The line between rest and frustration blurs when even turning over in bed requires tactical planning and wincing through a breath.
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This was not how I imagined my return from Jamaica would be.
I arrived back home after hospital with two fractured ribs an injury I wouldn’t wish on anyone. At first, I underestimated them. They’re only ribs, right? But after just a week, and several emails from concerned friends warning me about how notoriously difficult rib injuries are, I’ve learned the hard way.
There’s no cast. No brace. No way to sleep that doesn’t hurt. Just time and pain and the hope that each day edges you closer to healing.
The physical pain is one thing. But for someone who found a new passion in golf over the past year, the real battle is mental. No gym. No course. No swing. For now, just stillness, discomfort, and a slow clock.
That’s where “Golf Life” came in, my unexpected saviour during these strange, sleepless nights. I’d stumbled upon the YouTube channel almost by accident, scrolling endlessly in the dark. Fronted by Jimmy Bullard, footballer turned golf fanatic, it’s a light-hearted but strangely addictive show.
Jimmy, with his cheeky charm and boyish energy, takes on mates and pros across a variety of courses. There’s banter, dodgy putts, and moments of brilliance. But more than anything, there’s joy. Golfing joy. The kind that reaches through the screen and reminds you what the game is really about.
When your own body is in pieces, and movement feels impossible, that kind of joy matters. What struck me most wasn’t the comedy or the scenery. It was watching people love the game, in all its flawed, funny, brilliant glory.
And amidst the laughs, there was Richard Mansell, one of Jimmy’s guests. It was late, maybe close to 2.30am, and I was deep into a Golf Life marathon. But something about Mansell’s swing made me sit up literally. It was clean. Balanced. Unhurried. That rare combination of tempo and discipline that makes golf look simple when you know it’s anything but.
I must have replayed it 15 times. Not because I thought I could suddenly replicate it, but because it lit something up in me. That quiet inspiration. That whisper: Maybe I can learn from this. Even now. Even broken.
And that’s become the mantra of this recovery, if I can’t play, I can still grow.
So I’ve started taking notes. Watching swings frame-by-frame. Reading tempo. Watching wrist action. Learning how players approach trouble shots, how they recover after a bad hole, how they stay in the moment. I’m doing all the things I never made time for when I was healthy and just desperate to get out on the course.
And oddly, it’s working. Not physically, of course my ribs still make brushing my teeth an ordeal but mentally. It gives the days structure. It turns the nights into study sessions. And it makes this waiting game slightly less punishing.
Still, this isn’t romantic. Broken ribs are no joke, especially if you’re already managing a disabled body. The risk of falls increases. But sitting in resentment, watching the weeks crawl is far worse. And this is where golf, even just the idea of golf, becomes medicine.
Because in every video, I’m already planning. I’m making a list of the courses I want to visit when this is over.
I’m picturing the shots I want to practice. I’m thinking about booking lessons and chasing that feeling again, the one I had during my first 18 holes.
I’m not naive. I know getting back on the course won’t be easy. But every day that passes is a day closer to healing. And that’s what I’m clinging to.
Eight to ten weeks, they say. But the real test is in patience. In staying mentally sharp when the body feels anything but. In turning frustration into fuel.
So I’ll keep watching Jimmy and the lads. I’ll keep reminding myself that just because I can’t play, doesn’t mean I can’t progress. Thank you Golf Life for being the saviour during this injury.