‘After I’d reduced my handicap to five and passed the arithmetic and handicraft test, I qualified for my card. I’m now an official member of the Professional Golfers’ Association.’ ‘You mean that’s really all there is to it?’ ‘Yep. You could be a pro, too, one day in the not-too-distant future, with a swing like yours.’ Coming from Mike, this was the best possible news. I’d had my suspicions all along, of course – my ability to out-hit men twice my age and point out the hidden flaws in the shoulder turn of Ryder Cup players had given me an inkling that I was in possession of a special golfing something. But now I had the concrete proof. In six months of competitive golf, I’d already reduced my handicap from twenty-four to fourteen, claiming first prize in such prestigious tournaments as the Rabbit’s Cup and the Crumpwell Charity Gong. Even if you took into account next winter’s break and the odd mediocre performance, it didn’t take a mathematical genius to work out that I’d be turning professional shortly before my fifteenth birthday.
