Who knew a club not even tour pros can hit properly would save my game?

The arrogance. The ego. The dictionary definition of “substituting expectation for ability.”

If, as the saying goes, “Even Jesus can’t hit a 2-iron,” how in God’s name was I thinking I would be able to achieve it?

Well, because I’m insane, of course – not that there’s anything wrong with that.

Technically, it wasn’t entirely my fault that I wound up in this particular pickle, standing akimbo, surveying the evil laid out before me disguised as a golf hole.  How we all love the 195-metre water carry with the added bonus of water behind the green. 

I had no idea what to hit. To my knowledge, there is no club in my bag that carries the ball 200m and stops like a jet on an aircraft carrier. And if the club does exist, no one’s shown me how to hit it. 

But I had a crack, anyway. First, I tried a rescue that went too long, then a 4-iron that went too short. As I considered teeing up a 3-wood with an open stance and a wasabi slice-type swing, the smarty-pants A-grader in the group said, “Try this!”

I looked at him, then what he was holding towards me. A 2-iron – hilarious. It was a Titleist, though, and I did have a set of DCI 981s that I loved up until the day they mysteriously vanished from the garage with my Kiss records and colourful Coogi sweaters. Funnily enough, it was the same Sunday my wife and a friend had a stall at the Camberwell market. 

“I don’t do 2-irons, fella,” I said to him. “Most professional golfers don’t do 2-irons anymore. Rory doesn’t use one. Spiethy doesn’t use one. Tiger couldn’t use one. The world’s moved on.”

“To this,” he said with a Darth Vader-ish rasp. “The world’s moved on – to this. The 712U.”

Honestly, it sounded like the generic brand name for something you’d apply to an itch. “Play it like a 3-iron,” he said.

“I don’t have a 3-iron.”

“Play it like a 4-iron, then.”

So I teed it up to a 4-iron height, had a little waggle, a bit of feel, and proceeded to smoke the ball towards the green. There was the hint of right-to-left in the air, and when the ball landed, it was gentle – delicate even.   

“Yo, play-ah!” said the 2-marker, sounding a lot like Justin Bieber. This bloke had to get some consistency around his impersonations. “You’ll probably knock that in for a six. Nice shot.”

It was a wipe, but unlike any wipe I’d ever had before, it felt so good. I wanted to hit the Titleist 712U again, but felt weird about asking. In the end he passed it to me on the tee at 18 and I striped it again. 

Putting my old 2-iron in play came with some mixed results.

Putting my old 2-iron in play came with some mixed results.

Who knew they even made 2-irons anymore? The whole way home I tried to remember if I had one filed in the garage. Maybe it was in the roof cavity with the clubs that are in trouble and will be let out when they’re prepared to work properly. I’ve definitely had them in the past. There was a Callaway, the first of the Big Berthas, I think. Dad had a “Controller” that I did some hard yards with. And there was another, definitely. 

Yes. That’s it. The unplayable one – but not anymore!

So I put the Chicago (found a review online claiming a “con” was that the heads kept detaching from the shaft) 944 DB 2-iron in the bag and barely slept for the excitement. The word “tour” is stamped on the hozel, so this bad boy must be good. 

I played Macquarie Links – because 2-irons are for links courses – and pulled it out on the fourth, hoping to squirt one up the middle, right of the trap, left of the water. All I managed was the “squirt,” and that was when the ball found the water after racing off the hozel. 

Much the same thing happened on the three other holes where I’d dreamt of using the 2-iron. Dam club cost me at least six shots.

So obviously, given the success of the 712U, it wasn’t me that was the problem, it was the club.

If I see you at the golf shop, do not get between me and the Titleist display. It’d be like trying to get between The Bachelor and a rose and those girls he’s falling in love with – that s**t always ends in tears.

Andrew Daddo