Reading the Green

My dad has a way of reading greens that I've never fully understood.

He’s been playing golf for decades; early mornings before work in the spring and late evenings after work in the summer. He’s never been a big club man, and by that I mean he doesn’t hang around the clubhouse that often; coffee and roll in the morning, quick pint after the round, then up the road. He enjoys the game more than the culture.

As we get older, we start to see the world differently, we read the world, rather than just look at it. Reading the weather becomes a skill, we recognise subtle changes in the sunrise as deep reds give way to amber pinks alluding to the kind of day we have ahead of us. My children take these colours at face value, without a care for what's next, but my dad has seen it before, and knows what to expect, and what to pack for the course.

Winter in Scotland tends to linger until Easter, one last look around before the changing of the guard; shaking hands with Spring and taking a well-earned rest until October. Still frosted shadows spectate from the sides, as bluebird skies welcome in the first players of Spring. A sweater is still needed, at least for the front 9. My dad would reach for his lambswool without thinking, the same g.LOMOND he’s adored for years, soft enough for a mild April morning and warm enough when the wind turns on the back nine. As we make our way around the course, there’s always a chance of a shower, but it will likely clear up. Thawing bracken glistens silently, as temperatures rise into double figures, quiet please.

No man plays the same round twice; for it’s never the same course and he’s not the same man. The famously unpredictable Scottish weather helps to ensure that no two rounds are the same, but we have experience as our caddy. At some point along the way we learned how the sea gusts will carry, we know that the sand is still heavy and we know that the lingering dew isn't quite ready to let go.

As we approach the green, that long awaited sunlight perches high and bright above and bleaches the surface to a pale, unreadable shimmer. My dad crouches, tilts his head, takes his time. He sees something I don't. Something learned over decades of early mornings and late evenings, of rounds played in every mood the Scottish sky has to offer. He doesn't explain it. He doesn't need to.

He just makes the putt. Buaidh no bàs.