I had a birthday last weekend (thanks to all of you who sent good wishes).  No, it wasn’t a big one – just a normal one…….but perhaps at this end of the age spectrum every one becomes a big one?  Anyway, I was lying in bed, dozing, and was brought fully awake by the phone ringing.  The name showing on the display was “Rossie” and I instantly thought to myself, “Gosh, it’s my birthday!”

Rossie is an old pal from school and lives in Greystones in Co Wicklow.  A horsewoman and a hockey player, she would have made a very decent fist of golf but the game never stole her heart.  Although we don’t see each other all that often she never misses my birthday, nor I hers.

“Happy happy birthday” she breezed down the phone and I thought what a lovely way to start my day.  As you can imagine, two Irishwomen can blether away for hours but we were only fifteen minutes in when the conversation turned to football – Rossie being an ardent Liverpool supporter.  Soon we moved on to the disappointing form of Spurs and Patricia’s gloomy trips up and down to N17.  At that juncture eleven points from nine home games was providing scant enjoyment for the faithful but undaunted P was going to sally forth again that weekend for the home fixture.

As my brain was grappling with which day were Spurs playing, I said to Rossie, “What day’s this?” and barely were the words out of  my mouth when she screeched, “It’s the 31st.  It’s not your birthday at all.  We’re a day early!”

Cue much chortling and guffawing and disbelief that we could both get it wrong.  Still makes me laugh when I think about it.  And, no, she didn’t ring back the next day, just sent a text, “Happy ACTUAL birthday!”  What a hoot!

Last week I posted a photo of the first daffodil in bloom and I’m happy to report that that lone, brave little soldier has now been  joined by squadrons of others.  And far away, on the west coast of America one of the blog’s favourites, Justin Rose, was also blooming, and in quite a spectacular way.

The Farmers Insurance Open, played over the two courses at Torrey Pines, has been kind to Rose in the past.  He won there in 2019 with a record score of 21 under par and when he opened this year with a blistering 62 I’m sure many of his rivals suspected they were on a hiding to nothing.  How right they were.

Rose, now the grand old age of 45, went wire to wire following up that opening salvo with scores of 65, 68 and 70 for a record breaking score of 23 under par and victory by seven whopping shots.  It was a masterclass of a different order.  After all, a test of being seven ahead with only eight holes to play is not the norm.

He stayed in his own bubble of pure focus and concentration, controlling the controllables to the best of his ability, never wavering for a single second.  That oft-given piece of advice – just take it one shot at a time – can hardly be bettered but is rarely accomplished, even by the best in the game.  Rose kept a grip like a steel trap on his mind over the hours it took for the last round to unfold with nary a flicker of focus.  And so, much to my delight, he secured his thirteenth win on the PGA tour, the most of any Englishman.  I was doubly delighted because I still feel a tad guilty at pulling against him so vehemently at last year’s Masters.

There have been so many advances in golf in my lifetime.  The landscape of fitness, technology, coaching and technique are all different and highly advanced, pushing boundaries to the limit.  In my opinion the final frontier with room for significant improvement is the mental side.  I have two small personal examples for believing this and for marvelling at the human mental capacity.

Many years ago when playing out in Australia Alison Nicholas, former British and US Open champion, persuaded me to accompany her to Cairns so she/we could scuba dive off the Great Barrier Reef.  Ali was a reasonably accomplished diver whereas I was a complete novice, never having ever even donned a wet suit.  The company we were diving with assured me that total beginners were their speciality on these “hand-held dives.”

With some trepidation I allowed myself to be led down a guy rope tethered to a pontoon anchored in the outer reef.  The worst 40 minutes of my life then ensued with my instructor seemingly impervious to my sheer terror as my mask filled with water and I fought every instinct I had to bolt to the surface, which I knew was definitely the thing NOT to do.  I remember thinking that it was strange that it was here that it was all going to end.

I realised that my very life depended on me not panicking and on following every instruction from our guide.  I must have done a good job because he failed totally to gauge my distress.  When we got back to the surface I threw up every few minutes for SEVEN hours, so I truly understand the phrase being sick with nerves.  Not even a sip of water would stay down.  If I had only been able to summon a smidgeon of that focus when competing on the golf course, I’ve no doubt I’d have done a whole lot better.

Another occasion when my mental capacity took me aback was when Gill Stewart and I attended an Anthony Robbins gig in London Docklands.  Robbins was adept at exploring how control of your mind could lead to extraordinary feats, to which both Gill and I can attest as we successfully walked barefoot, in a measured fashion, across a ten-metre bed of white hot coals.   Gill didn’t suffer a single burn while with my final step I lost focus and instantly earned myself a blister.

The mind, indeed, is perhaps the final frontier in sport and that mastery might keep older competitors, like Justin Rose, at the top of their games for longer.

One thing is certain, they’ll undoubtedly have the clarity to know their own birthday.

 

 

 

 

 

Here in England, in the Midlands, it seems to have been raining non stop for weeks, so everything’s grey, muddy and if you’re really unlucky, flooded.  The wellies are living in the car, just in case; the latest walk in the park has been round the perimeter, on the path because the grass is too muddy and slippery to be safe; and everywhere the puddles are deep and often need to be sidestepped even though my boots are still waterproof.

So, that’s all the explanation you need for the snowdrops at the top.  They’re out and others are on their way.  Even so, with spring almost in the air for us optimists, it’s easy to find lots of people heading to the airport in search of some sun and blue sky and a bit of warmth.

And I must confess that this week, on blog day, having cancelled a round robin match (very wise), I put the waterproof trousers on in the morning, went for a swift walk – to feel virtuous – and kept the troos on until the evening because I was too mean to put the heating back on.  Spring in the air my….active imagination!

There was no sign of any warmth when we played golf last Tuesday but fortunately we’re only playing twelve holes at the moment and it was foursomes, which is the speediest form of the game, played properly.  Admittedly, we’re not reliably accurate enough to do that.  There’s no point scurrying a couple of hundred yards up the fairway if your partner is liable to skittle it into the heather in front of her nose or you’re fifty-fifty  to hoick it miles left or slice it miles right in to the boondocks.

I love foursomes – it suits my lazy nature and if you make a bog of things, it’s your partner who has to get you out of trouble (with luck) – but lots of people don’t.  They can’t stand not hitting every shot or they can’t cope with going several holes without having a pitch or a short putt or whatever.  Or they tut at their partner.  That is an absolute no-no.  Dai and I could not play foursomes together because we had a completely different approach to the game and, I suppose, we weren’t willing to compromise.  Or, maybe, on reflection, I wasn’t willing to compromise.

I still think that a good foursomes combination doesn’t depend so much on the games being compatible as the people being able to get on, on the golf course at least and appreciate the other’s qualities.  No sorries. No tuts.  It’s the ultimate in hit it, find it, hit it again.  The essence of golf.

Enjoying it, that’s the key, however annoying, irritating and frustrating the game is.  It’s probably harder to have fun when you’re a professional and it’s your job and it can be hard not to let the daily grind get you down.  Especially if things aren’t going well.

One man who’s risen to the challenge, year in, year out, is Padraig Harrington, who didn’t turn professional until he was 24 but this week clocked up appearance number 500 on the European (now DP World) Tour, at the Qatar Masters in Doha. The Dubliner, who has won 43 time in his career, including three major championships, reckons he’s probably played close to 800 tournaments worldwide.

“I couldn’t have dreamt of the career that I’ve had,” he said.  “I’m quite an optimist and that’s what I love about golf, it always gives you that hope that you’re going to find the secret and I’m still doing that today.

“I still have a pure love for the game.  I’m fascinated by it, I enjoy it, I love coaching and thinking about the game.  Twenty years ago we pretended we weren’t golf nerds but I’m as big a golf nerd as you can get.”

It’s hard to disagree.  Once you get Padraig started, he’s hard to stop and, sometimes, hard to follow – or at least you have to concentrate because his mind is inclined to wander down mysterious highways and byways.  He’s never dull, so if you get a chance to hear him speak, take it – but make sure you don’t have a train to catch, you’ll need plenty of time.

One last Harrington bon mot:  “I’m full of fear now, the opposite of fearless…I try to enjoy it, it’s the only way I can do it now…I enjoy it more now.”

There hasn’t been too much joy at Tottenham Hotspur Stadium recently – well, not for the home team anyway.  We’ve had some dire performances and last Sunday, against Manchester City, it looked as though we were going to be humiliated.  Two-nil down at half-time, looking clueless and letting City do what they liked, using us as training statues.  This could get ugly.

Then, lo, we came out in the second half like a different team,  more organised, more aggressive, better and they let their grip slip.  The stadium came alive and we drew 2-2, even forcing their keeper in to several excellent saves.  The buzz was palpable.

It was, in the end, worth the journey.

 

 

 

Here we go again.

The blog has been in hibernation for seven weeks because, frankly, we needed a break even though in some parts of the world professional golf has continued relentlessly all through December and January.  Players were plying their trade in proper tournaments down in Australia and South Africa while others kicked back in the more relaxed atmosphere of Tiger’s bash, the Hero World Challenge, which only has a handful of invited players – twenty, to be precise.  There’s no cut, a million dollars to the winner and north of $150,000 to the last place finisher.  No thanks.  Well, no thanks to watching, but yes please to being one of the twenty.

There’s also Rory and Tiger’s TGL team thing which I must confess I can’t quite get into.  It seems to be fun for the players involved but, for me, it doesn’t quite cut the mustard as a great spectator sport.  I’d rather watch The Traitors.

By the way, the calendar at the top is Mary McKenna’s Christmas present to me, packed with a dozen of her spectacular photos.  You may well see more of them throughout the year.

At last, however, the merry-go-round that is this humble blog has had its first gentle push (from some of you sending texts demanding to know when would Friday mornings again herald a new post) and the machinery is slowly but surely gathering pace after a welcome snooze.

There hasn’t been much snoozing by Scottie Scheffler, the world No 1, who looks set to hang on to that title for quite some time.  He last played a regular PGA Tour event back in September which, of course, he won.  That was two weeks before the Ryder Cup.  Seems eons ago, doesn’t it?

Well, Scottie sallied out last week in his first full-field event in over four months – and won.  Quite easily, in fact.  The newly-minted American Express champion seems to like La Quinta and playing in the Californian desert.  Much of the coverage was declaring that for Scheffler it was business as usual but, early and all as it is in the year, I think there’s something different about him this season.  I think he’s better than ever.

That’s a scary thought for everyone else and who’d bet against the Texan joining the Grand Slam winners’ enclosure in June after the US Open?  We waited 25 years for Rory McIlroy to become member number six.  There will only be a gap of fourteen months if Scottie wins his national Open to become member number seven of that elite club.  And let’s not forget that Jordan Spieth could beat him to it by winning the PGA Championship in May………but, somehow, I don’t have the same sense of inevitability about that particular scenario unfolding.  Time will tell.

I’m delighted to bring heartwarming Welsh news to my first blog of the year.  A couple of weeks ago Lydia Hall nervelessly rattled in an 18-footer on the last green to win the Vic Open on the Australasian Tour by four shots.

A native of Bridgend, Lydia is now 38 years of age and I’ve been a huge fan of her game since I first met her when she was 13.  She was a contemporary of some wonderful young Welsh talent at the time – think Solheim Cup player Becky Brewerton and Curtis Cup player Breanne Loucks.  They pulled the best from each other and benefitted from being nurtured by Wales’s wonderful captain and manager, the late Sue Turner.  How proud Sue was of them early in their careers – and how thrilled she’d have been to witness all their achievements, as am I.

More Welsh news thudded in to my inbox with the announcement of the appointment of Julie Thomas as incoming Wales Golf President.  Julie follows in the not inconsiderable footsteps of Andy Ingram, former Walker Cup captain, but I know she’ll bring her own special energy and pizazz to the role.  She will be the only president to have represented her country at every single level, from junior international right through to senior international, spanning more than four decades.  In fact, with her playing and captaincy records for county and country and with volunteering and refereeing duties under her belt, Julie continues the long line of wonderful officials produced by the Principality.  The decade plus I had working with the then Welsh Ladies’ Golf Union was one of the most enjoyable and rewarding spells of my career and it’s a joy for me to see the accomplishments of so many that I knew from back in the day.

But, let’s just set the record straight here before you think I’ve swapped the shamrock for the dragon.  I’m a huge Welsh golf supporter, but with the Six Nations rugby about to start next week I’ll be wearing the green through and through.  Apparently we take on France in Paris next Thursday.  Thursday???  Must be the great god television calling the shots there, I think, as I don’t recall there being a Thursday match before.  Wales don’t get under way until the Saturday when they travel down to Twickers [now, officially, the Allianz Stadium  -ed], so we both have daunting opening matches in the campaign.

Throughout the turn of the year I’ve still tried to get out a couple of times a week with the old Nordic Walking poles and below is a snap taken during one of the walks around my local lanes.  Daffodils in bud used to signal the Sunningdale Foursomes (played in late March) for me.  I took this on January 25th (Burns night).

Who says there’s no such thing as global warming?

Hello.

Is there anybody out there?

Maureen and I hope so because madillgolf is back – for a while at least – and we’d like to wish our friends a happy new year and hope you’re ready and willing to start reading again.

Bearing in mind that Mo insists that this blog is about golf, I’m going to start with that, though as many of you know I don’t necessarily agree with the sister’s assessment.  I do, however, read a lot of stuff about golf, in fact my inbox is so stuffed that the other day I unsubscribed from National Club Golfer, shock, horror.

I may well relent but in a fit of irritation at how long it was taking me to find a piece – highlighted in the email – about some novel ruling or other, I decided I’d had enough of all the noise and needed a break.  There are only so many opinions a woman of diminishing brain can take in, so many podcasts she can earmark to listen to (and never does) and so many bloody annoying ads she can try to ignore, then delete and find herself accessing because she’s missed the teensy-weensy little x that’s up in the right-hand corner, requiring a Luke Littler-like control of the cursor to hit the bullseye….You get my drift.

Anyway Scottie Scheffler – remember the name – roared back on tour with a commanding victory.  He probably won’t win every event he plays in but I won’t be betting against him and after reading one of my favourite blogs (not about to be banished any time soon) I won’t be spending my time matching his achievements up against those of Tiger Woods or anybody else from the past…Promise.

Jim McCabe, who spent many years on the golf beat for the Boston Globe, writes Power Fades, aka A New Englander’s Take on Golf, celebrating his enduring love for the game.  It comes out every Wednesday and is a real treat.  He’s an unashamed Scheffler fan (hard not to be) and counsels:  “….you can marvel and embrace the brilliant story that Scottie Scheffler is still very much working on.  Let it breathe, let it play out, let it grow even more marvelously [sic – he is American after all].  And let it stand alone and not be held up to comparisons.  It’s way too good for that.”

Well, I doubt we’ll stop comparing but one of the reasons I wanted to mention Jim’s piece this week is because he used a favourite photo of his that I couldn’t resist sharing – hope that’s OK, Jim.

Oh, if you do head over to have a look at powerfades.com, don’t forget to read the front 9 musings, great fun and often thought-provoking.  There’s always a golf course sign, snapped in the wild but I haven’t seen one of my favourites – yet.  Admittedly, it’s a very old cartoon, unearthed from Dai’s treasures, so who knows if it’s just a figment of the imagination…

And, of course, there’s this, a genuine sign that used to be on the wall in the car park of the old clubhouse at Whittington Heath GC.  I had hoped that it was a nice metal one but it’s just cheap plastic, so no one minded when I liberated it when everything was demolished and we moved down the road (and round the corner).  It’s now above my front door, much to some people’s horror….and my amusement.

Moving back to more serious stuff, I was watching a bit of the European golf from Bahrain where the afternoon brigade had to deal with a swirling wind that made scoring tricky.  Dad, raised on the breezes in the west of Ireland, would have insisted on calling it a zephyr and tut-tutted at those who thought there was a problem.  It was great to see Andrew Johnston, affectionately known as Beef, back in action and playing well.  He took time out for a while, having found, like so many talented sports people (and others), that life in the spotlight was hard to cope with.  Here’s to many more good rounds and happy times.

As you can see, the quality of many of the illustrations still leaves something to be desired but if they raise a smile or two, they’ll have done their job.  The budget doesn’t rise to a dedicated photographer, illustrator, art editor and if you want a partner when you’re playing Pictionary (ghastly game), don’t come looking for me.  We played it once, a few Christmases ago and my team and I were lapped – probably more than once – by friends and family crowing with delight and showing no mercy.  Never again.  No artistic talent here.

Just in case you’re wondering, the featured pic (the wee thing at the top of the piece, all being well technically) was a pressie from a friend, a drinks mat that she thought came close to summing me up, she said.  Admittedly, I am inclined to bop about, without much rhythm, at every opportunity but two spinning ceilings and one lost Saturday many years ago ensured that I rarely drank to excess again.  Honest.

Of course, it all depends on your definition of excess but I like to remember Harry Vardon’s response when he was approached by a persistent member of the Temperance Society.  “Madam,” he said, drawing himself up to his full height.  “I have never knowingly been beaten by a teetotaller.  Now, I bid you good day.”