The first time I golfed in Ireland was at a charity tournament: I'll refrain from mentioning names and describing the sinful proceedings, except to say the female caddie who stripped naked for a photo on the 14th tee had quite a few of us pulling our drives.
My fellow players cheated openly, drank heavily, chattered incessantly, laughed uproariously. They had as much regard for rules and etiquette as Pancho Villa. I thought this was due to the festive atmosphere of the tournament. Later I saw that this was wrong. Naked caddies aside, that's how people play golf in Ireland.
The difference between the Irish style of play and that in the US is glaringly obvious every time I go out, just as it was the day of the tournament. Which was actually rather unfortunate, because, by the end of the day, I had the distinct impression that the members of my foursome, our two gorgeous caddies, and a handful spectators all thought I was a total asshole.
It started off awkwardly. I hadn't played in a while so I was a little nervous about my game. I met up the other members of the foursome - all friends - and told them I wanted to loosen up before I played. They agreed it was a good idea. I went out to the driving range, but they never appeared. After hitting a bucket of balls, I went back to the club and found them sitting at the bar.
"I thought you were going to loosen up," I said.
"We are," they replied.
It was all pretty much downhill from there.
It's just a quirky cultural idiosyncrasy. The average American guy may normally be as laid back as an Italian at the beach, but put a golf club in his hands and he turns into a German at the bank. Suddenly he's driven by inner angst, a slave to the rules, desirous of victory.
And it's so hard to change the way you are. Throughout the day, my partners kept having fun, and I kept working on my game. I could almost hear them rolling their eyes behind my back. At one point I couldn't find my putter. It was suggested, in so many words, that I might have sat on it.
I came to golf at a fairly late age, and looking back, I have to admit I was having about as much fun as an orphan in a Dickens novel. I used to get up at six to go to the driving range.
That's how it is back home. Your average golfer in the States has gone to golf camp. He has taken lessons. He has a sports psychologist, or at the very least, he has talked to his psychologist about his golf game - I know I did. Your average golfer in the States looking into the abyss, boldly facing his inner demons.
The average Irish golfer doesn't look at golf as a test of personal worth. He had a lot of tests when he was in school, and doesn't much care for them now.
The irony is that most of the guys I've played with here are better golfers than me. That's because the looser you are, the better you play. So, lately I've been trying to play like an Irishman. I've been going out with one of my neighbours - we'll call him Shane. Shane gives his age as either 55 or 58, not because he's lying, but because he forgets. His eyesight is so bad that he once mistook a puffin for his ball. ("There it is," he cried as we walked down the fairway. "What a shot!" And then his ball flew away.) He natters the entire time we're playing, a continuous loop of jokes, gossip, and stories, which often come out wrong.
Playing with Shane, it's impossible to work on my game, because he won't shut up long enough to let me collect my thoughts. So instead I forget about my game, and enjoy myself. I laugh a lot, which is easy enough when you're playing with someone who habitually hits himself on the head on his backswing.