Regular readers of this column will know that I have written about a number of sports. Football has appeared frequently, as has cricket, tennis, marathon running, boxing and mud-wrestling (although, I think that last one might have been for a different publication).
But I have never touched on golf. Why not? After all, a sizeable number of Jews (not to mention a number of sizeable Jews) play the game. I have thought long and hard about this and have come to the conclusion that it is because watching golf is boring.
Having said that, I had never really played until recently when a friend asked me whether I'd like to pop out for a quick nine holes. I replied politely I had been looking forward to a quiet afternoon defrosting the fridge. But her regular partner had let her down and she was insistent. So, with a heavy heart, I hired a bag of what I was reliably informed were golf clubs, and found myself standing, driver in hand, at the practice range.
When I thought no one was looking I hit the ball as hard as I could. It did not go quite as far as I expected. In fact when I looked down at the tee, it was still there. I swung again and this time made contact. It went roughly four yards before coming to rest.
I looked around at the (predominantly Japanese) people who were thwacking the ball efficiently into the far distance. I noticed that they brought back the club slowly and then swivelled their hips slightly before following through extravagantly. I did my best to follow suit. I swung, I made contact. The ball went miles. Dead straight. Like an arrow. Apart from the birth of my two children and Chelsea's 1997 FA Cup victory, this was undoubtedly the best moment of my life.
A couple miscues followed and then I did it again - the ball sailed away. For a jaded journalist in his middle years, here was proof that life could still be beautiful and thrilling.
Then I went around the golf course itself, and realised that there was more to it than just hitting the ball a really long way. The trick is to get it into the hole in as few shots as possible. This is very hard and very frustrating, but oddly addictive. Every now and then a chip would land next to the hole and a putt would fly in. It felt amazing - totally pointless, of course but amazing.
As the days and weeks went by, I began to practise my swing without a club - often at the bus stop. I started to initiate conversations with people about graphite-shafted drivers, I became cognisant of the terms "hook", "draw" and "double-bogey". I dreamed of eagles and albatrosses, I browsed the polo necks in the M&S casual-wear department and developed a strange attraction to two-tone brogues.
I have now booked a round on a full-size course. I am unfeasibly excited about my new pastime. In fact, I have plans to write a weekly golf column in which I review the latest goings on in the golf world, tell you about my round at the weekend, give tips on improving your swing etc.
Then I sat down to watch some golf on television for the first time since my epiphany. And guess what? It was still excruciatingly tedious. Just guys in (admittedly quite tasteful) casual wear practising their strokes and lining up putts. The only difference was that now I wanted to be like them. Quite a lot.
Next week: Choosing the right pitching wedge.