The flyer arrived in my computer inbox offering a half-price special for the whole family. I clicked the VIEW DEAL button and up popped a glossy promotional photo featuring a smiling family. Happy kids. Happy parents. Happy everything.
I was struck by a sudden wave of nostalgia; yes, of course, I loved doing this when I was younger. I was that happy kid in the photo and my parents were those happy parents. We were that happy family – metaphorically speaking, of course.
I purchased immediately and printed off my pass with an inexplicable sense of urgency. After all, the offer expired in January 2017.
I called out to the family, directing them to assemble in the lounge room at once as I had a big, exciting, life-changing announcement. I took a deep breath and said, “We’re going to play MINI GOLF”.
Squeals of delight echoed around the room.
The reaction was just like Tom Cruise on Oprah Winfrey’s couch – screaming, jumping up and down and excessive hand clapping. It was great, I was really getting into it until the kids told me to stop, I was embarrassing.
They were completely uninterested, which came as no great surprise as they don’t really engage with my suggested games, particularly the ones involving competitive teeth-cleaning and bed-making.
But I explained that this was different, this was something we could all do together. Mini golf is a game in which no skill is required, all you need is a miniature putter, shoes with arch support and a desire to win at all costs.
It was perfect for me and I was on the road to the Holy Grail. Finally, I stood a chance at beating the kids at a sporting activity and I was deliriously happy.
Hey, don’t judge, I didn’t want it to be like this, but my husband’s sporting genes arm-wrestled mine in utero and, as per usual, mine lost.
I psyched myself for competition by listening to Eye Of The Tiger, which reminded me that it’s the thrill of the fight and rising up to the challenge of our rivals that’s important in life. Even if our rivals are all under 11 and you gave birth to them.
The day came and we loaded into the Tarago, nervous yet excited about the 18 holes we were about to fill. We got out putters and strode to the green, but it wasn’t green like in the Photoshopped brochure.
The circa 1978 synthetic turf system had faded like a former member of Young Talent Time and was more of a pale mint puke colour.
Yet the tired infrastructure didn’t exhaust our enthusiasm and we had a vigorous contest on the first fairway.
Child number two was an early leader, putting in for three. Hole two, I took over with a canny two putt.
Hole four, my eldest, the most competitive and most capable, got a hole-on-one, much to my disgust. I know, being his mother, I’m supposed to happy for him, but it meant he was now winning and this isn’t how the book was supposed to read.
Hole five, child number three joined the game with a nice tap in for two.
Yet by hole six … well, by hole six I’d fallen into a deep hole I didn’t think I’d get out of. I had come to the realisation that mini golf was actually the most boring game invented.
Yes, even more boring than “big” golf, a game that appears to go on for hours without any point whatsoever except the opportunity to wear a pastel-hued skort and have spiffy drinks and salted nuts in the clubhouse at the end.
In this “mini” game, there were no drinks or nuts, just four kids gleefully talking about how they beat Mum again. How could I have got it so wrong? Why did I think it had been the time of my life?
Then it hit me, that Kodak moment of my childhood, the photo in my mind’s eye when we were all a happy smiling family enjoying a day out at mini golf … Well, first, my parents were probably on Valium, as most parents were in the 1970s, so their glassy smiles were permanently etched onto their faces.
Second, the only explanation I have is that that photo must have been taken on the 18th hole when we all realised the game was finally over. No wonder Jason Day cried so much when he won the US PGA.
ABOUT THE WRITER
Amanda Blair lives in Adelaide with her four children and a husband she quite likes when she sees him. In her spare time, she talks a lot and sometimes does it on the radio and the telly.
This story originally appeared in the October 2015 issue of The Australian Women’s Weekly.
