9.40 a.m.  S Cuddington (24)  G Treforest (24)   R Jones-Jones (24)

The next threesome to grace the first tee at Sunnymere that day was Sylvester Cuddington, Ged Treforest, and Rhys Jones-Jones. Like many club golfers throughout the land and probably every other land where golf is played the three friends always played together in club competitions. What was different about Cuddington, Treforest and Jones-Jones however was that in addition to sharing each other's company they also shared afflictions, although not the same one - Cuddington had a nervous tic, Treforest a club foot, whilst Jones-Jones, perhaps appropriately in view of his surname, had a stutter - and it was these physical handicaps, along with their respective long golf handicaps, which had bonded them together. Gallows humour is not a stranger to golf clubs and collectively the three were known throughout the club as 'Casualty'.
     There is no other man in the whole world who is as optimistic as a golfer striding onto the first tee. As he is about to set forth on another round of golf he knows for sure that he is going to play well. It doesn’t matter that the last time he took to the greensward he played like a drain, nor the time before that he would have been hard-pressed to hit his hat, never mind a golf ball; a man fancying his chances of getting hand relief in a massage parlour could not be more optimistic of success than a golfer stood on the first tee.
     There are seldom, if ever, grounds for such optimism. But then why should there be? There can be no possible reason for optimism. Why should a swing which has consistently got its owner into more trouble than the Americans got themselves into in Vietnam suddenly start working properly? Why should a swing which in the past had always contrived to dispatch a golf ball in any direction but the correct one, and about half the distance required, suddenly transform itself into something that could propel a golf ball forward, arrow straight, and the correct distance? Why should the player’s skill with a sand wedge suddenly improve when every time he had previously called upon the services of that club to get him out of trouble it had succeeded only in getting him into even more trouble by removing from the bunker enough sand to build a moderately-sized sandcastle, whilst at the same time leaving the ball in the bunker, and in a much worse lie? And why should a putting stroke that for the last twenty years has managed to ensure that the ball consistently missed the hole with unerring certainty suddenly start causing the ball to find the centre of the hole?