This blog, despite its select and distinguished readership, is by its nature easy-osy and only someone with the patience to crack something like the Enigma code could dig deep enough – or, in more modern parlance, scroll down far enough – to unearth our media world ranking.  So, our invitations are few and far between and rarely turned down, especially when they involve a visit to Woburn that includes dinner in the Sculpture Gallery and a round of golf.

Even when I was doing a lot of travelling there were always places that proved beyond me – Surrey and environs, for example.  It didn’t matter how many hundreds of times I went to Wentworth, Sunningdale, The Berkshire, I was always relieved and slightly surprised if I got there first time, without any detours.  Dai couldn’t understand it.

He had a very good sense of direction, apart from the time when he was doing his National Service in Singapore and managed to direct his landing craft, or whatever, to the wrong island; he wasn’t far out but it was just far enough to be critical; fortunately, it was an exercise and he didn’t lose his hard-won hofficer status.  A man who once had a school report that stated, correctly, “Mathematics is a form of witchcraft to Davies”, had managed to absorb the workings of the internal combustion engine overnight and regurgitate it in his exam the next morning, thus moving up the ranks.  As he left the exam room he couldn’t have told you enough about engines to save his own life let alone anyone else’s.  Fortunately, he was now in charge of men who could.

Anyway, as I was negotiating  the world famous roundabouts of Milton Keynes, another of my longstanding bugbears,  in search of the hotel and trying not to panic – the bus that would take us to Woburn Abbey for dinner was departing shortly – I recalled Dai’s quip that I got 90 per cent of my 50-50 chances wrong.  I laughed and relaxed and despite the added confusion of barriers being erected for the Rod Stewart concert the following night made it in time for the bus.

We were on parade for the media day to promote the AIG Women’s British Open, which takes place on the Marquess course at Woburn at the beginning of August (1-4).  Georgia Hall, the defending champion, was on hand, along with Catriona Matthew, Europe’s Solheim Cup captain, who won the British at Lytham in 2009, just after the birth of her second child.  Charley Hull, the Woburn local hero(ine), joined us late after being delayed by car trouble.

AIG, an American insurance company, has taken over from Ricoh as the championship’s title sponsor and the event is now under the auspices of the R&A after the merger with the LGU.  There were plenty of women present but it was men who did the introductions and it got me thinking about weight of numbers and what happens to the minority when there are mergers, however well meaning; is it inevitable that they should be swamped?  Woburn has a long and distinguished tournament history (irrespective of its history history) and it includes hosting the Ford Ladies Classic for many years, which wasn’t mentioned but should have been, not least because it gave British spectators their first look at Annika Sorenstam and Karrie Webb, who trained on to be golfing greats.

The R&A – and every other golfing body – talks endlessly about diversity and growing the game but it has to take a long, hard look at itself and ask itself just how diverse is it really?  What we see at first glance is a bunch of white men in blazers.  The only diverse thing about me as a white, middle-aged (well, ok, elderly) golfer is that I’m a woman, so in that respect I’m a minority.  My skin colour, age and gender are an accident of birth, there’s bugger all that I can do about them (well, gruelling and expensive surgery apart) and the golf, while a choice, is more or less hereditary in my case.

Sporty girls – and boys – have a lot of choices these days and women’s football, cricket and netball are only three of the team sports that will be getting a fair amount of television coverage this summer.  The Women’s Football World Cup starts in France today (Friday 7th June) and all the matches will be on the BBC (if I read the schedules right), a massive boost for any sport.  England and Scotland are involved and the former think they’re among the favourites, despite losing to New Zealand in the build-up.  Pony tails seem to be de rigueur for the players, which would have ruled me out immediately – hair with a natural curly kink didn’t lend itself to length.  Group conformity strikes again?  Discuss.

Catriona Matthew, ever thoughtful, recognises the challenges.  “Golf and tennis used to be the stalwarts of women’s sports and we don’t want to be overtaken by netball, football and cricket.  Golf’s got to keep working hard, keep pushing and keep itself at the forefront.”

 

 

 

Over the last 26 years I’ve taught thousands and thousands of people – all ages, all shapes and sizes and all skill levels from beginner to professional.  Each category has its challenges and its rewards but I have to admit it is exhilarating to see young, blossoming talent – and it’s exciting to see that talent result in victory at the highest level, as it did last Sunday for Cheshire girl Bronte Law.

Bronte won the Pure Silk Championship in Williamsburg, Virginia, by two shots from a trio of international talent, Madelene Sagstrom of Sweden, Brooke Henderson of Canada and Nasa Hataoka of Japan.  That success was all the sweeter coming as it did just three weeks after a play-off loss in California, which was only possible because Bronte made up a 10-shot deficit with a thundering final round of 65.  Those two performances alone netted her prize money of almost $340,000 and have catapulted her some 20 places up the world rankings to 24th.

So, could I foresee this success when Bronte pitched up to the Cheshire County squad training with me a decade or so ago?  Honestly?  Absolutely not.  I’m not sure I ever believe a coach who says they always knew a particular kid was going to make it.  Yes, we can look at the talent and the technical skill of the young person but it takes years and years and years of inching forward, improving in every department and a relentless commitment to hard work and positivity to be able to compete, and ultimately win, on the hardest tour in the world.  How can you possibly know if the young 13 or 14 year old in front of you will have that sort of resolve?  Or even opportunity.

I remember one exercise I did with the squad in Bronte’s day.  I asked the girls to hit a shot with a club they didn’t think was suited to the job.  For example, it may have been trying to get out of a greenside bunker with an 8-iron or hitting to a target that was a 7-iron distance away with a 4 or 5-iron.  Bronte wasn’t impressed.  She couldn’t understand why you would bother with any of that nonsense when you had a perfectly good club for the task.  She was feisty and a little rebellious and she hated not being able to do what I’d asked.  Her immediate reaction was to be dismissive of it – it was pointless.  However, at the next session it was only Bronte, out of them all, who had gone away, explored, learned and advanced emotionally and technically.  That has stuck with me as I’ve followed her career.

And what a career it’s turning out to be.  With constant and unwavering family support she hoovered up a couple of English amateur titles as well as a record seven wins playing college golf in the States for UCLA.  This resulted in her winning the coveted ANNIKA award for the best collegiate golfer in 2016, the same year she won a maximum five points out of five in her third Curtis Cup appearance, the first player from GB&I to do so.  At the end of that year Bronte procured playing rights on the LPGA and launched her professional career in 2017.  At the end of 2018 she blitzed the field at the Ladies’ European Tour qualifying school setting records right, left and centre.  Her winning five round total of 26 under par was a new record, as was the run of nine consecutive birdies in a third round of 62.

Now she has her first LPGA win and her immediate reaction after holing the winning putt was to walk to the side of the green, on her own, away from the applauding galleries.  She just took a moment to let it sink in before turning to receive the plaudits from her caddy and fellow players.  Her winner’s interview was measured and thoughtful.

“This is something I’ve dreamed of since I was a little kid,” she said.  There was a humility there, too, as she added, “I have a long way to go in terms of where I want to be.”

Her goals and expectations of herself are very high and she may well tick another achievement off this year’s list with a Solheim Cup place on Catriona Matthew’s team at Gleneagles in September.  Certainly Catriona has been watching.

“Bronte has been in my thoughts for well over a year and has been doing really well on the LPGA recently with the second place and then the win at Kingsmill. She had a great amateur career in match play, winning all her games at the Curtis Cup [in 2016].  She obviously can’t qualify as she won’t have played her eight events, so she’ll need a pick, but yes, she’s very much in my thoughts. She would be a great addition to the team – she’s feisty and great in match play which is what you want.”

So no, I don’t think you can tell at 13 or 14 years of age if a young player has what it takes to fulfill those childhood dreams.  It’s not the shots they hit, nor the swing that’s important.  It’s all the stuff you can’t see and has yet to mature that really counts.  The heart, the resolve, the tenacity, the space between the ears, the love of a game that will batter you down and the ability to keep getting up off the canvas – those are the things that ultimately matter.  Those are the qualities that Bronte possesses.

The sky’s the limit – and I don’t think it’ll be a dull ride.

Watching runaway leader Brooks Koepka wobble then recover to win the US PGA Championship for the second successive year, I started doing some research.  Shock!  Horror!  Surely not?

First of all, I thought I heard someone say that no one ever had lost a 7-shot lead in the last round of a major championship, so I scurried upstairs and rooted out ‘A Golfer’s Life’ by Arnold Palmer with James Dodson.  Hadn’t Arnold once been seven shots ahead with nine holes to play in the US Open at the Olympic Club in San Francisco and, to the horror of his adoring Army, ended up losing in the 18-hole play-off to Billy Casper?

He had indeed.

Playing with Casper, who’d been US Open champion in 1959, Palmer admitted that he was more worried about Jack Nicklaus, who was a couple of strokes further behind but in reality he was so unworried by either of his pursuers that he started thinking about beating Ben Hogan’s Open record, set in 1948.  “In retrospect, it was the biggest mental error of my career.”

Palmer reflected:  “In daring to think about breaking Hogan’s record, I violated the very rule Pap [his father Deacon] had spent all those years drilling into my head – never quit, never look up, and, most of all, never lose focus until you’ve completely taken care of business.”

Palmer describes in gruesome detail how his lead started dwindling, recalling the last nine holes “like some ghostly newsreel playing in my head”.   Playing the 18th, Casper and Palmer were level, tied, on the same score, whatever the correct terminology is these days.  Casper splits the fairway with his drive, Palmer, taking a 1-iron for accuracy, hoicks it left into thick rough.  “Walking down the fairway, shaken to the core, I doubt if I have ever felt as alone or as devastated on a golf course.  I know what a train wreck the world is witnessing, but I tell myself that I am still in the thick of it.  I can glance at faces in the gallery and see their shock and grief, too.”

Palmer has to hole a slippery, sidehill 6-footer for his par.  “As Bill and I shake hands, all I really feel is a sense of deep relief and perhaps a bit of disbelief at what has just happened…….I sign my card and walk slowly to the press tent, where a hundred unanswerable questions await…..”

Casper won the play-off with a 69 to Palmer’s 73.  “In the high drama of my collapse, it’s sometimes forgotten that Bill Casper played almost flawless golf down the stretch……..I didn’t just lose the 1966 US Open – Bill Casper’s brilliant play won it.”

Arnold Palmer was an icon, a superstar who transcended golf and was adored by millions.  He had a long and distinguished career but his seven major titles were condensed into the years between 1958 and 1964.  “The same go-for-broke kind of play that won me seven majors perhaps cost me at least that many more,” he said.  “But that’s life and that’s golf.”

Fortunately for Koepka, Dustin Johnson couldn’t quite manage flawless at the end but it was a damned close-run thing.  With the confidence (deserved) of someone who has won four of the last eight major championships that he’s played in, Koepka didn’t see why he couldn’t reach double figures in major titles.  The odds, however, are against him.

Jack has 18, Tiger has 15 and Walter has 11.  Walter?  Walter Hagen, a showman supreme, never knowingly undersold,  who won two US Opens, four Opens and five US PGA Championships between 1914 and 1929 and didn’t know what a major was.   The PGAs were all matchplay and the Masters, started in 1934, came a little too late for the Hagen heyday.  Next come Ben Hogan and Gary Player with nine and Tom Watson with eight.  Palmer, Bob Jones (legendary amateur), Gene Sarazen, Sam Snead and Harry Vardon are credited with seven and Nick Faldo and Lee Trevino have six…..You get my point.

In these days of mega money, when a couple of wins – or even none at all – can make a careful player with no expensive addictions more than comfortable for life, majors have become the measure of a golfer, almost to the point of obsession with some.  They are, when all’s said and done, a bit of an artificial, modern construct but there’s no denying that they are exciting and in most years the biggest events of the season.

Meanwhile, further south, in North Carolina, in the more sedate surroundings (Bethpage Black during a tournament is about as sedate as bedlam) of Pine Needles Lodge and Country Club, Helen Alfredsson was winning the second US Senior Women’s Open.  The Swede kept her nerve to win by two shots from long-time friends and adversaries Trish Johnson and Juli Inkster.  Go to usga.org and look at the pictures; the old dolls are as competitive as ever; winning still feels wonderful; losing not so wonderful.  They’re trying their spikes off and having a ball; catching up with old friends; trying to beat the heck out of them; salving the aches and pains with gels or whatever; cranking the swings into serious action.  JoAnne Carner, aged 80, missed the cut but walked all 36 holes…….Far be it from me to insert the words PGA, John Daly, arthritic knee and buggy at this point.

Finally, across the Atlantic, at Rosses Point, God’s own country as Dad invariably called it, James Newton from Macclesfield won the Flogas Irish Amateur Open Championship by five shots from Conor Purcell, of Portmarnock.  Newton started the final round five shots ahead of the field and was still five ahead at the end despite starting with three bogeys and having a triple bogey at the 16th.  It was that sort of day, with lots of wind and rain (sorry Dad!) but the inimitable Pat Cashman, photographer extraordinaire, set up a wonderful trophy pic as the cloud enveloped Ben Bulben yet again.

 

 

Sporting excellence is in short supply in this part of the blog but you don’t need to be good at something to know quite a lot about it, especially if you’ve been around for a long time and have been paying attention.  You know those people who say that you can’t understand the pressure/tension/whatever that top golfers, top footballers, top players of whatever are under unless you’ve competed at the highest level?  Well, not to put too fine a point on it, I’ve always thought that that’s arrogant bollocks.

It’s a matter of degree of course but any of us who’ve played a match at however lowly a level, especially for a team, knows about nerves, tension, shortage of breath, trembling hands, knocking knees, siren voices of doom and disaster.  We’ve succumbed or found ways to counteract the doubts and the nerves – just like the Ryder Cuppers, the Champions’ League or Wimbledon finalists, the players who are much, much, much – ad infinitum – better than us.  At the most basic level, we understand, we can empathise.

Last Sunday, we, the middle-ranking Whittington Heathens, the 12-24 handicappers, won a first-round match for the first time for quite a few years (it’s inter-club, 5-a-side, straight knockout, full handicap, no second chances).  My opponent and I were well matched – I had to give four shots – and after all these years I can recognise a competitor when I see one.  Fortunately, thanks to growing up in a hard school playing against Dad and his friends – they’d concede nothing and if you chipped in and waited expectantly for a congratulatory grunt, you’d be chastised for holding up play – not much fazes me.  I still lose, of course – hardly surprising when you have to ask where the practice ground is – but this time I managed to win on the 18th.  It could’ve gone either way and it was mostly luck and home advantage that got me over the line.

The next morning I woke up with a foot so sore that I could hardly hobble to the bathroom.  How had that happened?    I had to cry off golf on the Tuesday and hirpled into the club feeling very sorry for myself.  A bad foot, no matter how minor, is bad news because it limits you immediately.  Aaaagh.  Woe is me.  Then you look around at people who’ve coped with much worse and feel like a wimp.

Up at Hillside, where Tommy Fleetwood is hosting the British Masters this week, EDGA (the European Disabled Golf Association) launched a book called “Mulligan” that put my aching foot in perspective.  Inspirational isn’t the word for it.

After the events in Liverpool and Amsterdam earlier in the week, it’s been hard to calm down and concentrate on anything else.  I must admit I didn’t doubt that Liverpool could score at Anfield but I didn’t think they’d stop Barcelona/Messi scoring.  I was playing bridge that evening, with a Liverpool supporter who’d got her dates confused – in her defence she’s a peripatetic person and had been doing a lot of travelling, just back from one trip, preparing for another – and was blissfully unaware of the drama unfolding further north.

I met her in the pub the next night and she couldn’t believe her blunder, her face as red as her team’s kit.  “Good luck,” she said as she left me to cheer on the team Mum always called Totspurs.  Why do I support Spurs?  Well, it’s Pat Jennings’s fault.  Chelsea are playing Spurs in the 1967 FA Cup final and you’re in Portstewart.  Who do you support?  Ah, Pat Jennings, the pride of Newry and Northern Ireland, is in goal for Spurs.  Spurs win 2-1 – Jimmy Robertson and Frank Saul I think (I checked and I was right!) – and I’ve been lumbered as a Lillywhite ever since.  Hooray.

Apparently I used to cry when Spurs lost (I learned!) and Mum would come home from the newsagent’s laden down with Shoot, Goal and Football Monthly, regarded as odd when everybody knew she had two girls.  I learned about Arthur Rowe, Alf Ramsey, push and run, Jimmy Greaves, Danny Blanchflower, John White, Bill Nicholson, the legendary Double team, all of that.  When Mum and Dad moved to England and Mum refused to accommodate my collection of Charlie Buchan Football Monthlys and Spurs scrapbooks any longer, I wanted them to go to a good home and gave them to Mike Ingham, who became BBC Radio’s chief football commentator, in exchange for a few bottles of wine.

I had a long period as a bit of a Spurs tragic.  I won a bet (think it was about Spurs’s chances of avoiding relegation or winning promotion; it wasn’t one of our glory periods) with a friend at RPGC (Portrush for short) and used the £15 to become a life member of the Spurs’ supporters’ club – now defunct I fear but I’ve still got the badge and the wee booklet.  I tried to buy a seat in the new stadium but the internet connection was so slow and the demand so great that the £800 seat I’d targeted had disappeared and the remaining ones started at £2000.  Ah!  Sense – and the bank balance – prevailed.

Barring something exceptional I won’t be in Madrid for the final – though, come to think of it, I know someone who once worked for Joe Lewis; wonder if he’s still got Joe’s number……Joe is one of those billionaires, based in the Bahamas these days I believe, who started off modestly enough and is now often described as “mysterious” simply because he’s not a flash git with a penchant for publicity but essentially he owns Spurs or as near as dammit.

We few Spurs stalwarts who frequent the Horse and Jockey in Sandford Street in Lichfield will be outnumbered by the Liverpool fans come the final but I won’t care as long as we win.  They’ll be super-confident, quite rightly but we’re no pushovers and if we can keep our nerve and 11 players on the pitch (lucky to finish with as many as 9 against Bournemouth) – what’s that saying:  heart on fire, head in the freezer?…….Who knows?  Anything could happen.

Didn’t someone famous once say, “Football, bloody hell.”…………..

COYS.