There’s something about the start of the pro golf season that sparks new realms of excitement in me.
Notwithstanding my juvenile crush on the G-Mac, it is more a yearning to dust down my clubs and follow in the footsteps of Tiger’s comeback after a lengthy period in hibernation. Inspired by involuntary chunks of free time and watching the golfing greats lock horns under an Abu Dhabi sun, I decided it was time for a seasonal revival of my own. It’s no secret that my lifelong passion for the game is all consuming, only not during mid winter months. Unashamedly a fair-weather golfer, I generally hold out for eternal sunshine which is a staggeringly pointless exercise given my residence is well north of the equator.
But not so the case in 2012, I summoned a few valiant chums and braced myself for a transcendent experience. Resembling a modern day Mitchelin Man’s trophy wife bulked up on base layers and unsightly thermals, my mind perpetuated a tropical fantasy like some supercilious fool.
