Golf is cruel and no one is immune from ridicule. I went to the putting green and as is my want I started by pulling out the sand wedge and dropping five balls about ten yards off the green to prepare to start my chipping routine. My five year old son, Oscar pulled out an 8 iron (because he thinks the number eight is cool) and took out six balls (because he always has to have the most of everything, because he’s five).

I did some wrist excercises and swept a few practice swings across the fringe to loosen up and to check how hard the ground was whilst Oscar crushed a couple of ants with the club discovering he was more agile with the handle end than the club head end.

I lined up as if the British Open depended on my first chip and skulled it across the green. Oscar lined up wonkily with my eight iron (from a little farther out because that’s where the ants were) and chipped it onto the edge of the green where it rolled perfectly for twenty yards before breaking right and rolling for another ten before dying in the hole. He threw both hands in the air, waved to the imaginary gallery (like on TV) and put the iron back in the bag.

“What are doing?” I asked like a dumb adult.
“Didn’t you see? I put it in the hole. I’m finished,” he replied like a wise ass kid and sat down under a pine tree to find more ants.

As much as I consoled myself with Phil Mickelson’s skulled chip across the 17th yesterday at Oakland Hills (watch the skull and the Day 2 Wrap here) I would have preferred to have put my wedge back in the bag after holing out and to have joined Oscar under the damn tree with the ants.