YOU know the feeling. You're on the first tee for the society's opening outing, of the year. Yesterday you went out to the practice:

range and hit 400 golf balls. This morning you could barely roll out of bed, never mind "open your shoulders". Your wife wants to know how you got the blisters.

Your playing partners, off 10 and 12 respectively, have put, their drives in the heart of the fairway, about two feet apart. Although these two golf balls are 250 yards away, you know they are mocking you.

You address the ball: "Don't do this to me," you say. The ball plays dumb; it knows it won't need cement shoes to find itself at the bottom of a pond.

Right. Now remember, a slow backswing. No, no, a sslloooow backswing. Better. Keep the head still. Weight on the back foot. Alright, now, slooow and ... SWING. Fortunately the fella on the ninth green has been watching all this and is able to skip out of the way. The ball clatters into his trolley and skitters to a halt beside the starter's hut.

There are many things you are tempted to say, but you confine it to a brief apology for the trench you've left in the tee box and a simple: "Ah well, the first one's always the hardest."

WELL gang, that sort of carry on's not for me, not anymore. No sirree. For this year I'm going to do it. This year I'm going to learn to play golf.

Now, given that I've been playing golf on and off for nearly 30 years, you might' rightly inquire: "What do you think you're playing at?"

But that's it precisely: I've been "playing at" golf. Indeed, there was a long period, about 10 years, when I didn't do even that, didn't touch a club, didn't own one.

For the past few years I've been a member of The Irish times society, but that meant only half a dozen rounds a year. And I'd manage another 10-12 rounds in short bursts while on holiday down the country.

My society handicap is 24 and climbing, and I don't think I've ever broken 30 points in competition. It's unlikely I've ever broken 100 in a round; in fact, given that I regularly pick, up during Stableford play, I don't remember actually completing a scorecard in recent, history.

But all of that's about to change. In truth, it already has, beginning last October when I became a member of the soon to be illustrious Christy O'Connor Golf Club.

The CO'C is based out Hollystow GC, Oliver Barry's fine pay and play course in the general environs of Mulhuddart. Much like Deer Park, it has accepted a few members and affiliated to the GUI, so the likes of me can, for the first time, boast an official, handicap without having to sell one of the children to raise the fees for one of the more established courses.

The second prime benefit of joining a club, after the handicap, is that it's easier to force yourself out of the leaba and onto the course when you know you've put your name on the time sheet the week before and people are expecting you.

NOW, for better or worse - we'll know in a few months - the Sports Editor has got wind of all this, and has expressed an interest in helping me (if that's the term) to get my handicap down. With the innate gentility and sheer good humour for which he is rightly renowned, he refers to me variously as "The Guinea Pig" and "The Victim".

Still, he has offered to pay for a few lessons, provided my progress - or lack of same - is played out in the national press. Fine with me. And I look forward to his reaction when I book into Leadbetter's school in Florida.

Over the past month I've finally put in the three cards necessary to qualify for a handicap, and the result, I was initially pleased to announce, is 20. Then a "friend" pointed out that the handicappers wanted me to be able to go out as well as come in. So maybe 24 is more accurate after all.

Anyway, let's set a target: off 20 in April, What will it be in, October? Fifteen? Twelve? Sure, no half measures here. In, October I shall play off 10.

Cut 10 shots in seven months? Any bets?