Mo’s laptop is playing up, perhaps terminally (sounds suitably computerish), so I’m in charge of all my photos this week.  She’s preparing to be horrified but, ever the optimist, I’m hoping for delectation and delight….

However, there seems to have been a glitch at my end as well and because the featured pic, which should appear at the top of the blog, has not materialised for some reason, the piece is even more baffling than usual!  Anyway, here is the missing photo, which should explain a lot.

My sister, being a proper professional player, has a practice net at home – and judging from various social media posts, so do some of my golfing friends.  Having a small space, I have to improvise and the rug is one of my aids; beating it is how I try to improve my follow-through – or some such.  It’s a pretty aged rug but is looking surprisingly bright and perky in the shutdown sunshine.  And my powder-puff efforts do it no damage.

So far no damage to my back either.  They say that there are two sorts of people in the world:  those with backs and those without.  Those of us with just have to learn to manage and not get too cocky if we have a bit of a run without any major problems.  Don’t laugh but it was hurdling that did for my back, hard though that is to imagine.  I can’t run at all now but back in the day I was quite fast – no stamina but, at a lowly level, speedy-ish.  The mistake was sticking the hurdles in the equation.  I was reminded of that the other day when I tried washing my feet in the basin and had great difficulty making the carry.

No, I decided to highlight Esther Gokhale’s back bible because of a decision to reduce my to-do list to two items; this revelation came to me the other day as I was walking across the park to pick up the sainted Alice for her afternoon walk.  I was gratified to read later that it’s an approach recommended by all sorts of psychologists and well-being, mindfulnessy experts.  So, not such a daft idea after all and the second thing on my list was to take one of Esther’s courses.

She’s based in California but she used to travel the globe and many years ago I signed up for a course with her, in London.  It was a three-day thing and I was within a couple of hundred yards of the venue when I got a call saying the weekend had been cancelled.  Gobsmacked wasn’t in it but no amount of indignation could change the fact that there would be no benefiting from Esther’s expertise face to face.  She had, I suspect, been turned back at the airport for not having the right visa; she’d probably said she was coming in to teach a course instead of saying she was visiting friends.  The only good thing, such as it was, was that the rate of exchange had changed and I got back a few more pounds than I’d paid out.

Esther’s big thing is posture and sitting reading, sitting at a computer, peering at a small phone screen scrolling through endless WhatsApps, leaning over the basin, riding the bike, poking at the Zoom buttons, all those things have been playing merry hell with my body – dowager’s hump, turtle neck, it’s all there.  Something must be done before it’s too late.

And, lo, the next day an email dropped into my inbox telling me about a free, online workshop to learn the basics of the Gokhale Method, taught by Clare Chapman in Bristol.  I signed up immediately and now my to-do list just has the one thing on it.  Apart from reading the 8 Steps.

Of course, non-essentials keep interfering with the good intentions littering my road to hell and I was so diverted that I got out my tool box (small but perfectly formed, a pressie from my brother-in-law) and headed for my bijou bathroom.  There, with a real sense of smug satisfaction, I took the doors off the cabinet under the sink.  They are now in the shed waiting to go to a good home once there’s free movement of doors again.  I really, really, really wanted to remove the sink as well and be rid of the whole unit but I’m not yet stir-crazy enough to have forgotten my limitations.  Give me time…..

[No photograph of bathroom available…by order]

On the golf front there’s been talk of whether this year’s Ryder Cup, scheduled for Whistling Straits in Wisconsin in September, should go ahead without spectators.  There’s only one answer to that and it’s NO.  No way.  Absolutely not.

Lots of golf tournaments chug along perfectly happily without too many people watching and players get used to playing in a bit of a vacuum.  There’ll be a few diehard fans watching every shot of every round on telly, admiring swathes of green grass and some well-honed swings and the television money means that the dearth of feet on the ground at a tournament is not a catastrophe.  That would not be the case at the Ryder Cup.

The fans are the lifeblood of the Ryder Cup.  They make it what it is and the atmosphere transforms the players, who hit shots that nobody can believe and when they look back at the pictures, both still and moving, they’re astonished by their reactions.  Is that me?  Did I really do that?

Would that happen with nobody there?  Not a chance.

To finish, another photo from the archives:  Dai, on the right, talking to Bob Charles, the New Zealand left-hander who won the Open in 1963.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Apologies but there might be a bit too much golf in this blog for some readers.  The members of the AGW (Association of Golf Writers) have been recalling their favourite golfing moments or how they started in the golf business, the sort of nostalgia that fills the void left by a lack of golfing action.  Mo insisted that I share my memory with you all.

Everyone’s stories brought back so many happy memories, not least of friends and colleagues no longer with us.  It’s great how the moments of despair and blind panic fade and the laughs remain.   

One colleague recalled spending a happy evening with Tiger, joshing around and ending up in a headlock but my tale is more straightforward – though Mo and I did find ourselves in the room next to Tiger at the Memorial one year and failed to wonder why he was loaded down with so many takeaway bags; we were barking up the wrong appetite, I suppose. 

Anyway, this is about my most memorable tournament and there were a lot of contenders.  GB and I’s stunning Curtis Cup victory in 1986 at Prairie Dunes (play there if you can but not in 100 degrees); Laura Davies winning the US Women’s Open in 1987;  Liselotte Neumann winning that title the following year; Europe’s unforgettable, unexpected hammering of the Americans in the Solheim Cup at Dalmahoy in 1992 (Tony Jacklin followed the action on Ceefax because no one thought it would be worth televising such a one-sided encounter); any number of other Solheims, Opens, Masters and Ryder Cups – particularly Valderrama where Europe won because of (and in spite of) the intensity and passion of a peripatetic captain Seve and the K Club, awash with tears for Heather Clarke and rain, rain, rain.  I put my waterproofs on in the morning and took them off when we got home at night – Dai and I stayed with Helen and Colm Smith which made it all the more special; I still miss them all. 

Annika’s 59 at Moon Valley in Phoenix, Arizona, was another contender, not least because I managed to persuade The Times, despite the ghastly time difference, to switch my space with the men’s European Tour event;  that gave me a whole 400-odd words instead of 250, what a triumph!

“Is there much more of this?”  I hear you ask.  Well, I’ve plumped for what I still think is one of the best performances ever by a European golfer in America, up there with the best of Seve, Faldo, Sandy, Woosie, Langer, Chema, Annika, Padraig, Rory, whoever.  Yes, THAT good.

It was Alison Nicholas winning the US Women’s Open and a trophy nearly as big as she was at Pumpkin Ridge in Oregon in 1997.  

It was another occasion awash with emotion because Nicholas, three shots ahead, was paired with Nancy Lopez in the final round.   I haven’t enough words to explain Nancy to those who’ve never heard of her but she was the darling of American golf, a superstar if ever there was one, who had never won her national title despite coming close several times.  This would surely be her moment.  The fire-hydrant-sized Englishwoman would surely crumble and Nancy would have the title she craved above all others.

This was a proper championship, with proper crowds and the place was packed, the atmosphere electric, with nearly every one of the tens of thousands there rooting for Lopez.  As were most of the media.  After all, why not?  It was a wonderful tale waiting to be told and none of them anticipated Nicholas spoiling it all by having the nerve and the game to hold up under the strain.

As I remember it, Lopez started with two birdies and had another at the long 4th – and was still three behind.  Nicholas, who holed a knee-trembler for a par at the 1st, then had a birdie and holed her pitch for an eagle three at the 4th.  Game on.

I had a poxy edition with a half six deadline (British time) and the copy was usually a bit of a mish-mash because, essentially, with an 8-hour time difference bugger all had happened.  Not this time.  The first four holes were so sensational that the story wrote itself.  I remember that there was a power cut but even it was well-timed, so I filed ok, then turned to Elspeth Burnside, a Scot working for numerous outlets and said, “You know, Elspeth, whatever happens from now on, we can’t lose.”

Nancy was a wonderful story and a wonderful person, so no problem there and I thought I didn’t really mind who won…..but as the day wore on, I realised that was nonsense; I really, really, really wanted Big Al to win.

And win she did – though a double bogey near the end set the nerves on edge and an alternative intro in the works.  Nicholas, aided and abetted by Mark Fulcher, who was calmness personified and went on to more great things caddying for Justin Rose, shrugged off the setback and carried off the biggest prize of all.

And it all made the main edition. 

Of course, one woman’s dream is another woman’s nightmare and there’s no escaping the fact that losing really, really hurts.

On a more frivolous, cheerful note, I made good use of the cards I’d been hoarding for years and made a collage for my wardrobe door.  How pleased was I to sort them all out but a few days later I discovered several more boxes of cards and realised I’d need the sort of wardrobe/closet space used by the late Doug Sanders to house his colourful collection of gear.  RIP Doug, a very, very good golfer remembered more for his near misses in majors, particularly the 1970 Open at St Andrews where he missed THAT putt to win and was beaten by a shot by Jack Nicklaus in the 18-hole play-off.

Finally, congratulations to Sergio Garcia, his wife Angela and daughter Azalea on the arrival of Enzo Akins Garcia on the 10th of April.  Someone, who’ll remain nameless, expressed disappointment that Sergio didn’t come up with a Masters-themed name for the new arrival.  Well, I said, he could hardly have called him Magnolia, Georgia or Augusta.  Back came the reply:  What about Jack Verde Garcia……Very funny but thank goodness they had more sense!  Enzo doesn’t know how lucky he is.

Finally, I leave you with this picture, just because it made me laugh.

 

 

 

 

     

Ah well, here we are – the first Masters week in my lifetime without the Masters!  Mind you, we now have the promise of a November fixture, which will be interesting – fingers crossed, we’ll have a peep into this magical world at a completely different time of year.  Meanwhile, there are wall to wall re-runs of past tournaments for us to watch on TV, if so inclined.  I have recorded a few but not sat down to watch any yet – that’ll be for a rainy day sometime soon.  It’s inevitable, then, that this week of all weeks I have found myself thinking back to my previous Masters visits.  It all started 29 years ago…….

1991:  The wee Welsh wizard, Ian Woosnam, surprised the home galleries by roaring through to a one-stroke victory over Jose Maria Olazabal – a phenomenal one-two for the Europeans.  Thanks to an influential sister I had a spot on the back porch of the Butler cabin as Woosie arrived to take part in the TV presentation for the coveted green jacket.  We were near-ish neighbours at the time and he spoke to me on the way in to the presentation.  He was in a complete daze and hardly knew where he was.  On the other hand, I’ve never forgotten it!

1997:  Big sis comes through with the tickets again and it’s off to have a look at this wunderkind Tiger Woods.  It was around this time that Sandy Lyle was reputedly asked if he knew Tiger Woods, to which he replied, “No, I’ve never played there.”  I decided to follow Tiger on the Thursday and walked the first nine with him.  He was out in 40.  “What’s all the fuss about?” I wondered as I sloped off to watch somebody else.  Three days later we all had the answer to that particular question and I was in the gallery at the 18th green witnessing half a dozen or so new records being set. Tiger won by twelve and the world’s obsession with him took hold right there and then.

2007:  I had started doing some broadcasting in the States the previous year and 2007 was my first opportunity to go to the Masters as an accredited member of the media, working for radio.  I was beyond excited but that wasn’t to last.  No inside-the-ropes access meant I had a static broadcast position for the week at the 17th green.  Limited visibility of the fairway meant I spent all day every day only calling putts on the slippery surface, rarely seeing one holed.  It was turgid stuff.  Added to that, the temperatures were not much above freezing and I remember wearing eight layers, a woolly hat and big mitts and still being frozen.  For me, an eminently forgettable week, but not for Zach Johnson who won by two.

2012:  Six of us rented a house together for the week that saw Blubba, sorry Bubba, Watson win the first of two titles in the space of three years.  He beat Louis Oosthuizen in a play-off with that remarkable, left-to-right swinging bullet of a wedge from the trees on the right of the tenth hole.  A plaque now marks the spot.  Earlier in the week huge storms had decimated a number of trees around the course, but through-the-night work meant that, come morning, it was virtually impossible to see where any damage had been.  Also, that year was memorable for the loudest noise I’ve ever heard at Augusta which occurred when Louis Oosthuizen holed for an albatross 2 at the second on the Sunday.  Spine-tingling.

2013:  Living the dream and back again to Augusta with three pals and hoping to witness a Rory win.  The next best thing, though, was to see Adam Scott become the first Aussie to win the Masters, defeating Angel Cabrera in near darkness at the second tie hole.  There’s something special about being present when history is made and it would be hard to think of a more popular winner.  The following morning, driving to Atlanta airport, we stopped at our normal Cracker Barrel for breakfast….and ran in to Steve Williams, the winning caddy.  He confirmed he had persuaded Adam to give that final putt more borrow than it looked – all that experience and all those years of being on Tiger’s bag coming to the fore.  Great stuff and great to get an inside view from one of the men who was central to the action.

At this point in my personal Masters journey enter Mike Eaby, VP, Sports Administration and Co-ordinating Producer of Westwood One Sports.  For whatever reason Mike was keen for me to join his crew for the Masters in 2016 – and I turned him down!  Well, I still hadn’t forgotten working there in 2007 and had decided that it was much more fun being there at Augusta as a bona fide golf nut with no responsibilities whatsoever except to seek out the best golf action.  When I casually mentioned to my family that I’d turned Mike down they were, in turn, incredulous, then dumbfounded and then they told me in no uncertain terms that I was an eejit.  So, when Mike came calling again I did a 180 and accepted.  The rest, as they say, is history and I’ve now covered the last four Masters with one of the most skilful and entertaining crews it’s been my pleasure to work with.

2016:  This was Danny Willett’s year with a flawless, bogey-free 67 on Sunday but most will remember Jordan Spieth losing a five-shot lead on the back nine.  I was alongside my colleague Kevin Kugler at Amen Corner when Spieth’s calamitous quadruple bogey began to unfold before our eyes on the par 3 12th hole.  It never grows old being right at the heart of dramatic sporting action with a microphone in hand.

2017:  Another grand year at leafy Augusta for the Europeans with Justin Rose and Sergio Garcia jointly leading going into the final round.  Matching each other blow for blow and birdie for birdie, they delivered a brace of 69s and a play-off.  Finally, amid tearful, emotional scenes, it was time for Sergio to claim a major at the 74th time of asking.  Ole, ole, ole.

2018:  This was an odd year in that there were very subdued celebrations on the grounds for the winner, American Patrick Reed.  The fans were rooting for just about anyone else.  Rory McIlroy disappointed with a final round 74; Jordan Spieth electrified proceedings making up a nine-shot deficit to tie the lead with two holes left but a closing 64 left him just shy; Rickie Fowler’s four rounds of par or better placed him second, one shot behind.

2019:  I was one of those who said Tiger would never win another major.  I’ve seen how difficult it is to do and I know what it’s like trying to cope post one back surgery never mind four – not to mention a plethora of knee procedures and assorted addictions.  But here we were again, a familiar figure, Tiger,  in not quite such a familiar setting.  For starters, gloomy weather predictions of incoming storms prompted the powers-that-be at Augusta National Golf Club to bring the tee times forward and to send the players out early in threes.  And Tiger wasn’t leading.  So, it was a different look and a different feel to Woods’ previous Masters victories as the final round unfolded.  Three of his rivals obliged by finding the water on that back nine but Tiger did what he does best and closed the deal.  The ensuing scenes were unforgettable.  I was privileged to have witnessed his victory in 1997, and several of his other major wins but this was very, very special indeed.  Perhaps we will witness something special in November – it will certainly be different experiencing Augusta in late autumn.

As I said earlier, fingers crossed it happens – we all need something to look forward to and an opportunity to build more lovely memories.

 

Well, it’s no-Masters week and the Open at Royal St George’s has already been put off until next year, so we (currently non) golfers have been indulging in a lot of nostaglia – in between perfecting our visualisation skills, improving our flexibility, strengthening our glutes and revamping our swing.  We’ve all had plenty of time to do all that, haven’t we?

I was rooting through my stuff, as per usual and came across some photos, well, hundreds of photos – they’re the last frontier when it comes to de-cluttering – and, lo and behold, some of them were of Masters past.  There are some black and white ones taken by Dai in the 1970s but I’ve spared you those and put in a selection for your delectation and delight.

The cars are pretty aged but look at the press room and those enormous great typewriters; the lawn is ready for action, one green jacket in situ early and the waiters ready to roll; and Peter McEvoy on one of the biggest stages of all.

McEvoy, for his sins Dai’s and my best man, played in two Masters Tournaments as (British) Amateur champion and in 1978 he played all four rounds.  He finished a little bit behind Gary Player, the unexpected winner, who had a last round of 64, to beat Tom Watson, the defending champion, Hubert Green and Rod Funseth by one shot.  Lindy Miller was the leading amateur and Gary Hallberg, Vance Haefner and Richard Siderowf were the other amateurs to make the cut.  Gary P, by the way, won $45,000, a fair amount of money in those days.

Player’s playing partner that day was Severiano Ballesteros and two years later the Spaniard won the first of his two green jackets, inspiring his European contemporaries Bernhard Langer, Sandy Lyle, Nick Faldo and Ian Woosnam  and his compatriot Jose Maria Olazabal, a little younger, to take Augusta by storm.  Between them all they won the title 11 times from 1980 – 1999.  Astonishing – and inspiring.

The Masters is a tough week for journalists and the man taking a power nap (behind what looks like a Tandy, an early computer, in what was the upgrade on the original Nissan hut of a press room/media centre) is the late, lamented Alister Nicol, the squat Scot, who spent a large part of his career with the Scottish Daily Record.  I think the photo on the right, though still in Tandy time, was taken somewhere else but it shows a young (ish) Michael McDonnell of the Daily Mail staring down the photographer and, behind, a thoughtful Dai in (de)composing mode (disturb at your peril).

This picture (below) is sheer indulgence.  It’s me posing for the piece I wrote for The Times about playing Augusta National the week before the Masters.  Not sure who the photographer was – Hugh Routledge perhaps?  There’s also a pic somewhere of me on the phone to my Mum – a Hi Ma – telling her that I’d just had a par 3 at the 16th.  Miraculous.  There were no mobiles in those days but the telephone engineer had just activated the public phones behind the green.

Changed times.  Where’s the golf gone?  Where’s the sport gone?  Where’s the vacuum?  There isn’t one, is there?  I think it’s a law of physics (plum-coloured notebook, goodness knows what was in it) or something but aren’t vacuums always, inexorably, filled by something?

A lot of my friends seem to have been jet-washing the patio recently, using one of those ferocious machines that sends the muck flying everywhere and means you have to clean all the windows too – and yourself.  I’ve been doing it manually, or womanually, with brush, Mangle & Wringer’s bleach, gentle but effective and water.  It’s a reasonable workout in the absence of the gym and engenders a rather unedifying feeling of smug satisfaction, as though my elbow grease is saving the planet.  What a load of bollocks!  Perhaps I am going stir-crazy already.

Four of us tried bridge on Zoom earlier in the week and it worked, more or less.  We had a lot of laughs, managed a few hands and will give it another go next week.  As someone said, it needs refinement but are we refined enough to manage it?  All help and advice gratefully received.  Setting up the hands requires a lot of work and a lot of cards, so it’s just as well I bought a few packs whenever I was tempted into the Masters merchandise megastore.

I’m still walking Alice most days – not because Sue, her owner, is unwell but so Alice can have two walks a day.  She goes on Sue’s walk and my walk, which she still finds a bit baffling but the prospect of a good sniff is too good to resist.  Usually.

I hadn’t been shopping for about a week, so after walking Alice one day I kept walking and went to Waitrose, which is my nearest supermarket.  Michael Fabricant, our MP (Conservative, of course), recognisable because of his blond mop, dressed in a brightly-coloured rugby shirt, was joining the queue as I left, hefting my rucksack, burdened down with some ill-judged purchases like potatoes, tins of chickpeas, litres of milk, that sort of thing.  I’d also splashed out on a tin of Rare Tea Co speedy breakfast tea and was looking forward to a special cuppa when I got home.  I washed my hands, filled the kettle, opened up the tin – and there was no tea therein!   Ah well, back to the bags.

After Maureen’s favourite photo last week, Daphne Johnson sent us these gems from Southport and Ainsdale many years ago – I think it was when Alison Sheard won the Women’s British Open and the Pretty Polly candlesticks but am happy to stand corrected.  David, the young man in the pics, son of Daphne and the late Sands, survived the ordeal and is now a professor of orthopaedic medicine.

 

Checking my iPad just before signing off, I realised that there’s no need, ever, to be short of things to do, not when you’re being told that you can “learn how to type with one hand…..”  Wow.  Never thought of that.  Add it to the list….