The Hacker | Peter Corrigan

Cometh the hour, cometh the sub...

One of those unexpected and inexplicable things happened last week: I played well. And the witnesses to this rare event were as shocked as I was.

Of course, I am speaking relatively. I played well for a hacker: hitting a few good shots but, more importantly, making a mess of only one.

What's more, I was on the winning side on the opening day of the post-Christmas winter league. This is heady stuff, particularly as I was acting as substitute.

I couldn't commit myself to playing full-time during the 10-week competition, but I put my name down on the subs' list and was called up by the club president to replace him last Sunday. A mix-up in dates had him away on a Caribbean cruise on that weekend.

Some keen winter-leaguers would have sent a sub on the cruise, but the pres decided to forego the pleasures of a January morning on our course just this once.

If you are wondering why he chose me as his understudy, one of the reasons is that he was obliged to have a high- handicapper like himself. I suspect also that he didn't want anyone who would set an example to which he couldn't live up to on his return.

My only concern was not to be too big a burden on his partner, Patrick, who plays off three and who broke the course record last year with a superb round of 64. I was encouraged by the fact that he is a happy-go-lucky Irishman who is rarely fazed.

However, mindful of the number of carefree men I have reduced to sobbing hulks, I was apprehensive as I reported for duty. To my horror, Patrick was ashen-faced and wheezing like an old goat before I'd even struck a ball. He had been hit by a virus and, despite the penicillin prescribed by the doctor, was not in good shape.

When I teed off on our opening hole, a long par-five, our chances looked no healthier. But miraculously, I boomed one straight down the middle. Pat put me 140 yards from the pin, I stuck a seven-iron on to the green, and he holed a 45-footer for a birdie. Our opponents – Colin, off a neat eight, and Mac, off 16 – moaned like hell and mounted a counterattack that kept the game very tight.

Pat was struggling on bravely, but reached a crisis on the 12th when his shot came off the toe of the club, hit a young silver birch tree and ricocheted into the middle of his chest. He dropped to one knee in pain.

I stood over him, not quite knowing what to do."Never mind," I finally offered. "Perhaps it'll loosen some of the phlegm."

He didn't seem comforted by this lay medical opinion and continued in silence, ruefully rubbing his bruised breastbone. We lost that hole, but we rallied to win the next two and went on to win the match 2 and 1.

Our opposition, who had played very well, were not overjoyed to lose to an invalid and a renowned hacker, and seemed largely puzzled by the sudden upsurge in my form; as, indeed, I was.

I sipped my beer as their insults flowed over me. But the day's magic moment came when Colin said: "Mac's away two weeks Sunday; do you fancy subbing for him?" If you only knew what it's like to be in demand.