
Back slaps and fawning amid several “Hurrah!”
Scotty just laughed and shouted the bar.
Not indulging himself, he had to make hay
Scott then departed, and was soon on his way.
The club kept on drinking, with some lead astray.
A hangover beckoned for all Christmas Day.
And headaches and shakes couldn’t lessen the tingle
When telling the story of when Scott came to mingle.
But if you press for more gossip of that day on the greens,
No one dares mention, Scott’s t-shirt and jeans.