Enid Wilson was never one to mince her words.  “We were a shambles,” she said.  “The Americans had been practising, not just to familiarise themselves with the course but to work out their foursomes pairings.  They didn’t play Scotch foursomes so they had to get used to the format.  We didn’t know who we were playing with until we were on the way to the 1st tee….They won all three matches.”

Enid, who became a formidable figure in the game, terrifying generations of female golfers with her forthright views in The Daily Telegraph, was talking about the first Curtis Cup match, played over a single day on the East Course at Wentworth in May 1932.  GB and I (Great Britain and Ireland, as they now are) duly lost to the USA and Joyce Wethered (later Lady Heathcoat-Amory), the home captain and a player beyond compare, confessed that she wasn’t any great shakes as a captain.

Her team, who did at least know the course, pitched up at about teatime the day before the match and on the day itself had to scavenge for crumbs at lunchtime because no one had thought to make provision for them.  The visitors, much better organised simply by virtue of being the away team and expertly marshalled by their formidable captain Marion Hollins, had arranged to have lunch at their hotel, away from the hordes of spectators.

“It was a rout of the disorganised,” Enid said.  “And deservedly so.”

The sisters Harriot and Margaret Curtis, from a large, wealthy Boston family, were both champion golfers who travelled overseas to play before the First World War and for many years harboured hopes of establishing a competition “To stimulate friendly rivalry between the women golfers of many lands”.  That is the inscription on the Curtis Cup, a lovely bowl of Paul Revere design and while the result matters and the competition is fierce, it’s the friendships that really count.

At Sunningdale this week there are lots of brilliant old photographs and boards chronicling the history of the competition, so even the greenest newbies and those who still think that history is bunk will start to learn the names of the pioneers and outstanding golfers who have gone before.  Many of us here, including undistinguished hackers like me, go back a long way and met the likes of Enid, who loved to talk and Joyce Wethered, who did not!  At least not about golf and certainly not about her own exploits.  In later life gardening and art were two of her passions.

It’s a real gathering of the clans here at Sunningdale this week, where the only surprise is that the players have not been allocated a dog each.  It’s more or less verboten to take to the course for a round without a canine companion.  There are lots of labs and spaniels and in one notable case a venerable barrel-shaped chihuahua, who these days sticks close to the clubhouse and the treats on tap there.

At the opening ceremony, Seamus, the Irish wolfhound, was one of the stars of the show and was quite happy to be the centre of attention.

And just to show off the uniforms and the bearskins and some of the always colourful American supporters enjoying the pageantry, here’s a slightly better effort.

One of the joys of looking at old team photographs is to compare the fashions then and now and, often, to wonder who on earth chose the uniforms.  It’s fun to look at the styles down the ages and marvel at how young everyone looks and check out what shoes they’ve chosen!

To finish, back to Enid.  In 1984, at Muirfield, under the captaincy of the formidable Diane Bailey, GB and I came agonisingly close to winning.  It was a classic BBU (brave but unavailing) and they lost by a point, their 13th consecutive defeat.  Two years later, when the team to face the Americans at Prairie Dunes, in the middle of Kansas, in temperatures that would reach 100 degrees fahrenheit (high 30s centigrade) was announced, Enid was not impressed.

“Bring out your dead,” she wrote, a tad unkindly.  “If this team wins, I’ll eat my hat.”

The main reason for her ire was the selection of Belle Robertson and Mary McKenna, two of the finest golfers Britain and Ireland have ever produced, who had been on numerous teams and never been on the winning side.  They were, in Enid’s view, well past their sell-by date, scarred beyond saving and no longer of any use whatsoever.

However, Diane, captain again, was determined to put a stop to the losing rot and had a cunning plan.  She played Belle and Mary only in the foursomes, paired together and they won their first match and halved their second.  The visitors won all three foursomes on the first day and the first three singles in the afternoon – the format has been changed now to include fourballs – and led by 6 1/2 points to 2 1/2.  The world of golf was in total shock.

GB and I steamrollered on, to win 13-5 and become the first team, men or women, amateur or professional, to win on US soil.  They were followed by the Ryder Cuppers, who won at Muirfield Village in 1987 and the Walker Cuppers, who won at Peachtree in 1989.

But it was the Curtis Cuppers who did it first.

And I’m not sure Enid ever did eat her hat.

 

 

The start of either the Open Championship or the Women’s Open Championship week is always a nerve-jangling affair.  On the Monday the final qualifying test is held to determine who will duck under the wire and secure a coveted tee time at one of the world’s greatest tournaments.

Last Monday it was the turn of the women and 92 hopefuls teed it up at Craighead Links at Crail Golfing Society, a stone’s throw down the Fife coast from the Old Course at St Andrews, venue of this year’s final major, the AIG Women’s Open.  It seems almost cruel to tease the players by being  physically so adjacent to the home of golf – a dream of playing there in a major so tantalisingly close, yet……  for most it was that bit too far.  In all, twelve of the 92 survived the rigours of the test with three of that number prevailing in a 12-woman tussle of a play-off.

Those three going the extra mile and clinching the final spots on offer were Jodi Ewart Shadoff, the American-based English Solheim Cup star,  Finland’s Ursula Wikstrom, veteran of many campaigns on the LET (Ladies’ European Tour) and fellow club member of mine from Royal Portrush, Stephanie Meadow, who has called the States her home for over half her life now.

At the time of writing not a single competitor who survived the pre-qualifying at Delamere Forest last month managed to come through in Crail, which just goes to show how hard it is.  England’s Lily May Humphreys, winner of the Jo’burg Open last year, who finished top of the pile at Delamere, has played sufficiently good golf in the interim to earn her place without undergoing the rigours of final qualifying.  I have high hopes for two players, however, who failed to make it through the play-off at Crail.  Hayley Davis of Ferndown is fourth reserve and Lea-Anne Bramwell of Abergele will also be keeping her fingers crossed that a handful of withdrawals will allow her to compete.  It may be a long way to Tipperary but it’s even longer from Delamere to St Andrews via Crail.

Whatever takes you to St Andrews it’s a wonderful place to visit, golfer or no.  I turned up there nearly half a century ago as a very gauche, 17-year old student at the university.  Have golf clubs will travel was already my motto in those days and the lure of the golf was evident in my choice of degree subject.  I had a notion I might do law but, alas, there was no law faculty in St Andrews in those days – you had to travel a whole big twelve miles to Dundee to study the subject.  There was no way I was going to study in Dundee, so I opted instead for French and English.

I just adored St Andrews and everything about it – well, almost everything.  The university life;  the £12 student green fee that allowed you to play any of the then four courses in the old toon for a year;  the history imbued in the ancient cobbled streets;  the cycling to lectures with the famous scarlet gown billowing behind you, worn, of course, in a particular way that would mark out which year you were in.  The only downside was the bitter, bitter winters.  It’s truly the coldest place I’ve ever lived.  The North Atlantic winds that lashed the Portstewart and Portrush of my childhood couldn’t come close to those winds off the North Sea.

It came as a bit of a shock to me, therefore, that I only spent four terms, fourteen months to be exact, in St Andrews.  Once again, the lure of the golf trumped all and, along with a Welsh pal, I answered the siren call of a golf scholarship to Texas and duly transferred my studies out there.  The only form of communication with home was by airmail letter and I honestly might as well have landed on the moon.  Temperatures in the 90s and 100s were commonplace;  accents were impossible to decipher (as was mine for the Texans);  the golf courses were different and I certainly never had to deal with pulling the flag out at Portstewart and finding a snake having a snooze in the bottom of the cup!

At first I hated it and was so homesick.  I had given up a lot in leaving St Andrews but it was always, for me, all about the golf.  Sometimes in life you know you’re at a crossroads and, although still only 18, I knew I was at one when the offer of the scholarship arrived.  I distinctly remember thinking I didn’t want to be 80 years of age, in my rocking chair, and wondering what would have happened if I’d taken the plunge and gone stateside.

Taking that leap opened up a world of opportunity for me and a life in golf that I don’t think would have happened for me had I stayed in Fife.  Remember, there weren’t the opportunities then in the UK that there are now for those who wished to follow their golfing dreams.  So, for me, St Andrews was a launchpad that has taken me round the world and afforded me endless opportunities – all because of this wonderful game.

I wonder if, come Sunday, it’ll prove a launchpad for one of the 144 competitors teeing it up in the AIG Women’s Open – or will it provide a career-defining moment for an already established star?  One thing is for certain – more than one person will leave St Andrews with a magical experience that they’ll never forget.

Just like I did.

The bloodied, slightly gruesome image above – technical glitches permitting, of course – is of my left knee after contact with a bit of road the other night.  Embarrassingly, it’s not even a proper cycling injury because I didn’t come off my bike so much as not even get on it.  There were also witnesses and because I’d travelled by bike I had consumed some red wine over the course of the evening’s bridge.

It wasn’t the wine’s fault – even though it was a Barolo a bit past its best – because I’ve managed the same sort of p(r)atfall in broad daylight, having consumed nothing stronger than water.  It was dark, a little chilly and I was in a hurry to head home, so I hadn’t got my feet firmly on the pedals and once I started to topple inelegantly to my left, that was it:  I’d had it.

Having ascertained that nothing was broken, fingers crossed, I pushed the bike to the top of the hill and freewheeled home, avoiding all known potholes and further damage.  My linen trousers, earmarked to last the summer, should it decide to settle in, were ripped but undoubtedly helped prevent more cuts, if not bruises.  Out came the TCP and some ice to help the healing process and I hirpled up the stairs to bed.  What a plonker.

Getting out of bed the next morning took a bit of time because the leg had seized up, there wasn’t much bend in the knee and I had to assess what pain threshold I was willing to acccept – very low being my preferred option, if pushed.  Fortunately there was no golf scheduled and my ankle was in full working order, so I was able to drive over to Cheshire, to deliver my IKEA rocking chair to its new home at Mo and Brian’s.  (Decluttering still ongoing.)  Tea and sympathy were in plentiful supply – though I had to bring my own TCP because Mo can’t stand the stuff, my medication of choice for years and years.

Ridiculously enough, my reading matter at the time of the accident (bit of a grand word for a stumble) was “A Rough Ride” by Paul Kimmage, published in 1990 and the William Hill Sports Book of the Year.  It’s subtitled:  An Insight Into Pro Cycling and is compelling reading even now.  Kimmage, a Dubliner, is a contemporary of Sean Kelly and Stephen Roche but by his own admission never touched the cycling heights of his fellow countrymen.  He could certainly ride but luckily for him he found he was even better at writing and became a journalist when he was thrown on the cycling scrapheap.

At the Open one year not so long ago, I asked Paul if he could explain the strategy/tactics of teams in the Tour de France and he said, “No, beats me.”  Or words to that effect.  I wandered off, satisfied that if a man who’d actually ridden in the race – and completed it – didn’t know, there was no need for me to worry about it.  On reflection of course I realised that he’d done an elegant swerve to send an ignorant numpty on her way without further inane questions.

Still, hope springs eternal that a septuagenarian with weak legs and wobbly handling skills might one day aim higher than the three miles (nearly five kilometres) from home to the golf club and Brian, who is a cyclist, had just the book to inspire dreams (delusions?) of grand tours worldwide.  It’s perhaps a bit much to expect me to manage the length of Patagonia – even north to south, with the wind mostly behind apparently – but there are gentler suggestions suitable for the less adventurous and skilled.

Perhaps, if the knee makes a full recovery and recovers its bend, I should just stick to golf. Talking of which, many thanks to Midlands Golfer Magazine, issue No 98 2024, so fairly current, for bringing me up to date with Alison Nicholas, the Midlands’ very own US Women’s Open champion, among many other things.  Big Al, all five foot of her, can be claimed by many places, having been born in Gibraltar and raised in Yorkshire but she’s been settled in the Midlands for some years now, so we’re laying claim.

She’s now Warwickshire’s county junior organiser, overseeing the coaching programme and “looking at ideas for encouraging more girls into the game.  My responsibilities are mostly administrative and I have restructured the coaching programme and appointed two very enthusiastic coaches to do the junior coaching sessions.  I’ll still be the first team coach and I have introduced two county beginner hubs at Moor Hall and Kenilworth…”

That victory at Pumpkin Ridge in Oregon, when Alison held off crowd favourite and genuine superstar Nancy Lopez, still ranks as one of the most outstanding performances by any European golfer on American soil.  And I’m including Laura, Lotte, Seve, Sandy, Woosie, Olly, Bernhard, Nick, Rory, the lot!

And congratulations to Lottie Woad, the 20-year old Englishwoman from Farnham GC and Florida State University, on winning the (Mark H) McCormack Medal awarded to the world’s top female amateur.  Lottie’s exceptional season included winning the Augusta National Women’s Amateur, the first European to do so and at the end of this month she’ll be lining up for GB and I against the USA in the Curtis Cup at Sunningdale.

When you’re old enough to know better, you shouldn’t even be attempting to see if you can replicate a taekwondo kick to the head, especially when you know you’d be lucky to hit the kneecap.  Stiff hips, a dodgy back and an essentially sedentary lifestyle do not a limber lunger make.  Just because I know that Jade Jones is Welsh, from Flint and has won two Olympic gold medals but was crushed by her performance in the Marie Celeste that was Tokyo does not mean that I know anything at all about her area of expertise, her passion.

That’s where the Olympics come in.  They make those of us who are sports fans care about what happens to people who work their guts out for years, mostly in relative anonymity, before leaping into our consciousness every four years (or three in this case, given the intervention of Covid and related complications).

Suddenly, we’re sitting there critiquing archers, dressagers, judokas, beach volleyballers, handballers, gymnasts, wall climbers, rowers, hockey players, skateboarders, whoever.  “Ooooh, too long before taking the shot; too passive; needs to move more to the left; he/she looks a bit tense (hardly surprising); too slow off the line; not going to get the height…”

Mostly, though, we’re in awe.  “How on earth did they do that?  That’s not humanly possible.  Blimey.  Unbelievable.  Pass the biscuits.”

And that’s when it becomes dangerous.  Trying to work out how any human being can get in to a particular position and attempting it yourself.  It’s a bit of a miracle that this blog is getting written at all, given that I lack the wrist, ankle and knee supports that are de rigueur for most top-class athletes.  Is there a bit of Simone Biles – and her fellow gymnasts – that is not strapped up?  Is there a skateboarder who isn’t a regular at A&E?  An athlete without at best a niggle?

In short, are all Olympic performers bonkers?

For instance, who in her right mind would agree to put in the effort to become an expert on the beam?  It’s 10 centimetres wide, four inches in old money and I don’t know how high off the floor.  Anyway, I measured it and found that my big feet would barely fit on it.  No wonder most women gymnasts are titchy.

A French friend posted a picture on Facebook of two of the megastars of these Paris Olympics:  Biles and the French swimmer Leon Marchand, both the ideal build – or near enough; variations are permitted – for their respective sports.  She’s 1.42 metres (4′ 8″) and he’s a tad taller at 1.87 (6′ 2″).

It must be good to be able to relax and bask in the glory after the medal-winning work is done while others are still slogging away.

Which brings us to the golf, more specifically the women’s golf, which ends tomorrow.  Like the men’s event, it’s the old 72-hole stroke play format and in the early stages it’s as dull as dull as dull – I don’t want to insult ditchwater, which is probably preoccupied and being tested at the moment anyway.  (That’s a bit of a poor in joke for those of us whose water is supplied by companies being fined millions for neglecting their duties, polluting rivers, that sort of thing.)

If you read the comments sent to the blog, you’ll see that everybody is desperate for a different, more dynamic format for the Olympic golf.  If it’s only the last round, or nine holes, that generate the real excitement, why not ditch the rest?!  A friend, a golfer, who’d been watching something else, soon lost interest because there was no excitement, nothing to keep her attention.

At least the crowds looked decent and golf was unlucky that there were no spectators in Tokyo because the Japanese are mad about their golf and would have flocked to watch.  Attracting the non-aficionados is the thing but golf seems to think there’s no need to adapt for the Games.  Tennis has done it.  Rugby 7s is in instead of the full 15-a-side version.  Golf?  Nothing.

What about a shorter format, a team element, mixing it up with foursomes, four ball, a bit of imagination, a mixed team?  Isn’t it all about growing the game?

Talking of growing a game, my cricketing pals and I were at Edgbaston again last Saturday for The Hundred, a shortened form of the game designed to attract non-cricketers, especially children.  It’s fast, exciting and noisy, great fun – even though it was sometimes hard to know exactly who was doing what to whom.  No doubt, we’d be told to keep up to speed via the app but if you do that, you’re 99.9 per cent certain to miss a wicket or runs or both.  For goodness sake, I missed a wicket because I was scrabbling on the ground for my coffee cup.

Still, we had a great day out, the women won, the men lost, it didn’t rain and the young lad behind us made his television debut and won a pair of sunglasses.

And I’m just off to book an emergency appointment with the osteopath; what eejit invented taekwondo anyway?…