I’ve never been accused of being a stickler for the rules when playing with my mates. Like them, I’ve used a foot wedge, dropped in some very advantageous places and rarely, if ever, have I gone back to the tee when discovering my ball has ended up Out of Bounds. This is only in the interests of speed of play you understand. When it comes to the blood, sweat and (often in my case) tears of intense formal competition, I treat the rules as sacred.
But there I was, 6-down after six holes of the first round of the Dinnaebedaft Matchplay Classic and pondering a potential rules violation or two. Would I be man enough to call them upon myself? What would my heroes from the past have done? What rules decisions had they seen? Suddenly, before my eyes, the course started to blur and move in wavy lines and, in clumsy 1960’s TV fashion, I was transported to an earlier era…
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