Perhaps it’s an age thing but I’ve lacked what might be called focus this past week.  Admittedly, focus has never been one of my strong points – I blame my mother for my butterfly mind, flitting here, there and everywhere but at the great age of whatever it is I have just become, it’s a bit of a cop-out to keep blaming your parents, no matter what Philip Larkin might have written.

Belatedly perhaps, I looked up “focus” in my trusty Chambers dictionary – one of those old-fashioned book things – and realised that it was never liable to be one of my strengths.  Here’s a sample:  “a fixed point such that the distances of a point on a conic section from it and from the directrix have a constant ratio (geom); a point in which rays converge after reflection or refraction, or from which…they seem to diverge (optics)…….”.  I never knowingly studied optics but I did once get 75 per cent in a geometry exam and I didn’t cheat; it was a fluke of epic proportions, never to be repeated, though I did pass maths O level in the days when it consisted of separate papers in geometry, algebra and arithmetic.

Eventually, hidden in the small print were the words “to concentrate”.  At last.  That’s what I thought I was meaning.

Does being 3 up with 4 to play and losing the 15th, 16th and 17th indicate a lack of concentration or a lack of skill or a doughty opponent playing well?  Or a combination of all three, plus a lack of fitness?  When you’ve been trying to play golf for as long as I have, you know that anything can happen and take nothing for granted.  Six up at the turn?   All over bar the handshake, surely?  No way.   If I can win six holes in such short order, I’m damned sure my opponent can.  And there was one excruciating occasion when he did.

I was playing one of the brothers-in-law at his home course and was 6 up very quickly, playing gratifyingly well, much to my surprise and delight and his horror.  In those days he wasn’t much of a golfer but he was always a competitor and a grafter – still is – and I wasn’t that good, so he clawed all the holes back and might even have gone 1 up.  I tried not to panic but the situation was dire.

If I lost this match, I’d have to give up golf; there was no way I could ever have appeared on a 1st tee anywhere ever again.  The ignominy was beyond imagining.  He was that bad.

I tried a bit of gamesmanship but, though I’d been well trained in the Stephen Potter dark arts, my heart wasn’t in it, not least because my man, versed in the art of coarse rugby, recognised it for what it was and laughed it off.  I was a woman scorned – and increasingly desperate.  He holed an outrageous putt, downhill, for a par 3 at the 17th and I had to hole a nasty, slippery 5-footer across the slope for a half.  Looking back, it might have been the best putt of my life.

And those Ryder and Solheim Cuppers think only they know what real pressure is!

It was getting dark by this time and, praise be, I won the last because he hoicked his third shot well left of the green into a massive hedge and never found the ball.  Face saved.

I tripped over the missing ball as I made my way to the car park but my conscience remained clear because it was so close to the hedge that it was unplayable; even so it was many months before I returned the ball to its owner……

There’s really nothing as nerve-wracking as matchplay.

James Sugrue, from Mallow, county Cork, who has just won the Amateur Championship at Portmarnock, was 5 up after 9 in the 36-hole final against Euan Walker of Kilmarnock Barassie and 3 up after 18.  By the 33rd hole it was all square and Sugrue admitted he was worried.  However, he regained the lead with a par 4 at the 35th and was conceded the last when Walker got into bother.

The Women’s Amateur at Royal County Down was another tense affair, with Emily Toy, from Carlyon Bay in Cornwall, beating Amelia Garvey of New Zealand by one hole.

Good luck to Toy and the rest of the Great Britain and Ireland team who today take on the Continent of Europe in the biennial Vagliano Trophy at Royal St George’s in Kent.   It’s a big ask for Elaine Ratcliffe and her side because the Europeans have won the last six matches and GB and I last won at Chantilly, near Paris, in 2005.

Bonne chance.

 

 

 

The Brolly Dollies, featured above, barely brought their Z game to ladies’ captain’s day at Whittington Heath last Saturday but earned an honourable mention (and a wee prize) for their team name.  It was left to a team anchored by a seemingly ageless octogenarian to win the spoils and provide us youngsters (!) with the inspiration to hang on to the clubs and keep persevering.

There was inspiration on a different level at the US Open, where Gary Woodland kept his nerve and game intact to win his first major title and deny Brooks Koepka, who also played beautifully, his hat-trick.  It was worth staying up into the early hours to watch a competition that matched the surroundings.

A couple of days later, Maureen, not so fresh from her journey home from Pebble Beach, had caught up on Neighbours – nothing much seems to have changed on Ramsay Street, except that most people, bar Paul, who probably has a pact with the devil, are looking a wee bit older – so we had a look at the Women’s World Cup.

England against Japan was unwatchable because there was something wrong with Jonathan Pearce’s microphone and he faded in and out, outdone by the noise from what looked like a very sparse crowd.  Pearce, cruelly christened “the strangulated screamer” by Dai many years ago, was ditched in favour of Scotland versus Argentina, which turned out to be compelling stuff.

It took us a while to realise that the Sweaties were wearing the pink shirts and the Argies were the ones in the dark blue, so we had to adjust our befuddled thinking to cheer on the right team.  I confess, we are easily confused (at least Mo could use jet lag as an excuse) and know as much about the women footballers as my sisters-in-law know about women golfers – not nearly enough.

As it turned out it was a great game to watch, full of incident, controversy and good goals.  The Scots, who needed to win to have any chance of going through to the next stage, played some slick and exciting stuff and were 3-nil up with not too long to go.  It wasn’t the time to relax – goal difference might prove vital – but Scotland switched off, Argentina switched on and suddenly it was 3-2 and the Scots were twitchy.  Then, in the last minute, they conceded a penalty, awarded after seemingly endless scrutiny by VAR (video assistant referee).

Calamity.

But worse was to come.

Scotland’s goalie Lee Alexander not only saved the penalty but also blocked the follow up.  Then VAR intervened again.

It was decided that the goalie had left her line too early, so she was given a yellow card, the penalty was retaken and Argentina equalised.

The Scots, as so often, in whatever sport you care to name, had been the architects of their own downfall but there are aspects of VAR that are far from satisfactory and the tweaks to the rules make life very difficult for defenders and goalkeepers in particular.  If the position of your toes is subjected to slow-motion trial by video, penalty saves could become a thing of the past and don’t get me started on defenders having to defend with their hands tied behind their back…..

My football career never got beyond kicking the ball against the garage door and practising Willie Carr’s donkey kick flick in the garden – think I even managed it once.  Mo reminded me that I’d wanted to go to a women’s football get-together of some sort in Kells but Mum vetoed it and refused to take me and I didn’t have the gumption to find alternative transport.  In those far-off days, girls who wanted to play football were regarded as more than a little weird.

There was no golf on the agenda for me this week – collecting Mo from the airport on Tuesday took precedence – and preparing for yesterday’s Ascot Day took some doing, what with squeezing in a spray tan (probably a bit excessive for the Staffordshire enclosure, judging from the comments of my companions) and sorting out a shoe mix-up.  Having bought shoes to match my dress, I drove to Cheshire, took the shoes out to show my cousin and, horrors, found only one shoe in the box – and it was the wrong shoe!   From a pair I’d rejected because they didn’t fit.  Can one go barefoot in the rain at Ascot?  Is hopping allowed?

In the end, all was well because I had time to get back to the shop and collect the right shoes – two of them – but that’ll teach me to fall into chat when I should be concentrating on my purchases.  I’d include a photograph of the finished outfit but that would entail revealing the depth of my tan……

It would be remiss not to mention the success of WHGC’s members in the handicap section of the English Senior Women’s Stroke Play Championship at the sublime St Enodoc in Cornwall earlier this week.  Jenny Smale won, Chrissie Fisher was third and Jayne Fletcher finished eighth.  Congratulations Heathens; perhaps someone will write a poem…..In the meantime, here’s a picture.

Finally, I must just mention that the indefatigable, irrepressible, incomparable Pat Ruddy has a new book on its way out (publication date July 1st).  It stems from “a lifetime dreaming golf holes” and is an account of Pat’s course designs and his musings on a great many golf design topics.

What’s it called?

“Holes In My Head”.

What else?

 

 

 

 

 

There are no apologies for rah-rah-rahing about Spurs again.  After all, even the legendary Double team didn’t reach the final of the European Cup (am pretty sure they lost to Benfica in the semis and I think there were a couple of dodgy refereeing decisions….!)  That was in the days when you had to win your league to qualify (none of this finishing 4th stuff) and every round bar the final was a two-off – home and away – so you could make an argument for it being tougher to win than it is now.

Anyway, we’re in the final for the first time, against Liverpool, whose European pedigree is second to hardly anyone and they’re overwhelming favourites.  Am I bovvered?  Yes, of course I am.  We arrived in Madrid on Wednesday night but Liverpool, who lost to Real Madrid in the final in Kiev last year, aren’t pitching up until tonight (Friday) because their manager Jurgen Klopp reckoned they’d gone too early last year.  And their players are still hurting from that defeat; they don’t want to lose again.

I’m trying to banish the images of me being gracious through gritted teeth as I accept the condolences of ecstatic Liverpool fans as the Spurs players lie splayed out all over the pitch just like the Manchester City and Ajax players who couldn’t believe we’d sneaked past them on the sainted away goals rule.  (I confess I usually feel sorry for the losers because they’ve given it everything and still come up short.)  Beautiful game or not, I’ll settle for a ghastly, dull match (unlikely, given the nature of the two teams) and an outrageously lucky 1-nil win.  A repeat of the FA Cup final between Leeds (at the peak of their powers) and Dad’s Sunderland, the underdogs of all underdogs, who scored early and held on to win by that single goal, would do nicely.

Trouble is, I know we’re good enough to win but can we make that big jump from BBUs (brave but unavailings) to champions?

It’s the US Women’s Open Championship at the Country Club of Charleston in South Carolina this week and it’s a pity that the biggest event in women’s golf seems to have passed a lot of people by, even people who should know better.  Hank Haney, a coach of some note, who has a radio show that purports to be about golf, got himself into a lot of trouble earlier this week with some crass, unfunny, frankly obnoxious comments on the subject of the Women’s Open.  Was he sexist?  Was he racist?  You know what?  What he was was a pillock, a prat, a disgrace.

Read the transcript of the exchange with his co-presenter and what stands out is the utter ignorance.  This is a man of golf, supposedly and he did himself no favours at all.  He was, above all, unprepared and unprofessional.

It’s the US Women’s Open this week, he was prompted.  Oh.  Is it?  Where’s it on?  And it got worse.  Haney knew that Michelle Wie wasn’t playing because of a wrist injury but he hadn’t a clue who was playing, apart from a load of Koreans.  At best, for a broadcaster who should have a bit of a notion as to what’s going on, that’s just lazy.  At worst, well, it oozed contempt.  Not your finest few minutes Hank but perhaps your most destructive.

The irrepressible Alfredsson (see photo), who should have won at least one US Women’s Open (I won’t dwell on Crooked Stick in 1993; suffice it to say that, writing for The Times, I didn’t mention Lauri Merten, the champion, once until she’d won….We all learn.)  Anyway, the Swede who has always made sure that golf is never dull when she’s around, apparently strode into the press room (or media centre) in North Carolina the other week and asked, “Where’s the wine?”  Come on Alfie, don’t you remember that it’s the winner who provides the champagne?  Haven’t you heard of Tony Lema?  What’s the Swedish for mean streak?

Scheduling is always difficult and this week the women are up against Jack’s Memorial Tournament at Muirfield Village, featuring Tiger Woods, Rory McIlroy, Phil Mickelson, to name just a few of golf’s biggest draws.  Probably not quite as bad as the year the USGA (United States Golf Association) managed to put the US Women’s Open up against the 2000 Open Championship at St Andrews.  Not their finest decision; it still makes my blood boil and my jaw drop.  There was only one game of golf in the world that week.

It’s hard to believe but it’s ten years since Maureen and I spent an unforgettable, unrepeatable week at the Memorial, Jack Nicklaus’s tournament in Ohio.  The players honoured that week were JoAnne Carner and Jack Burke and Dai was one of the journalists honoured, so off we went for the golfing week of our lives.  At lunch on the first day Barbara Nicklaus and Tom Watson came up and introduced themselves – we managed to stop gawping at the thought that we might not know who they were and croak hello.  Turned out we were in the hotel room next to Tiger, who won with a late charge.  We had breakfast with Padraig Harrington, drinks and chats with JoAnne Carner, our photo taken with Jack and Barbara; it was that sort of week.  Never to be repeated.

The (very) happy snap with our hosts is not reproduced here because Maureen is very unhappy that she was snapped in her tattiest old sun top, having been dragged off the golf course where she was watching Jose Maria Olazabal, content that all official duties were done.

Never one to turn down a chance to spout, I made an acceptance speech – four minutes max I was told and hard though it may be for my friends to believe, four minutes max it was.  Mo and I have never been so spoiled and we knew that we never would be again.

 

 

 

 

I was making myself a gin and tonic before settling down to this week’s blog when I realised that I was pouring the gin as though it were tonic.  Whoops.  Catch yourself on.  Surely it hasn’t come to this just yet?  It reminded me of a friend who used to glug down a g and t as though it were water and she’d survived several days hallucinating in the desert.  In her defence, she was only a student at the time and soon learned that water was for thirst-quenching  and gin was for sipping and savouring.

In my defence, I’d been distracted by the election leaflets that have started plopping into my letterbox.  In this neck of Middle England we’ve just had parish and district council elections and now we seem to be having an “Election for the European Parliament West Midlands Region”.  (I quote from the Labour leaflet.)  Europe?  Didn’t we in the UK vote to leave?  (Helped by the fact that we’re separated from the dreaded continent by some water and thus have no truck with the thought that “no man – or woman – is an island”.)  Mmmm.  That vote was nearly three years ago, yet Europe still looms large in our lives.  Funny that.  That’s neighbours for you.

Anyway, the leaflets with the carefully posed “you can have confidence in us, you know you can” photos of party leaders are destined for the recycling box.  Frankly, I think I have more confidence in Rory McIlroy’s putting – and given what I’ve seen of the first round of the USPGA Championship at Bethpage that’s saying something.  I haven’t quite given up on politics just yet but at the moment I’m trying to simplify all areas of my life and in political terms that can be summed up concisely [Ed:  You?  Concise?  Surely not.  And isn’t that tautology anyway?  Isn’t summing up by its nature concise?], if a tad negatively:  If Nigel’s for it, I’m agin it.  NFF, as he’s known here, where we dare not speak his name, is already in the bin.  Others will follow.

Have I mentioned golf yet?  Ah yes, Rory and Bethpage, that must count.  And gin and tonic.  And Rory has said that he’d like to play in the Olympics after all and represent Ireland.  That’s not quite as simple as it sounds but it makes sense since he played for Ireland as an amateur – golf, like rugby and many other sports, is an all-Ireland affair.  The added complication is that Rory, being an Ulsterman born and bred, could also play for GB (or whatever the official Olympic designation is).  Don’t ask me to explain; there’s a whole library of books on this subject.

I had what I thought was quite a good idea for a theme coming in to this week but, as so often, themes tend to get overtaken by events, or musings, or whatevers.  It was something to do with money and what people are playing for on the numerous tours at numerous levels all over the world.  At Bethpage it’s US$11,000,000, which puts everything else in the halfpenny place.  For instance, Leona Maguire, who’s on the Symetra Tour at the moment, won just over $11,000 for a share of second place (after a play-off with three others).  Maria Parra, of Spain, winner of the IOA International in Atlanta after prolonged sudden death – she had an eagle three at the 5th extra hole – earned herself $22,500.

Purses are now a topic for another day, so I’ll start with an amateur, Lily May Humphreys.  The 17-year old from Stoke by Nayland in Essex, already a seasoned England international and Curtis Cup player, coped calmly with difficult, windy conditions at Co Louth (Baltray) to complete a memorable double, having just won the Welsh Women’s Open Strokeplay at Royal St David’s (Harlech).  She has her heart set on a professional career, so let us hope that she, Maguire, Parra and all the other talented hopefuls can make a decent living from their passion.

Fellow Englishwomen Trish Johnson and Laura Davies have more than managed it.  This week, the perennial pair, ever peripatetic, are competing in the second  US Senior Women’s Open at Pine Needles in North Carolina, just down the road from Pinehurst.  It’s a place dear to my heart for many reasons, not least because of the hospitality of the inimitable Peggy Kirk Bell and because it’s where I played my first round of golf with Dai.  It’s also wonderful golfing territory.  Dame Laura is defending the title she won in Chicago last year.

We at WHGC (Whittington Heath Golf Club for our new reader) are learning that straightforward, old-fashioned strokeplay golf is not the only form of the game that professionals play.  We’re now exploring the world of long drivers, who are, in many respects, a breed apart.  All thanks to our own Jordan Brooks, a man of Tamworth, who’s up there with the best in the world.  He’s not quite as celebrated – yet – as Dave Gilbert, also from Tamworth, who recently came agonisingly close to reaching the final of the snooker World Championship at the Crucible in Sheffield.

Jordan, who’s a rookie in long-driving terms, is just back home after competing with the best at Fort Jackson, South Carolina.  He reached the semi-finals and now knows that he can hold his own with long-driving giants like Kyle Berkshire, Will Hogue and Ryan Steenberg.  Go Jordan.