Well, the Beast from the East has arrived and with sub zero temperatures and a white vista outside the window I wondered how to put my unexpected free schedule to good use.  I then remembered Mum used to love watching golf from sunny, warm climes while we were in the depths of our winter.  She said it made her feel that our spring and warm golf were just around the corner and so I decided to make a start on my research for commentating at this year’s Masters, hoping for a similarly uplifting experience.

It worked!  I immersed myself once again in the history and mystery of Augusta in April and rediscovered all sorts of little gems about the tournament.

Did you know, for example, that the Manor House, which still serves as the main part of the clubhouse was built in 1854?  In 1961 the official Masters Trophy, featuring the oft-updated and extended clubhouse, was commissioned and made in sterling silver .  It is kept on permanent display in the clubhouse but every Masters Champion receives a splendid replica, 13.5 inches wide.  But, unless you’ve been to the tournament I bet you’ve never seen the trophy.  Can you think of any other major sporting event where that’s the case?  And how much money do you think the winner takes home?  Well………that’s another thing that’s kept under wraps.  It’s not the done thing to talk about it.  The victor also receives a gold medal and a lifetime’s invitation to the Masters.

What we are more familiar with is the Masters green jacket, or coat, as it used to be called back in the day, arguably the most coveted piece of clothing in all of sport.  Bobby Jones, founder of the Masters, attended a dinner prior to the 1930 Open Championship at Hoylake and was fascinated by the tradition entitling the past captains of Royal Liverpool Golf Club to wear distinctive red coats with tails, blue collars and brass buttons.  He found himself placed next to the immediate past captain, Kenneth Stoker, and when Jones expressed his admiration for the jacket and the tradition, Stoker promised to give him his jacket should he lift the Claret Jug at the end of the week.  The rest is history and Stoker’s jacket hangs in Jones’ club, Atlanta Athletic Club, to this day.

The seed of an idea had been sown although it did take a wee while to germinate.  In 1937, chairman Clifford Roberts bought a supply of green jackets, encouraging the members to wear them so that they would be instantly recognisable to the spectators at the tournament and an easy source of information.  Soon the members began wearing the jackets when they visited the club and when Sam Snead won the Masters in 1949 he was presented with a green jacket of his own to signify he was an honorary club member.  That tradition continues and all Masters winners prior to 1949 were retrospectively presented with their own jackets.  All the jackets are kept at the Augusta National Golf Club for use when the players visit and it is only the current champion who is permitted to have his jacket with him for the year he holds the title.

From one item of clothing to another – and the dreaded, much hated (by the wearers) white boiler suits, the required dress code for the caddies.  Made of non-breathable, thick material the caddies swelter their way around one of the most undulating, challenging layouts they see all year, doing their best to stay mentally tip-top for their player while lugging a huge tournament bag.  The caddy of the defending champion wears the number one on his suit and everyone else gets their number from the order in which their player arrives to register for the tournament.

And that’s another thing – it’s a tournament, apparently, not a championship…….and the people who come to watch are not spectators, fans or galleries.  They are patrons.  Whatever you call them, they are the most immaculately behaved sports fans you will find anywhere and exceptionally knowledgeable to boot.  I do think, however, they should be allowed to bring periscopes into the grounds to aid their viewing experience – essential at any well supported golf event, where it’s often twelve to fifteen deep around greens and tees.

Back to one of my pet hates – spitting.  You certainly won’t see any of that going on at Augusta.  It really is a little bit of heaven – and frequently warm heaven at that.  As I look outside the window again I see that the Beast from the East is still prowling around and seems to have been joined by another playmate, Emma from Portugal.  Oh dear, roll on April, the Masters, azaleas and green, green vistas.

 

I jumped for joy on the course at Whittington Heath on Monday, before the snow arrived in earnest to threaten life and limb let alone golf.

Bev Chattaway and I were engaged in our Winter Foursomes semi-final against the redoubtable sisters Anne Fern and Rachel Rowe, giving seven shots, on winter greens on the frozen fairways.  A few days earlier, I’d been so vociferous in stating that we hadn’t got a snowball’s chance in hell that our revered president, who hails from Wales, said he’d buy Bev and me a drink of our choice should we lose.  “Done,” sez I and we shook hands.  Rather to my surprise, he did not add that if we won, we’d be buying him a drink of his choice.

Well, again rather to my surprise, we did win and, really, I should buy the pres a drink, not least because Ireland had beaten Wales – just – at the weekend, to have us all trying not to think about a Grand Slam.  After all, if the Scotland that mangled England at Murrayfield turn up in Dublin a week on Saturday, they’ll be hard to beat and England are no pushover at Twickenham.  But I digress, which will come as no surprise to our regular reader.

I didn’t jump up and down because we won – by that stage we were all so cold we hightailed it to the clubhouse as quickly as possible – but because something wonderful had happened at our 8th hole.  It took a while to sink in.  Anne and Rachel had won the 7th hole, so Anne had the honour and hit a decent drive.  I hit next, not in any trouble and we all set off from the tee, Bev and Rachel a few yards ahead of Anne and me.

Suddenly, I did a double take and stopped in my tracks.  Wait a minute, there’s something  different here, what on earth is it?  When I realised what it was, I started screeching and lepping up and down like a mad thing, a bit like watching Ireland v Wales at the weekend, a shameless, unedifying display that mystified my companions, who thought I was in pain.  Ecstasy more like.  Because they’d gone.  All of them.  At long, long last.  Hooray, hooray, hoo-bloody-ray.

For far too long they had been the bane of golfers of all ages and stages, invisible to the longer hitters but far too often the ruination of almost everyone else.  Every round you’d see people, bum in the air, poking around in a desperate attempt to even see their ball, let alone retrieve it.  As for playing it.  No chance.  And now they were no more, scrubbed out, defunct, deceased, destroyed.

The 8th has become a proper golf hole again.  It looks different, better.  You can see its lovely, subtle shape and most of us will still have more than enough trouble getting a par four.  Harry Colt, who designed the original, might even give a satisfied smile of recognition.

The offending gorse bushes, they that no longer have to be feared, that are no more, were just in the wrong place, plonk in front of the tee at a perfect length for the shorter hitters.  It wasn’t their fault that someone, at some time, thought they were a good idea.  Off to the side, right or left, no problem but where they were, in the middle, lots of players could hit their No 1 stonker and where would it end?  Unplayable, in amongst the prickles.  There was no viable alternative route and that, no matter which golf architect you consult or erudite tome you read, is an absolute no no.  You’ve got to give players, whatever their skill level, a route to the hole.

Everybody sees things differently and there are lots of people who hate winter golf.  As long as I’m well wrapped up I love it.  It reminds me of growing up at the seaside and playing a fast, hard-running course, keeping the ball low, pitching and running and using a putter from all over the place.  You learn that the vagaries and irritations of the bounce are an integral part of the game, not a random source of annoyance.  And, as a putter with a longstanding ropey stroke, bad greens with lots of lumps and bumps tend to suit me.

Also, when it comes to foursomes, when it’s your partner who has to get you out of trouble, it helps to have a Bev on your side, a 4-handicapper who can come back from two weeks off, including a skiing holiday and make the game look so ridiculously easy that you wonder why you make it look so ridiculously difficult.