The jet fighter came out of the western sky: a silent shadow, a hole of darkness in the afternoon glare. It swooped low across the top of my backswing and trailed an ear-splitting barrage of noise that blasted my downswing awry. The ball scudded left, rattling through reeds into the water hazard. On the tricky Palm Course of Raffles Country Club, it seemed that Singapore’s armed forces had been mustered against me.

“That’s not fair!” I shouted.

“That’s golf,” said my partner. It was the best piece of advice I’ve ever been given.

Golf is not played in a hermetically sealed environment. That’s its greatest challenge. Every round is different. You test yourself not just against the course but also against the weather, local wildlife, inconsiderate fellow golfers and, just occasionally, military fly-bys.

The most eventful round I ever played was at Elephant Hills Resort at Victoria Falls, Zimbabwe. I knew it was going to be different when my first tee-shot was stopped stone dead by the backside of a passing warthog. The warthog glowered at me.

“That’s golf,” I shrugged.

On the next hole I hooked the ball into a crocodile-infested pool, and coming up the 16th fairway, I was delayed by a buffalo. My caddy handed me the driver. “If he charges, hit him,” he said.

For several years, my home course was Lilongwe Golf Club in Malawi. It wasn’t quite as wild as Elephant Hills, but I did occasionally have to contend with snakes on the greens, and I regularly dashed for cover during thunderstorms. Despite those adversities, I steadily worked on my game and brought my handicap down.

One of the joys of golf is that it allows players of varied ability to compete against each other on a relatively level playing field. Theoretically, the average amateur should be able to take on a pro and win.

Theoretically.

In 2000 I tried it, and things didn’t go according to plan. By a convoluted set of circumstances, I found myself playing a couple of holes at the Greenbrier Sporting Club in White Sulphur Springs, W.Va. — with Sam Snead and Nick Faldo.

“Let’s see what you’ve got,” said Faldo as I teed up. I thwacked my shot. “Well, you hit the fairway,” he said, gazing way off to the right. “The wrong fairway, but never mind.”

And so it went. My two legendary partners progressed seamlessly from tee to green while I took the scenic route. When I finally caught up with them at the last, they were deep in conversation, trading tips. It was incredible. Between them they had won a host of majors. Faldo was still competing at the highest level. “Slammin’ Sammy” was 87 and in semi-retirement. And yet both were working to improve their games.

I couldn’t match either of them for consistency or for passion. Sure, every now and then I pull off a shot that would make even Tiger Woods proud. But to get to the very top of the sport, you don’t merely play golf, you must be possessed by it.

Sam Snead’s concentration was unwavering as he chipped onto the 18th green. The ball rolled 10 feet beyond the hole. I was up next and played to within three feet. It was a hollow victory: Sam was there in three strokes; I’d taken five.

Faldo was playing his third out of the bunker. He lobbed it in a perfect arc. The ball bounced twice, rolled round the rim of the hole, and stayed out. He swore and flung his sand wedge to the ground.

I was about to say something but caught the words just in time. I thought them instead: “That’s golf.”