As some of you know, Troon, now Royal Troon, was always top of my hit list, well ahead of Muirfield, Royal St George’s, Portmarnock and all the other “no women here” bastions of golf.   We could always play golf at Troon but there were conditions imposed and as for being members or persona grata at all times, allowed to use the front door or the loo whenever the need arose?  Forget it.

Times, I’m glad to say, have changed.

This week, the AIG Women’s Open (there was once a British in the title and I’m not entirely convinced that it was a good idea to drop the geographical designation) is being held at Royal Troon for the first time, behind closed doors or, more accurately, since this is an outdoor game, without spectators.  The R&A, who are running the championship, are serious when they say that they want more women and girls involved in the game at all levels and it’s a joy to see one of the game’s governing bodies using its clout to promote golf as a game for everyone.

Next year the AIG Women’s Open will be at Carnoustie, then Muirfield (not a misprint) in 2022, Walton Heath in 2023, the Old Course in 2024 and Royal Porthcawl in 2025.  Wonderful venues, proper golf courses for what is now a bona fide major championship.

Dame Laura Davies, who is playing in her 40th (British) Women’s Open, hit the opening tee shot at Troon – in a bit of a breeze (aka a howling gale) – at 0630, an honour she appreciated despite having to get up before dawn.  At least it meant she wasn’t going to be held up by the people in front.

As a lot of people have pointed out, this is golf’s time to shine.  So many other sports are struggling to reappear after lockdown and golf is perfect at all levels:  played in the open air; easy to keep your distance; good for heart and health.  The trick is to go with the flow and accommodate people who are blissfully unaware of the more nonsensical “traditions” of the game, people who don’t know that jeans, trainers and shirts without collars are the work of the devil.  Knowing how to behave on the course and off is more important than what you’re wearing.

One of the “traditions” that seems to have gone by the board is pace of play, playing without undue delay.  Non-golfers can be forgiven for thinking that golf, far from being a moving game, a game that flows, is a static endeavour, performed by near-statues, beings who can’t decide what to do without consulting endless charts in the misguided belief that they can remove every variable from the equation.  I have a friend who consults the yardage gizmo whenever they’re within 20 yards – perhaps even less – of the green; on their home course, a place they play week in week out;  they can’t trust their eye; they never have the club out of the bag as they approach the ball; they reach the ball, take out the gizmo, ponder, take out a club and, eventually, hit the shot.  It’s taken enough seconds to turn into minutes and it’s repeated time after time, so we’re all taking at least an hour longer for 18 holes than we should do – and longer than we used to do a few years ago.

I blame the pros.  They don’t care how long they take, they have nothing else to do all day, being on the golf course is their job after all.  All those pace of play guidelines aren’t worth the charts they’re written on unless they’re enforced and stroke penalties are handed out on the spot, sod the warnings.  Padraig Harrington, Europe’s Ryder Cup captain, was a notorious slowcoach but realised that he needed to change his slothful, selfish ways and practised speeding up his routine all round.  Every pro needs to do that and it would be great if they also learned how to read their yardage books and walk at the same time, so that they’d be pretty certain of what club to play when they reached the ball.

Stacy Lewis, a woman who’s learned how to make up her mind on the hoof, endured some tedious play by playing partners Azahara Munoz and Jennifer Song, not two of the world’s fastest decision makers, to win the Aberdeen Standard Investments Ladies Scottish Open, at the Renaissance Club, North Berwick, with a birdie at the first extra hole.  Lewis, a former world No 1, whose daughter Chesnee was watching at home, hitting the telly with her plastic clubs as Mom sank the winning putt, last won in 2017 before the birth of her daughter.

Chesnee has given Lewis a new outlook on life, let alone golf and apart from now having more important things to do than watch others consult yardage books as though they were tablets of stone, she is well aware that golf mustn’t miss its chance to impress.  The last round took more than five hours (not including the play-off) and Lewis knows that that’s not acceptable, viewers will switch off and sponsors will look elsewhere to spend whatever money they have:  “I do think an effort needs to be made across the board to play faster…..I’m sure it couldn’t have been fun to watch on TV.”

Chesnee being the exception.

Not long ago Luke played Worplesdon, West Hill and Woking in two hours 47 minutes – and that included running between the courses. Don’t ask me how he managed it but his scores were 75, 81 and 77.  “My life in golf has given me great confidence and belief in myself,” Luke said, “and I wanted to share some of this positivity, firing the imagination at the same time….For those who would like to support my adventure with a donation, you will be helping the Golf Foundation to inspire many kids from all backgrounds to love golf and acquire life skills that will help them to cope with this changing world around us.

“Golf should be a joy for everyone and it has great mental and physical health benefits.  It’s a beautiful game.”

I think I’ve mentioned before that, rather to my surprise, I’ve become a bit of a fan of an early tee time, regularly playing with a friend at 0730 or thereabouts.  Only nine holes but it’s been a delight, an easy way to get a bit of exercise in and feel faintly virtuous for the rest of the day.  Changed times from when I was younger, a real grouch in the mornings, not to be touched with a barge pole for fear of having it snapped in half and your head bitten off.

This morning’s nine will be an attempt to recover from a rather gruesome showing at Wrexham yesterday when I failed to pull my weight and contributed a miserly tally of points to the team total.  My driving was mostly passable but everything else was ugly – until a glimmer of acceptable golf emerged over the last few holes.  Too late, too late, as a Scottish friend used to cry on such occasions – in his broadest possible accent.

The team included Janet Davies, nee Melville, a former British champion and winner of numerous titles at every level, now playing out of Royal Birkdale but even she couldn’t drag us out of the mire.  On a more upbeat note, she’s led the resurrection of the Brenda King Foursomes (ditched by England Golf), at Minchinhampton in Gloucestershire at the beginning of October, a competition well worth supporting.  There’s still room for a few more entries, so you seniors out there, have a look at your diaries.

 

For once I didn’t force my partners to pose for the camera and possible inclusion in the blog, so apologies for the lack of up-to-date pics.  Now, here’s another one, of the rest of the team (sans moi).

The demise of my golf game – or at least the sudden slump after a period of half-decent performances – can probably be traced to this Tuesday just past and the introduction of the dreaded card and pencil in the Hamer Cup, not just a medal but an honours-board comp no less.  Pars were conspicuous by their absence and one of the two (yes, I confess it) that I did have came at the 18th where I wasn’t quite sure that the ball wasn’t moving when I hit it – in a bit of a panic because I thought the ball was starting to move.  I lipped out for a birdie 4 and after some discussions – and a lot of trouble with my phone not liking the internet connection and me not being able to see very well because of screen glare – I returned my score, whatever it was.  When the computer adds everything up and you know it’s lots, why bother being precise?

A little later, after a coffee in the clubhouse – first one for months, seeing other people in person instead of on Zoom or not at all, so exciting – and more discussions, I decided to disqualify myself.  However, when the results came out, I was a bit peeved to see that I appeared as an NR (no return), which is not the same thing at all.  Whatever, many congrats to Jill Harris, who won with a 69 nett (off 20) and is in dire danger of becoming nearly as good a golfer as she was a table tennis player.  That’s probably a wee bit of an exaggeration because she represented England at the Commonwealth Games and I think she won a medal (it’s a bit late at night to ask her and my Googling or whatever proved woefully inadequate; am I the only person in the world who can never find the answer she wants from this apparently wonderful, well-nigh infallible resource?!!).  Competitive isn’t the word, though.

 

My partner Suzanne, last year’s ladies’ captain (how good was that timing?) and I were first out at 0830 (bit late for me these days but our first competition time) and that meant there was room in front of us, occupied by men.  There were fourballs out at 0810 and 0820 and there was a lot of chuntering (polite, restrained description) on our WhatsApp group.  The week before the women who were first out had been waiting from the 6th, fizzing, with never an offer of being called through.  Out a bit later this week, they decided to stock up with Pimms and chill.

Go with the flow, I thought; see how things pan out; relax; don’t seek confrontation; avoid ructions if at all possible.  Get to bed early; sleep well; get up in plenty of time; breathe; have breakfast (prepared the night before); do a bit of tai chi; stretch; breathe.

I had a slow, gentle start to the day, listening to Radio 3 and Mozart’s clarinet concerto in A; put out a couple of books to put in my golf bag, just in case we had to wait a lot but then decided against War And Peace because it was a bit bulky – in fact I heard something on the radio the other day that suggested Tolstoy thought it was far too long and pretentious but I may have misheard…

A lot of clubs are still divided into men and women and never the twain shall meet, each group regarding the other as an alien species.  Not so long ago one of our older men, not one of the world’s great golfers, told one of our older women, also not one one of the world’s great golfers, that she shouldn’t be on the golf course.  That still makes my blood boil.  If ever there was a breach of whatever etiquette is supposed to be, that was it.

As it turned out, I didn’t need to read my book – my partner and I, being reasonable, patient, non-confrontational people (mostly), paced ourselves so that we weren’t waiting on every shot (we were helped by a time immediately behind us that wasn’t filled).  And Hallelujah, after representations and reminders of past practices and bye-laws,  next Tuesday will be different:  no fourballs out ahead of us women (unless we’re playing in fours)…

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

I suppose I must have been looking for something to do – never usually a problem for one of the world’s great footerers – but the other day I decided to flick through the pages of one of my favourite golf magazines and count up the number of women gracing their pages.

Big mistake.

As I ploughed on and began to realise that I needed not only my glasses but also my magnifying glass, I got more and more peeved.  So peeved that I asked Maureen to have a go too.  Not surprisingly she said that she had better things to do but she did take up the challenge later and told me that it didn’t take long for the steam to start coming out of her ears…

I used to work for Golf World and was always told that it was men who bought golf magazines, so there wasn’t much point aiming stuff at women.  I did end up writing a women’s column, so at least there was a bit of a presence and Laura Davies was always guaranteed to make a splash.  Even golfers who didn’t know that women were allowed to set foot on a fairway had heard of LD, the future Dame.  And Peter Haslam, the editor, had a daughter, Sarah, who became a professional, so it wasn’t a complete wasteland.

Issue 179 of bunkered, however, confined us mostly to the ads, with only Nicola Ellwood, who writes on the mental game, being remotely mainstream.  She’s a Master Performance Coach, Mind-set Coach and NLP (Neurolinguistic Programming) Master Practitioner and you’ll find her at www.performanceandmastery.co.uk.  On page 98, I spotted Catriona Matthew, the pride of Scotland, who had, marvel of marvels, graced the front cover in a previous issue.  This time she was tucked away in a promotional ad for bunkered, which reminded me why I’m a subscriber:  they do very good deals and will usually give you a dozen Srixons as well as 30 per cent, or whatever, off the standard cover price.  As a result my ball pocket is stuffed with Srixons.

Now, Mo’s and my tallies didn’t match – and I lost the will to get out the fine-tooth comb; suffice to say that you’d probably need no more than two hands for the count and that’s including the soft-focus woman in the Laings pre-owned (since 1840) ad ( I only counted her once, though she appears three times – it is a double-page spread).  I thought we’d moved beyond 1840 but Dai did once describe me as his “ever-optimistic wife”.

To be fair, three women feature on the last page, “In Focus:  pics of cool stuff you might have missed on social.”  That’s being generous because there’s a before and after picture of Amy Boulden’s back garden without anyone in it;  Michelle Wie West enceinte, before the arrival of her daughter Makenna; and Nelly Korda with her dog.  Woof.

Still, however much of an afterthought we women are, however much we have to fight our corner still, spare a thought for people of colour in golf.  Tiger, unsurprisingly, featured in issue 179, riding in a buggy somewhere but I didn’t spot any other non-white golfers, even in the ads.  I was thinking about this, not just because of Black Lives Matter (and please don’t miss the point by saying that all lives matter) but because I came across a fascinating book that I’d forgotten I had called “Forbidden Fairways:  African Americans And The Game Of Golf”.  It’s a brilliant, if sobering, read.

I suppose colour makes for an easy-peasy prejudice because it’s so visible but, as they sang in South Pacific, one of the world’s great musicals, “You have to be carefully taught”.  I remember being in hospital once and what I loved about it was the diversity, people of all sorts of colours, ages, shapes and sizes, from all sorts of backgrounds.  There were misunderstandings, of course, not least because people used language differently, the same words meant different things to different people and nuances were missed or misconstrued.  “Political correctness”  is sneered at and much maligned and taken to extremes by people for their own purposes but at its best, surely, it just means paying attention to what you’re saying, how you’re saying it and being a little bit more sensitive in your dealings with people?

No wonder bias, unconscious or otherwise, exists:  it’s easy to feel comfortable with people who have had a similar upbringing, are more or less on the same wavelength, have had the same training and help reinforce each other’s prejudices; at base it’s the gang mentality.  Even better if you can regard anyone different as inferior.  Heaven forbid that they might teach you something, broaden your horizons, change your thinking, open your mind, make you think.

I used to make assumptions, anticipate what people would say, how they were thinking, how they were feeling.  I’d get their measure – I thought – then put them in their box, suitably labelled, content that that’s where they’d stay, preserved in aspic.  Trouble was, it didn’t work.  Next time I came across a person neatly labelled, presuming I knew just how they’d react, they’d do the opposite or, at the very least, something completely different and put the kybosh on all my theories.  Now, I tend to ask and I try to listen – blabbermouths can learn to listen – and learn why people think the way they do.

Sometimes, even after listening very, very carefully, the only possible response is a burst of Anglo-Saxon, four-letter words, accompanied by exasperated gestures, so it just goes to show that I’m still a work in progress….a wishy-washy liberal (now with added bolshy, anarchistic tendencies) who’s led a charmed life, largely thanks to an accident of birth, nothing much to do with me, guv.

See you next week, all being well.

 

 

As some of you will have noticed, this is not an informational blog – I think that’s a proper word (informational, not blog, for my ultra picky friends out there – and, believe me, I have a few; don’t we get the friends we deserve – or is that the leaders?  Aaaaaagh….).  I did look up the dictionary (my trusty Chambers) but couldn’t find my glasses and am now getting to the (st)age where squinting is inadequate, so I’ll elaborate:  this is not the place to come if you want to know what’s on where, when.

There are, of course, exceptions and I am pleased to confirm that the Curtis Cup, conked by Covid this year, has been rescheduled for 2021, at Conwy, north Wales, from September 3rd-5th.  This is OFFICIAL.  Not an unchecked acceptance of a friend’s dates for the rescheduled match, which I passed on a few weeks ago, only to get ticked off from on high – well, St Andrews, which may be at sea level but is pretty elevated when it comes to matters golfing.

The Women’s Amateur and the Amateur Championship are scheduled to go ahead in August but who knows?  Anything could happen between now and then.

Watching the golf from Hilton Head on the telly last week, I couldn’t really understand why the players – and officials – felt the need to fist bump or elbow bump or whatever.  Why touch at all, especially now that several players and caddies have tested positive for the virus?  I can understand footballers hugging in a fit of excitement after a goal, though perhaps even they could learn a bit of restraint – and managers have no need whatsoever to touch at the end of a game.  A bow or a bit of a wave should be more than enough.

Now, going against the grain, here’s another bit of information.  It’s aimed at the golf-playing senior women who read this blog – there are a few, thank you all.  The Brenda King Foursomes, ditched by England Golf before the virus hit, have been resurrected by Janet Davies, nee Melville and friends and is due to be played at Minchinhampton GC in Gloucestershire on October 1st and 2nd.

Janet, British champion in 1987, was very disappointed that England Golf had decided not to run the event any more, particularly as there are so few national events for seniors to play in.  In addition, Janet said, “Brenda was a Lancashire lass and being a Lancashire lass myself, I did not want her memory to be lost.”  She set out to “save the BK Foursomes”, set up a tournament committee, rounded up 30 entries before lockdown and is keen to persuade more people to enter, in the hope that life will have returned to something approaching normal and the competition will be able to go ahead.

 

I played in the event in 2017, at Harrogate, drafted in as a late sub and it was great fun.  Hard work but great fun.  I love foursomes but foursomes stroke play might well be the toughest format there is.  There’s no hiding place.  If one of you isn’t quite on her game, returning a decent score is well-nigh impossible but you just have to grind it out. In the first round, my long-suffering partner played well but my mediocre play wasn’t helped by an inability to hole a putt of any length.  We did manage to break 100 – a lot of pairs didn’t – and fortunately my partner, a bit of a putting guru, who was still speaking to me, gave me a tip that worked, so we improved on the second day despite the monsoon-like conditions and finished respectably in the middle of the field.

Solheim Cup, Ryder Cup, any number of team captains spend hours agonising over their foursomes pairings but I’ve always thought that the key is compatibility – at some level the partners have to get on.  They don’t have to like each other necessarily, their games don’t have to match necessarily but they do have to rub along, there has to be a connection of some sort and it’s probably best that they don’t deeve the life out of each other.  For instance, Ronnie White, a fairly quiet, intense Englishman, who hit the ball pretty straight and Joe Carr, a much more outgoing, flamboyant Irishman, who knew where the boondocks were, made a formidable Walker Cup partnership.

Dai and I, married for nearly 25 years, played a lot of golf together but foursomes?  Forget it.  We’d be lucky to last a hole.  We just approached the game in a completely different way and sharing a ball didn’t work.

That’s another of my favourite photos of Dai and me, taken on a long-ago birthday (of mine).  Since it was my birthday on Wednesday, I could probably work out how many years ago it was but some calculations just aren’t worth doing!  Jet-setting is no longer on the agenda but I did play golf – 9 holes early in the morning before it got too hot – and it set me up for the rest of the day.  Thanks to everyone for their cards and good wishes, though, come to think of it, not a single card mentioned golf.  The example below is more representative….

Slainte.