Downtown Daegu: Teaching Americans A Real Sport...

I missed my glove.

I never expected it to be this hard, but little had I realised how much I enjoyed wearing a solitary glove. Korea had opened my heart to a new experience and I was now faced with the dilemma of spending every day in the local seafood restaurant repeatedly ordering shrimp in order to get the customary white shrimping glove or go cold turkey.

Even the thought of removing gloves totally from my life sent a cold shiver down my spine. I had taken a glimpse into a new world and I liked it. But what to do? I could of course order some shrimp and then flee the restaurant laughing manically and take the glove with me. I could wear it to school. Would the school have an issue with a man who likes to wear a glove? Hmmm....our dress code says "Professional". Surely a sparkly glove was not intrinsically linked to being an "Amateur".

The children might be a little confused. But then by the end of most of my lessons they look fairly confused anyway. If there were awkward questions I could just say I had suffered third degree burns in a horrendous weekend mishap and now had the hand of a charred corpse.

No, this was ridiculous. I needed to put it out of my mind and so I did.

And then the invitation arrived...

"Pub Golf this Saturday in Downtown Daegu, golfing attire is a must, create a team and see you there".

A thrill of excitement coursed through my veins and for once it wasn't at the prospect of drinking myself into a drooling wreck. Oh I would indeed be in golfing attire, I already owned trousers, a polo shirt and trainers so now all I needed was a sun visor and.....

A FUCKING GLOVE.

Who said there was no God?

I skipped towards the shops, briefly passing a pudgy faced Korean lady with hair down to her knees! Down to her KNEES! She looked like the illegitimate love child of Chairman Mao and Cousin Itt. But I wouldn't let her preposterous appearance distract me a moment longer. I found two gloves and two visors at Daegu's reasonably priced supermarket "Home Plus". That was me and Dubs kitted out.

Dubs being American had no idea what pub golf was and neither did most of my fellow team mates who were also mainly American. I explained quickly that every bar is a hole and every drink has a par. A pint is par four; neck it in one and you are one under par, do it in five gulps and you are one over etc.

They got it. They liked it and they thanked me for my concise yet accurate description.

And we were off. The glove gripped a glass of alcohol perfectly, and due to my wildly unhealthy lifestyle over the past decade I was in perfect fighting condition for this type of "sport".

I had two American girls on our team, Miss Dreads (cunningly named after her hairstyle) and Emily. They put in a valiant effort but struggled on some holes.
I wanted to go with a xenophobic slant and blame it on their nationality, but then Miss Dreads' fiance Mountain (he wanted a nickname and chose this for no reason) and Dubs were having no such troubles, so I had to reject the xenephobia and embrace my long lost friend misogyny.

Stupid women, having trouble downing entire pints in one go? And to think we gave you the vote.

I was flying, me and the glove felt untouchable, no wonder Tiger Woods thought he could get away with anything. I could barely blame the man with my new insights into his world. He has to dress like this for a living! It's enough to drag anyone from the straight and narrow.

As the final drinks were drained, the score cards were added, a ripple of anticipation spread across the fifty or so assembled golfers and the results came in. Our team had won. We celebrated with a round of drinks and myself and the only other Brit on our team (a cheerful chap named Yatesy) roared with pride at our respective perfect scores of 18 Under Par.

I wandered home in a warm glow of contentment. For the first time in my life, I had tasted real success and it tasted like booze. I had found my calling and began to incessantly harrass the event organiser to hasten forward another Pub Golf night.

I folded up the glove and thanked it for the part it had played. And as I slipped off into a blissful sleep, I thought once more of the pudgy faced woman and her stupidly long hair...I bet she wished she could have seen me drinking tonight.

Until next time, this was Monkey Roberts.