It’s hard to know where to look at the moment with all the sport that’s filling our time and our screens of various sizes.  Wherever you do look, however, it seems that there’s a member of the Korda family right there in the thick of things.

Last weekend, Nelly, 22 years of age, won her first major – the KPMG Women’s PGA Championship – and ascended to No 1 in the world, the first American to do so since Stacy Lewis in 2014.  By doing so she is fulfilling the weighty expectations that have followed her all her life.

Her sister, Jess, who is five years her senior, has also half a dozen wins on tour including one this year, and when she turned professional back in 2011, she broke the news that her younger sister would be following along in a few years and was a much better player.  This was no idle boast and Nelly has won three times this year alone, including that precious first major and top world ranking.

Two hours before Nelly holed the winning putt on the 18th green Jess holed for a birdie, securing her place on the American team for the Olympics in a few weeks time in Tokyo.  The sisters are joined by Danielle Kang and Lexi Thompson and they will have a chance to catch up with their 20-year old brother Sebastian who will be representing the US in tennis.

This week Seb is in the main draw at Wimbledon having won his first big title last month.  He’s accompanied by his Dad, Petr, former world No 2 and grand slam champion.  Mum Regina, herself a former tennis professional who reached number 26 in the world and who represented Czechoslovakia in the 1988 Olympics, was in Atlanta at the golf with her daughters.

As regards sporting pedigree the Korda family has arguably no peer.  It was, therefore, illuminating, if not disturbing, to hear Nelly open up at the start of last week about the mental health of athletes whom we mere mortals tend to think have it all.  She said she was encouraged to speak out after Matthew Wolff, one of the young stars on the PGA Tour, admitted to struggling for many months this year, hating the limelight and at times finding it hard to get out of bed.  Nelly hasn’t found it easy either and has worked very hard over the last few tournaments to recapture the enjoyment of simply being out on the golf course.

Now, this is where, in my experience, the general public tends to fall into one of two camps.  You are either full of sympathy for the athlete and the relentless pressures of following a long-held dream.  Having to explain every dip in form, keeping positive and acquiring the skill of separating your own self-worth from your performance is a difficult task in the face of a run of bad play.  And, of course, all and sundry feel entitled to comment, critique and generally dissect your performance, your work ethic, your lifestyle and often (in the case of the women particularly) your looks.

On the other hand, many who have jobs they hate and who are locked into lives they dislike find it impossible to feel empathy for those who seemingly have it all.  Their take is that sure, these athletes may live in a goldfish bowl but they’ve never really had a real job, have they?  What’s their problem?  They’ve only got to chase a little white ball round a field/sharpen up their footie skills/service action/place kicking/hurdling technique (insert appropriate phrase) and they’ve tons of time off during the day.  AND they’ve probably got a few million tucked away in the bank, undoubtedly no mortgage to pay and they can walk away from their “job” whenever they feel like it.

Maybe if we’re honest with ourselves we have a couple of toes in each of these camps.  It is undeniable, however, that as taboos surrounding mental health issues lessen and we become more open in discussing the topic it is worrying how many people are really struggling.  My own feeling is that we mustn’t let envy of another’s material goods and assets determine whether we empathise with their struggles or are dismissive of them.  It’s akin to the thinking that if we could only win the lottery all our worries would be over.  That is hardly ever the case as the acquisition of wealth, which so many of us crave, often results in nothing more than replacing one set of challenges with another.  Everyone who is struggling, regardless of their position on the socio-economic scale, deserves our support, our help and empathy.

It does give pause for thought when Nelly Korda speaks out from the bosom of arguably the highest-achieving sporting family on the planet.  No matter how things appear from the outside it is not usually just quite as rosy as you may think.  So let’s keep our eyes and ears open to be ready, willing and able to help, listen and support those we may come across in our own little worlds.  We must look out for each other.

That, after all, is our job as members of the human race.

[Thanks to Nelly and Jess’s twitter feeds for the photos.]

Gambling, betting, wagers, hustling, call it what you will, it’s always been part of golf.  Even if you’re just playing for who buys the tea or the beer.  Some clubs are renowned – or notorious – for being hotbeds of big-money, high-stakes matches.  If you can’t afford to lose, don’t; just make sure you win – or make your excuses and leave before teeing off.

In the olden days, a lot of players grew up hustling for a living, became exceptional competitors and some – Lee Trevino is the supreme example – won multiple major championships.  Later, Phil Mickelson, who had a much more privileged upbringing, turned out to be just as ferocious a competitor and like many top-class sportspeople developed a penchant for wagers on a grand scale.

My late husband Dai, who was not a gambler, could not go out for nine holes without having something on the match – a beer or a cuppa or a glass of wine most likely or a temper tantrum if he’d played badly and lost.  He couldn’t understand my easy-osy approach – sometimes I tried hard to win and sometimes I just enjoyed the scenery and hitting the odd good shot.

Although I won money on Team Spirit in the 1964 Grand National, it didn’t lead anywhere.  I realised I wasn’t cut out for the gambling lark when I had a fiver on Red Rum to win – can’t remember which year but it was a lot of money for me back in the 1970s – and found my hands shaking uncontrollably as he approached the last well in the lead.  It wasn’t even my money really – it’s a long, dimly-remembered story – and since then my forays as a punter have been few and far between and largely unsuccessful.

It is virtually guaranteed that any golfer with my money on him will miss the cut, so how anyone can get six guesses out of six absolutely spot on over one weekend is beyond my comprehension.   And how the successful punter survived last Sunday is anybody’s guess because the last leg of his bet earned him a million pounds.  £1,039,554 to be exact.

“I thought I was going to have a heart attack when the winning putt went in,” he said.  “I couldn’t believe it.”

You won’t believe it either, especially when you realise that he had to suffer the agonies of the EIGHT hole play-off (a very prolonged sudden death) that decided the Travelers Championship in Connecticut.   When the normally deadpan Harris English holed a 16-foot putt for birdie to beat Kramer Hickok, he unleashed a pretty good fist pump and sparked what were presumably much wilder celebrations way across the Pond.  Probably just as well the punter wasn’t at the golf course….

The happy winner had forked out £11.50 at what turned out to be odds of 90,396/1 on what I would call some sort  of rollover but the Americans apparently call “a six-leg golf and soccer cross-sport parlay”.

It all came good when Croatia beat Scotland at the Euros and England beat the Czech Republic and Steve Stricker, Nelly Korda, Viktor Hovland and English, eventually, won their respective tournaments.  Blimey.

You’ll be glad to know that Betfair were delighted to pay out and will be helping their customer come to terms with his millionaire status.  As any avid watcher of sport on television will tell you, you’ve got to gamble responsibly (whatever that means, really) and, of course, “when the fun stops, stop”.  As if.

The PGA Tour have a vice president of media and gaming these days but as an ultra-cautious, risk-averse individual, I have my doubts about it all.  It’s bad enough when people are not really watching the football (or cricket or whatever) at all but looking at their phones ready to bet on the number of corners, free kicks, screams, offsides, no balls, wides, who-knows-what? in the next few minutes.  Now that people are back out at golf tournaments a-hooting and a-hollering, a-betting and a-boozing perhaps we should take time out – or better yet cash out?

I know.  Not a chance.

The Prasco Charity Championship, a Symetra Tour event in Cincinnati, Ohio, didn’t feature in the parlay but Meghan MacLaren’s first professional win in America must rank as one of the highlights of a crowded weekend.  “It feels pretty damn awesome,” the Englishwoman wrote in a blog that explores the mental torments that many sportspeople go through as they work towards that often elusive moment of triumph.

If you haven’t read any of Meghan’s musings, seek them out.  They’re well worth the detour.

Meghan comes from good golfing stock and her mother Mary is a bit of a force in senior circles.  She is not infallible, of course but like all good competitors is not deterred by the odd errant shot, accepting the results as just another challenge to be overcome…It was just Mary’s luck that Mary McKenna was on hand to photograph this recovery par excellence during the Irish Seniors Championship at Westport this week.

There aren’t too many diggers on the course at WHGC at the moment so I thought I’d make do with a tasteful picture of my new trolley in front of our old, rather sad and dishevelled clubhouse.  HS2 can’t demolish it yet because of the bats – and I don’t think the ghosts have been exorcised yet either.

 

 

 

 

 

I don’t know about you but I thought the US Open was terrific, compelling stuff.  Any number of people were still in contention with nine holes to play and it seemed that it was anyone’s to win.  It also seems like a long time ago now, even though it’s not even a week since Jon Rahm snatched his first major title.

Amazingly, he became the first Spaniard to win the US Open and boy (or nino), did he do it in style.  Tiger would have been proud of the ferocity of the fist pumps that followed the birdie putts at the last two holes.  And what putts.  They weren’t straightforward by any means, fast, downhill, curly jobs that were hard enough to read, let alone hole.  Sinking one of them would have been impressive enough but both?….Wow.

(This is where a well-organised blog would have a wonderful photo of Rahm uppercutting madly or beaming broadly holding the trophy.  Sadly, I couldn’t get a single one of the appropriate photos to transfer, so I’m hoping you’ve all seen the images somewhere and will forgive the technical ineptitude.  I was going to tell you what putter the new champ used but…no pic, no namecheck…)

Instead here’s a pic of Rory McIlroy, who was in contention throughout the championship – shock, horror, hooray – and only fell away over the last few holes. He three-putted the 12th and had an untimely and rather unlucky double bogey at the 13th, to scupper his chances.  I think those were the critical holes but I must confess that I dozed off – one minute Rory was on the leaderboard, well in the mix, the next time I looked he’d disappeared.  Such are the perils of late-night golf watching.  Anyway, a revitalised Rory is scheduled to play in the Scottish Open at the Renaissance Club from July 8-11, along with Rahm and any number of stellar names.  Tickets (strictly limited, so hurry, hurry, hurry, as the ads say) are available.

It’s the club championship at Whittington Heath this weekend – from the sublime to the slightly more ridiculous, admittedly – and I’m hoping the greens will be less speedy than the ones at Torrey Pines were.  My spies tell me that the rough has shot up, so from the sound of things I’ll be lucky to find my ball let alone the greens.  I had a club fitting last week but haven’t ordered new clubs yet, so will just have to blame the old ones – and the new trolley Maureen and Brian bought me for my birthday.  Hope I can assemble it in time for the first round tomorrow.

The big day was yesterday, so the big yellow Open scoreboard (pictured at the top of the piece I hope) is sheer indulgence but I couldn’t resist it.  I also got a video message from Hugo Lloris, the Spurs and France goalkeeper (no name check, though he has been a bit busy not saving Cristiano Ronaldo’s penalties) and the promise of a free Aperol Spritz from my local ASK Italian.  I knew there was a reason for signing up to everything and sundry.  Thanks also to everyone for their cards and good wishes.  Also, belated happy returns to two proper players who were born on the same day a few years after me:  Karen Stupples and Juli Inkster.

Another player who is really starting to pack a punch is Leona Maguire, who is now, surely, a virtual certainty to become the first Irish player to play in the Solheim Cup, this year (all being well, pandemic variations permitting, fingers crossed), at the Inverness Club in Toledo, Ohio.  Leona was a close second to Nelly Korda, who is now the world No 3, in the Meijer LPGA Classic in Michigan last week and yesterday had a solid opening round of 72, level par, in the KPMG Women’s PGA Championship at Atlanta Athletic Club in Georgia. Lizette Salas was leading on 67, one ahead of Woburn’s Charley Hull.

Still on a bit of an Irish theme (would you expect anything else!), Padraig Harrington has selected Graeme McDowell and Martin Kaymer as vice captains for the Ryder Cup at Whistling Straits in Wisconsin in September. They have both won major titles and holed the winning putt at the Ryder Cup and join Luke Donald and Robert Karlsson in a formidable line-up.

Maureen has done a tip this week, the first for a while and she assures me that it’s one of the simplest, most straightforward ones she’s come across.  However, a word of warning:  it is not quite foolproof, not least because Mo has found a fool uncomfortably close to home.  I’ll leave you to guess just who that might be.

If there’s a wrong way to do something,  I’ll find it.  I’m inclined to think it’s a skill, a God-given talent but suffice it to say that my sister cannot believe that any of you out there can be as clueless….

Finally, apologies to Suzanne Rundle for not naming her last week.  I was told off by the coach, who said such a magnificent effort deserved proper recognition.  So here’s Suzanne in glorious, free flowing action again, an inspiration to us all.

We’re starting at the bottom this week, with a reminder, if one is needed, that this is International Flip Flop Day.  Don’t tell me you didn’t know that on the third Friday of June every year, you can wear your flip flops everywhere – even at the golf club?  It’s a pity the G7 summiters aren’t still in Cornwall, where they could have appeared properly dressed for all those photo shoots on the beach.

Ten years ago Gandys started their business with flip flops and they’ve been expanding their range ever since.  If you don’t know the story of how the founders survived the 2004 tsunami in Sri Lanka – their parents died – have a look at gandysinternational.com.

To quote:  “When we returned from Sri Lanka…..we had nothing; not even a pair of flip flops on our feet for the flight home.  Now, we are designing flip flops in Sri Lanka where the first Gandys kids campus was built.

“We started a company to give back and continue our parent’s legacy.  As we continue to provide travel gear, we will continue to give back by providing underprivileged children with equal opportunities and safe space to grow and develop.”

It’s worth reading their amazing story.

Now, from the sublime to the ridiculous.

Call me old-fashioned, out of touch, overly conservative, whatever (dress code excepted) but there’s one word that springs to mind when I read about the spat between Brooks Koepka and Bryson DeChambeau:  PLONKERS.  As in clot or eejit or ass.

Don’t give me all that guff about growing the game or fostering a rivalry, this is just downright childish and unedifying in the extreme.  Two of the best golfers in the world sniping like schoolboys, thinking they’re being clever but showing an alarming immaturity, wrapped up in their respective bubbles and social media ratings.

If you don’t know what I’m talking about, lucky you!  I’ve already read – and now written – far too many words about it.

To be fair to DeChambeau, who is defending his US Open title this week on the South Course at Torrey Pines, the cliff-top municipal in San Diego, California, he’s mainly been responding to barbs from Koepka.  The burly US Open champion of 2017 and 2018 (and US PGA champion of 2018 and 2019) just seems to have taken a scunner agin DeChambeau, the burgeoning superstar with his crazy professor approach to the game.

It may not be the industry standard – and it’s certainly not for everyone – but it’s far from daft and can be maddeningly effective.  And it attracts a lot of attention.  And so many sponsors that DeChambeau uses up a lot of precious interview time thanking them all one by one.

It’s unreasonable to expect fierce competitors always to be all sweetness and light with each other and fans have their favourites and their bogeymen too.  When Jack Nicklaus, big and brash and monstrously long, first appeared on the scene and started threatening the dominance of the charismatic Arnold Palmer, the people’s champion, Arnie’s Army were outraged.  They were vocal in the extreme and even stood in the rough with signs saying, “Hit it here, fat boy.”

In the end that fat boy became the winningest (sorry, should have resisted that awful word but it’s getting late and, sure, it’ll do) major champion so far and a strong contender for the title “Greatest of All Time”.  With apologies to all goats, especially the wonderful kefir-producing ones at Chuckling Goat in Wales, I absolutely refuse to use the ghastly acronym because I hate it, find it demeaning and completely inadequate – so there!  Someone please come up with something better, classier and more fitting.

Back to golfing antagonisms:  there’s a cracking story from the 1913 US Open at Brookline, the one where Francis Ouimet, a 20-year old amateur, became a national hero when he defeated the Brits Harry Vardon and Ted Ray, giants of the game, in an 18-hole play-off.  After two rounds – it was 36 holes a day – Vardon was sharing the lead with Wilfred Reid, another Brit, two shots ahead of Ray, who had won the (British) Open in 1912.

At dinner that night, there was some sort of argument about taxes (ah, politics, politics, always a dodgy subject), tempers frayed and Ray, a big bloke, bopped Reid so hard that he fell to the floor with his nose bleeding.  Reid got to his feet and was heading for Ray until the head waiter, a brave  man or one worried about his tablecloths, got between the combatants to prevent further damage before their friends and fellow competitors pulled them apart.

So much for the good old days and deteriorating modern manners….

I’m indebted to The U.S. Open, Golf’s Ultimate Challenge by the late, great Robert Sommers for that tale.  His book, published in 1987, is wonderful but of course it pre-dates the Tiger Woods era, a volume on its own.

My thanks to Alistair Tait, whose daily blog is a tour de force, for pointing out that Old Tom Morris was born in St Andrews on 16th June 1821, 200 years ago.  The St Andrews Links Trust have planned various celebrations and golfers who played the Old Course on Wednesday received a commemorative certificate to mark the day.

 

In case you’ve forgotten, Old Tom won the Open four times, in 1861, 1862, 1864 and 1867 before his son Young Tom took over and won the title in 1868, 1869, 1870 and 1872.

The person below is not an Open champion but she is a member of Whittington Heath and played the Old Course on Tuesday, 15th June.  Whether she got a certificate or not, it’s hard to fault the swing and the concentration.  Looks like a proper player.

Finally, just a reminder to break out the flip flops today, whatever the weather.  Mine are posing in the garden with Kerikeri the Kiwi, who came all the way from the Bay of Islands, right up there in the north of North Island, New Zealand.  She came back as hand luggage, well wrapped, via America many years ago.  Doubt I could manage that now.