The Single Strap Soldier

He’s off the clock, checking out to check in with himself. Electronic hype music on arrival usually does the trick. The familiar carpark exchange of flip flops for soft spikes, wet the towel and he’s at it again. You can’t keep him away, the dune junkie is back for another roll of the dimpled dice. Phone in the glovie, he’s not to be reached, he’s not to be beat. He's offline and on time for a solo tee time chasing daylight. Another shot at glory, a wellness retreat. Flight mode golfer activated.

Without so much as a glance into his slim bag of bats, the marksman draws his next weapon, well before reaching his failed fairway finder. The upside down number doesn’t matter, a lofted iron will do. The hardy sack is tossed to the ground, he waggles any worries away and lets rip at the heart of the dart board.

In one fell swoop there’s a free swing of the blade interrupted with a hard shwappp! The dust dances, the fescue ticker tapes and the Single Strap Soldier emerges, striding purposefully toward the green with his bag of arrows smoothly slung over his shoulder before the ball starts its descent. 

Dreamed up in New Zealand, and created by master craftsmen with carefully curated ingredients sourced globally, the Hiroki single strap is the vehicle of choice for this salty soldier. All weather, all pleasure, minimalist utility golf bag. One generous pocket is all he needs - more than enough room for one small jar of scroggin, one sleeve of local flavoured soft covers, one green Sharpie, one spare glove, one banana, one water bottle, one windbreaker, one pilsner, and a vintage tobacco tin sporting poker chips, tees, plasters, antihistamines, three Werther's Originals and a pre-rolled two skinner for good measure. 

A soldier on the road, out of town, but right at home. Remote worker, local golfer - this ain’t his first rodeo. Te Arai to Timbuktu, Barnbougle to Bandon; it’s birdies or bust for this twilight trooper, travelling light and ever ready. Take only divots, leave only broken tees. And always take your golf clubs - the one gamble he’s not willing to dice with.

He makes short work of the opening stanza, quickly hauling in a faltering fourball, admirably on foot, but slowed down by oversized baggage and undesirable chat limping home. Not his vibe, not his tribe - midweek warrior playing through. He acknowledges the reluctant wave from the motley line up of stale, pale teapots calling him up. A quick spit polish as he tosses one down, level pegging. Green fee player, par three slayer…batter up.

All eyes are fixed on the lone wolf on the tee. It’s his moment, he shoots around eighty on a bad day - when he’s counting. But right now, in this moment, with this audience…he's Paper Tiger. He holds the warm, trustworthy off-shore zephyr, and his penetrating fade thumps into the deck, releasing into the circle of friendship. A 180-odd yard walk follows, he savours the feeling and devows his banana. Meanwhile, the Auld Firm take their time to sweat over bogeys or more. He fixes the small crater, knocks the shorty in with the back of his iron before sliding it back into his Hiroki, which never leaves his shoulder. No gimmie birdies. A tip o’ the cap and onto the next.

Carry less, play more. Don’t hipster me, these half-set heroics are a badge of honour. Inspired by American classics - light on the shoulder, yet soft on the pocket and effortlessly sharp on steeze - one-up on arrival bit of kit. A tug of the tee, no collar, no nonsense. Wooshka! Another slash sends one deep and the soldier is clear of traffic once again. 

Lugging a bag of Japanese steel, comprising five shiny Samurai Sword blades, a chief, a deputy and a flat stick - all he needs is a front edge number plus some basic maths and he’ll manufacture the rest. It’s a wrestle, a dog fight, a tango and soulful duet all wrapped into another nine-to-five escape. The minimalist golfer shreds unnecessary items and the local links in the process. Never a full bag, always a full experience.

But it’s not all frozen ropes. He knows to drive for show, punch out for dough. He’s seen the splashes, he’s heard the rattles, he’s fallen for temptation and slipped through the trap doors. He knows he’s not good enough to get mad. Bad read, good speed. That’ll do. He preaches compression and compassion. Zen golf ain’t perfect.

‘Make shots, not count strokes’ has become more than a mantra, it’s a philosophy that goes beyond the links, it’s inked in his forearm, right underneath a tattoo of Hogan. He plays from the forward tees some days, deep blue on others. He plays alternate-shot with his good lady; three holes, six, twelve or whatever he’s got time for. He’s tech-forward, equipment backward, and shapes sideways slingshots. Give ‘em an hour and he’ll make fast duty of the local links. 

Tonight he's a single, but he’s part of a wider company at ease wearing tees - the anti-collar, facial fescue brigade are on the rise. They might look different to you, but they traverse the same terrain, albeit with different luggage and levity. Many of us are not new to the game, we've been here the whole time - growing minorities hiding in the shadows waiting for ageing committees to step aside for our time to march. Until then, you’ll find us in the dunes.

He cuts a lonely figure, with slender early evening shadows stretched across empty contoured fairways. But to the contrary, it’s these magical moments minted on his golfing blockchain that bring him back. His might be a one-ball, but five forged irons provide just the right amount of bag chatter he’s looking for. He marches on, into the peachy sunset chasing par or less, and something deeper than a score for a card he’s not keeping.

@auldmanpar✏️