After the fun last week at the last major of the year, the AIG Women’s Open at Porthcawl, I thought that that was our lot as regards exciting golf to watch until we hit the Ryder Cup at the end of September – and most of you are aware of my reservations about that particular event.  Well, I couldn’t have been more wrong.

Last Sunday Justin Rose was scintillating over the back nine, as well as in the ensuing three play-off holes, managing to best J J Spaun, the current holder of the US Open title, and win the FedEx St Jude Championship.  Said championship is the first of a trio of tests that make up the FedEx Cup play-off series.

A little while ago Justin himself said he was hoping for a golden autumn to his career but I think he’s forgotten that and he now looks more like a player in his prime than he does a 45-year old hoping for a couple of decent showings now and again.  He has managed to avoid significant injury over the years, which is key, and he has remained competitive, focussed and professional.

Many of his peers (Messrs Poulter, Casey, McDowell, Garcia, Stenson and Westwood spring to mind) must surely look on enviously from the good ship Liv-i-pop and wish they could trade places with Justin.  Money means nothing to these boys – they have pots of it already, untold millions in fact.  The common denominator is that, at heart, they are all highly competitive and the cushy, no-jeopardy Liv golf scene doesn’t breed champions – they simply wither away faster than is necessary.  Carbon doesn’t turn into a diamond without significant pressure.

Justin and Fooch (Mark Fulcher, his caddie) are a great team and I was witness to the start of their time together at the Players’ Championship in 2008.  Having known Fooch for many years when he caddied on the women’s tour I felt excited for him and helpfully instructed him on the Wednesday evening “not to stuff it up”.  They missed the cut.

It didn’t take long for them to hit their stride, however, and apart from a couple of breaks – most notably when Fooch had heart surgery – they have remained a solid partnership ever since.

Despite being delighted for Justin I couldn’t help but feel for Tommy Fleetwood who finished one shot out of the play-off.  He is still searching for that elusive first win on the PGA Tour and I could almost feel his angst and disappointment oozing through the screen.  I have heard the word “choker” bandied about a bit.  I don’t think Tommy needs to be too concerned about that.  After all, it was a label given to Tom Watson for a long spell before he got it over the line.  He didn’t do too badly.

It takes tremendous courage to keep putting yourself out there in the goldfish bowl of professional sport and I’ve no doubt it’ll pay off.  Keep going, keep believing, Tommy.

The PGA Tour has done its best to instil a modicum of excitement into these seasonal play-offs with, quite frankly, a singular lack of success.  Their attempts to wow American sports fans during the month of August, in the quiet time before the great beast of  NFL football lumbers into view, have met with limited success.  Numerous formats have been given an airing since 2007 but they have not sparked the fan fanaticism enjoyed by the core sports of American football, baseball and basketball.

It’ll be interesting to see how the new commissioner of the tour, Brian Rolapp, who himself comes from an NFL background, tackles this particular thorny problem.  I imagine that Mr Rolapp will have quite an extensive to-do list once the hand-over period comes to an end next year.

I’m not holding my breath but I’d love to see a number of things happen:  the end of limited field events with no cuts;  the introduction of a “tournament” ball that flies much shorter thus bringing some of the older, classic courses back to being relevant;  application of slow play penalties;  reduced sales of alcohol at the majors and Ryder Cup and, possibly, elsewhere.  I could go on (and frequently do) but that’ll do for starters.  If the PGA tour were behind a few of these initiatives they would have more chance of being adopted globally.

I know, I know.  It’s naive and foolish and not in the interests of the top players and sponsors so it’ll never happen – but I can dream, can’t I?  If I were Queen for a day……………………!

If I were Queen for longer than a day I would do more of what I did in the middle of the week.  I joined two special girls for lunch on what must have been one of the hottest days of the year.  The two in question were Olive and Mabel, the lovable labradors who, according to the blurb on Amazon, “broke the internet with more than 50 million views on social media”.  Fame does go to some folks’ heads but not these two.  They were delightful, willing to engage (mostly) and good lunch companions (they didn’t try to eat off my plate).  They also gave me a tour of their extensive, lovely garden.

It was hard to tell but I think they quite liked me.  Anyway, I must have passed muster because we have agreed to schedule in a future lunch date.

Can’t wait.

Maureen wouldn’t be the greatest cricket fan but last Monday, as we were driving home from Wales after enjoying the Women’s Open at Royal Porthcawl, we both listened, enthralled, to Test Match Special and the last knockings of the fifth and final test between England and India at The Oval.  It was brilliant radio, tense, compelling, vivid and I had to work hard not to sit on the edge of my seat because I was driving.

The ground was pretty well packed, even though everybody knew that there’d be about an hour’s play at most, weather permitting.  After all, England only needed 35 runs to win and India only needed three wickets (I think; what with all the excitement and emotion the fine details now escape me!), including that of Chris Woakes, down to one arm because of a dislocated shoulder.

You wouldn’t dare make it up.

The atmosphere crackled and sizzled across the airwaves and Mo and I were so hooked that we listened to the last few balls sitting in a service station car park.  Radio rules OK.

Our maternal grandfather was a keen cricketer and he gave me his bat – a big, heavy thing that I couldn’t wield as an adult let alone as a single-figure child.  He had three daughters and four granddaughters and decided that I, the tomboy, was the nearest he was going to get to a grandson.  Sadly, the only cricket we played was in the garden or on the beach, with Mum keeping wicket in her rubber gloves and me being bamboozled by Dad’s cunning spin.

I’ve passed the bat on to Pampa’s great grandson, the first boy in the family for a generation or two; hope you’ve still got it, Chris!

Cricket correspondents undoubtedly work hard but the TMS team have all the action there in front of them and don’t have to put in a lot of legwork – except to try and keep in some sort of shape; I believe they still get cakes and other goodies from grateful listeners and some cricket lunches are legendary, so waistlines must be under constant threat.  I suppose that’s the case for many of us as we get older but tramping around golf courses does wonders for the step count.

Goodness knows how many miles the BBC’s golf correspondent Iain Carter has walked over the last few weeks.  The Beeb doesn’t do golf on the telly any more – apart from the odd highlight – but its radio coverage of the big events is still second-to-none and in this country that means Carter and his colleagues are on the course more often than not.  There’s nothing flat and boring about Portrush and Porthcawl, so following matches every step of the way is more like hiking than strolling.  They won’t need any rocking at night.

In fact, the inestimable Iain, a big cricket fan, was so cream-crackered after Porthcawl that he didn’t have the energy to go to The Oval on that memorable Monday; that’s exhaustion for you.

Terrain apart, following the leaders – or birdie-blitzing Brits who are threatening to lead, perhaps even win a major – is not an easy job, even from inside the ropes:  you have to keep a clear head, remember who’s hit what shot where, take in the leaderboard, watch out for brambles and bunkers, avoid buggies and tv cameramen, all while sounding calm and informed, well, it’s a job for an expert.  And it’s mentally and physically taxing.

In amongst the championships on this side of the pond, Cameron Young was winning The Wyndham Championship in Greensboro, North Carolina, his first victory on the PGA Tour.  He was also billed as the 1,000th winner on said tour, dating back to 1860, apparently, when there was no golf at all in America.  It is a claim so ridiculous as to be beyond ludicrous.

Talk about making yourself a laughing stock.

Not Cameron Young.  He was anything but.  He won by six shots and admitted to a certain amount of confusion after hugging his caddie and shaking hands with his playing partner on the 18th green.  “What do I do now?” he said.

“Every time I’ve come off the last green my entire career, I have shaken the hands of whoever I’ve played with, thanked the standard bearer and our walking scorer and then walked through the tunnel to scoring.  Today there were about 150 people between me and that tunnel….I didn’t know if I did that first or if I spoke to somebody first.  That’s the first time I’ve done anything any different after holing out on 18.

“I would prefer that outcome more often.”

A lot of good judges think it’s something he’ll probably get used to.

Meanwhile, back here at a more lowly level of performance, I’m trying to teach myself to breathe properly after decades of getting it wrong.  It’s not straightforward but my friends and family will be glad to learn that part of the process involves taping my mouth shut…

Can you hear the cheering?

 

 

 

 

They say it’s a good idea to start at the beginning, so perhaps that’s the best thing to do. The problem is that I’ve pressed a button or two and am now writing this piece in an unfamiliar format and have no idea if it’ll turn out all right or not. In the general scheme of things and given the state of the world, it matters not a jot but it’s become a source of pride (prepare for the fall) to get the damned thing out on time, more or less, every week. Is it a chore? Not really, more a joy but there are times when it’s more complicated than it should be and this looks like being one of those occasions – especially since my technical adviser has gone to bed and I’m hunting and pecking on my iPad having forgotten to pack the keyboard.

It seems I’m starting at the end after all but perhaps I have half an excuse because on Monday I gave blood for the 69th time. Nothing much to boast about really but not a bad effort either. My (modest) ambition was to match my age and all being well I should squeeze in two more sessions before my 72nd birthday next summer but now I’m desperate to get to 75 donations. Then you get some sort of token – emerald I think – to mark the achievement.

I go in to Birmingham to donate and there were two treats in store: a new (to me) train route in because our line is closed for works of some sort – we passed through places I’d never heard of – and The CBSO (City of Birmingham Symphony Orchestra) playing in the middle of New Street Station at lunchtime. What a joy. Just the boost a blood-depleted bod needed.

Birmingham City Council, which is properly (or improperly) bankrupt, decided to cut the CBSO’s funding and I suggested to one of the staff that they should consider changing their name.  The very sensible reply was:  “We’re the City’s orchestra, not the City Council’s and we have a name that’s known worldwide.”   And so they do.  Renowned, in fact.   They also want their home city to embrace them and bring the joy of music to all and sundry.

Sometimes golf makes the heart sing and sometimes it makes the temper tantrum – perhaps simultaneously.  At a very benign Whittington Heath on Monday, in the PGA Midland Open Series, James Freeman from Rotherham GC had the round of  his life – a 59 that featured 12 birdies (seven of them in a row) and no bogeys.  It didn’t count as a course record because, for whatever reason, at the height of summer, there were preferred lies. Even more galling, it was a 36-hole event and James eventually finished second, three shots behind Irishman Niall Kearney, who surged to the top with a second round of 60.  

I didn’t have any birdies when I played the course on Wednesday and there was no sign of a 59 at a (mostly) bright and breezy Royal Porthcawl on the first day of the AIG Women’s Open, the final major championship of the season.  There was some excellent golf but Mo and I saw not a single sign advertising the event on our way to the course.  Yes, there were signs directing you to the car parks – green, blue, whatever – but they were only meaningful and useful to those of us who knew there was something going on.  Perhaps all the advertising is being done online – by AI bots.  Or is it botts?

We watched quite a bit of Lottie Woad, the woman of the moment but mostly we fell in to chat as we bumped in to friends from far and wide.  Most memorably, the inimitable Kirsty Taylor (née Speak, a Lancashire lass long based in Minchinhampton, introduced us to Corinne Durber, a single figure golfer and a former Gloucestershire county captain now renowned as the router of gambling giants Paddy Power.

Shamefully, this story of  the Golfing Gardener from Gloucestershire (think Gambling also fits in to the alliteration somewhere) had passed us by but it transpires that Corinne, playing some sort of online game, won the jackpot – a mere million quid or thereabouts – only to be fobbed off with a measly £20,000 by PP.  They claimed some sort of technical hitch – a problem with the software/hardware/wiring/satellite biorhythms/whatever – but reckoned without Corinne’s tenacity.  She took them to court and earlier this year, after five years and a lot of angst, the judge found in her favour.  Hurrah.  

(For full, technically and judicially correct details, please do further research elsewhere.  This is the bare bones, gleaned on the golf course while trying not to disturb Woad and co with gasps and half-stifled shrieks.)

More sedately, it was wonderful to see Bridget Jackson, that great and enduring woman of golf, who played in the Curtis Cup at Porthcawl back in 1964.  The Americans won, though not by much and Bridget was not disgraced.

NB  Please note that I have waited until the very end to mention this score, from Hong Kong:  Arsenal 0 Tottenham Hotspur 1.

 

 

 

Well, you’d think it’d be easy-peasy, a nice relaxing day at the cricket – though test cricket is tough and there’s nothing too relaxing about it for the players out there in the blazing sun.  We spectators have it a wee bit easier, though it’s amazing how often you lose concentration:  looking down to pick up your beer, have a sip of coffee or root in your bag for a biscuit – and end up missing a wicket.

Some people, mostly men, pitch up carrying only a phone – tickets are digital things these days and you can also pay for everything with your phone if you’re clued up enough.  Not being a minimalist in any shape or form, I marvel at how they can manage it.  “Och, they’re just going to drink beer,” said a youngish woman carrying only a handbag – quite a big, expandable one admittedly but nothing approaching my two bags.  One for food – strawberries for three, cubes of cheese, apples, nuts, struggling hard to bring the healthy options; the other for the umbrella (complete overkill), jacket, sunglasses, suncream, floppy hat and, the piece de resistance, kitchen roll.

And it was the kitchen roll that really came into its own when the guys in the seat behind warned us that there was a waterfall of beer – and later water – heading our way, cascading down the steps towards us and our bags.  We managed to lift everything out of the way – beer stains are a bugger to get rid of – and stem the flow before it reached the row in front and a rather swanky Fortnum & Mason bag.

“It’s my wife’s,” the man in charge of it said, “and she wasn’t too happy about me bringing it here.  Thanks for saving it – and me!”

We left just before India’s impressive young captain Shubman Gill reached his century but our journey home did not run smoothly.  Bus to New Street but alarm when the driver told us that there were no trains!  She wasn’t joking.  A train had somehow managed to damage some crucial overhead wires and Birmingham’s main station, a vital hub, was in chaos.  To cut a long and tiring story short, we eventually got a bus to Sutton Coldfield, another bus that we thought was going to Lichfield but didn’t and had to summon a lift from a dutiful daughter for the final few miles.  Phew.  Later we found that a friend had found a more direct, less stressful route and was home with his feet up long before us…..

It’s hard work sometimes, this hedonistic retirement lifestyle.

A few days earlier, having had to have a knackered tyre replaced at short notice, I’d headed down to London for a long-awaited 90th birthday celebration.  The birthday girl is now well on her way to 91 but who wants a big garden party in February?  Not in this country anyway.

Liz, the star of the show, is more than worth the detour – the “God Bless Atheism” sticker is on her study window, by the front door and irresistible to some of us.  The hot, sticky journey down the M1 was forgotten.  This was party central and irreverence was de rigueur.

People came from far and wide to pay homage and Lewine, a fellow golf writer, following in Liz’s distinguished, trailblazing footsteps, nipped down from Edinburgh for the evening.  On the way out, to catch a flight back home from Heathrow, she couldn’t resist the piano and I’m just sorry I wasn’t sharp enough to video the moment.  Some of Liz’s extensive collection of rocks came from Quartzsite, Arizona, where Lewine and I stood in line, arms full, as Liz arranged shipment home.  By sea, amazingly – but there were a lot of rocks.  They all arrived safely several months later.

There was another party two days later, for brother-in-law Brian and the dress code was a little less flamboyant but one of B’s presents caught the eye.  He does like a black tee shirt (much to his wife’s despair) and after spending time working in South Africa, he loves a barbie, though that’s not the correct terminology, as the tee explains.

Brill.

Not so brilliant was Eddie Pepperell’s withdrawal from the Le Vaudreuil Golf Challenge in Normandy after sharing the third round lead with David Horsey and Albin Bergstrom.  Eddie’s making his way back to form and fitness on the HotelPlanner Tour (formerly the Challenge Tour) but his back seized up and he could barely move last Sunday, let alone swing a club and compete over 18 holes.  Gutting does not begin to describe it.  For the full, gory details and more listen to the Chipping Forecast with Eddie, Andrew Cotter and Iain Carter.   Horsey, another veteran fighting to get back with the big boys, won the title.

Finally, two classic pics from Scotland, undoubtedly the home of golf and golfers extraordinaires.  First, we have Louise Clark, a volunteer at the recent Women(‘)s Amateur at Nairn and a stickler for getting things right, with her self-corrected bobble hat.  She spent the night before her stint adding the apostrophe abandoned by the R&A.  Look closely, it’s an immaculate piece of work – which is more than can be said for the R&A’s effort.

And a lovely photo of a legend and a legend-in-the-making at The Machrihanish Golf Club the other day:  Belle Robertson with Bob MacIntyre on a glorious day in Golf’s Own Country.

Oh, and before I forget, a friend who’s a bit of a soap buff chided me (gently) that it was Cliff Barnes in Dallas – not Jim.