This is the sport that keeps on giving………….and giving.  A couple of days ago Patricia and I rolled in to Portrush for a day’s golf with great pals, Kath Stewart-Moore and Lilian Starrett.  We were trying to work out when we had all first joined this great club and reckoned it was the late 1960s or at the very latest the early 1970s.  There’s been a lot of water under the bridge since those days and even the odd decade has passed with very little contact, but as we all ease into our retirements we have found it so easy to pick up where we left off.

In the old days we were no slouches.  Lilian was a wonderfully talented “feel” player who got down to scratch by the age of 20 and represented Ireland on several occasions.  She continued her upward trend by captaining her country on three occasions, the most memorable trip being to Moscow which afforded a peep into the privileged existence enjoyed by the high-ups in the Politburo.

At her best Kath got down to four and played for Ulster.  Like Lil she also captained Ireland in the shape of two girls’ International sides and she is arguably creeping up on her proudest moment in the game.  In January she will become the Lady President of Royal Portrush Golf Club, a just recognition of her immense contribution to the sport and the club.  Mind you, I was more than a little annoyed to hear she had demoted her victory over me in the 9-hole heats of the Collin Cup in 1982 to second place in her list of proud achievements.

Patricia’s lowest handicap was also four and her debut into girls’ International golf was seamless with a 100% win record at North Berwick way back in 1971.  However, when questioned as to her most memorable moment in the game she still resolutely cites witnessing Alison Nicholas’ victory in the 1997 US Open at Pumpkin Ridge.  Alison defeated the US favourite Nancy Lopez in a nail-biting finish and despite covering many of Tiger’s and Jack’s glorious victories for the Times nothing resonated with my sister quite like this.  Her own 3rd place finish in the Heath Scratch Cup, although cherished, didn’t quite cut the mustard.

So, it was in the company of these three titans of the game, with 164 years of golfing experience between them, that I teed off on Wednesday.  Fresh in my mind was the last time I was on that hole – namely on Sunday 21st July in the pouring rain, waiting for Shane Lowry to take history by the scruff of the neck and win the Open.  We were aghast at his untidy bogey 5 up that first hole but looked upon it more favourably when our best player managed a resounding seven!  I know it was an impossible pin, only ten yards on and front left, but, still – to win the hole with a seven!!!!

The course, obviously, has now been denuded of Open Championship furniture – the grandstands, the signage, the ropes, the camera towers and so on, have all gone.  But, to me, it was so much more like the Portrush I’ve known and loved for so long.  It was a perfect day, weatherwise, if a tad chilly at 4 degrees and, I have to say, the golf (apart from Kath’s) left a great deal to be desired.  However, as always, this has to be the best club in the world for the welcome afforded to golfers at the initial point of contact with the customers.  Gary McNeil, the professional, who so proudly played 36 holes as the marker in the Open at the weekend, runs a tight ship with his staff who are simply superb in the service industry.  It is a pleasure to enter the sanctuary of the pro’s shop.  Time stands still and conversations have time to be enjoyed.

It’s not simply time on the course that counts, obviously, but the time spent together – the “do you remember whens?”;  the piecing together of the collective memories of the same events, some of them widely differing;  the occasions one of us remembers something with total clarity as the other three look on blankly.  It’s all grist to the mill for folk with a united love of golf.

Even when I was younger I was always acutely aware of how fortunate I was to be involved in a sport that tends to be played in beautiful surroundings.  Thank God I wasn’t a swimmer whose playground would have been likely to be a 50 metre chlorinated, indoor pool!  (Do they still put chlorine in pools?  Probably not!)  Not many beautiful, uplifting vistas there, however, to take your mind off poor performance.

As I weaved my way round the links the other day I was able to recall so many of the deft skills Shane Lowry displayed on his way to his greatest golfing achievement.  It was quite something coming down the last in the gloaming to hark back to the tumultous scenes we had all witnessed there in July.  Then, I was totally caught up in the moment, lustily joining in with the thousands of voices serenading the winner with the Fields of Athenry, followed by Ole,Ole, Ole!

This time there was no singing, rather a weary relief that we could now make our way to the sanctuary of the bar, chew the fat, put the world to rights and gird our loins for our next day’s play.  More beautiful, and changing vistas, to enjoy;  more time with lifelong friends;  a bit of fresh air and exercise and the never-ending challenge of getting the ball into the hole as fast as possible.

How lucky we are.

Some things annoy me – like people who jump queues; like “space invaders” on the roads who squeeze themselves into the safe gap you’ve left between you and the car in front; like duffing a chip.  And then there are some things that REALLY annoy me – like golf scribes and commentators lauding Tiger’s  achievement of equalling Sam Snead’s 82 PGA Tour victories and proclaiming that he is now entering unchartered territory in golf in terms of victories.

Excuse me one darn second.  What about Kathy Whitworth?  Now 80 years old, Whitworth won 88 times on the LPGA circuit between 1962 and 1985.  And before you ask, her competition was certainly no push over.  She tussled with many legends of the game – Mickey Wright, Betsy Rawls, Louise Suggs, JoAnne Carner, Nancy Lopez, Patty Sheehan, Betsy King and Beth Daniel – every single one of them elected to membership of the LPGA Hall of Fame, arguably the toughest sporting club in the world to join.

Whitworth won only six majors but played in an era where for many years there were only two a year – now there are five – and so she had limited opportunity to have a tilt at the “big ones”.  She did, however, amass eight money titles, seven scoring titles and was named LPGA Player of the Year seven times.

I could go on and on about her achievements and regret that I never did meet her, a true legend of the game but Patricia did meet and talk with her on several occasions.  Patricia describes her as “humble” and “helpful” and said that “she waxed lyrical about Mickey Wright, who was just better than anyone else”.

Don’t get me wrong, Tiger’s victory last Sunday in Japan to reach the magic number of 82 PGA Tour wins is extraordinary.  But let’s ditch the tunnel vision and recognise that sometimes golf records and extraordinary feats are not found solely in men’s golf.  Let’s celebrate women’s achievements too.

The start of this week found me over at Patricia’s helping with her ongoing and seemingly endless clearing and decluttering.  A lifelong journalist with a strong inability to throw out anything at all presents a bit of a tidying challenge but we cracked on with a fair degree of success.  One of the things that amazed even me was the carefully preserved correspondence she turned up with some of the great movers and shakers in the game, particularly the women’s game.

There are letters from the great Joyce Wethered, once described by Bobby Jones as “the greatest player, man or woman, I have ever see”.  They are now nestling alongside notes from Louise Solheim, wife of Karsten the founder of Ping;  Barbara Nicklaus, wife of, and power behind, the one-and-only Jack;  Jessie Valentine, the pride of Scottish golf;  and Enid Wilson who became the women’s golf correspondent of The Daily Telegraph after a playing career that saw her win three consecutive Women’s British Amateur titles in the 1930s.  That’s quite a treasure trove that, hopefully, she may share a little of with you in future blogs.

Finally, young Irish golfers are flying high in American collegiate golf this week with Lauren Walsh and Julie McCarthy making headlines but one particular piece of golfing news this week brought me great joy.  Mark Power, a young Irish player who is in his first semester at Wake Forest University, won the prestigious East Lake Cup, a stupendous achievement for a freshman in collegiate golf.

He has form, though, – a strong amateur record in Ireland which includes consecutive Irish Boys’ titles.  His Mum and Dad are no slouches either – each has won three Irish titles with Mum, Eileen Rose (always known to us simply as ER), also playing Curtis Cup.  The pedigree extends further back, too, to previous generations, so there’s an abundance of stellar golfing genes.

I just wonder who wins the money on the family golf outings?

 

It’s the middle of October but why wait till New Year for sweeping changes?  So, first, a much-needed new hairstyle and, secondly, and more importantly, the breaking news is I’m shortly going to treat myself to some new clubs.  Not exactly earth shattering stuff, is it, but my current set IS 15 years old and, although relatively lightly raced over that time span, it is definitely time for an upgrade.  So, before taking myself off for a club fitting at a certain place in Lincolnshire I decided it was time to visit my great friend and former coach, Lawrence Farmer, now living in glorious Somerset.  I thought it’d be handy to have a bit of an MOT on my own swing and time spent with Lawrence is always a joy for lots of reasons.

We first met around 25 years ago, introduced by Trish Johnson, former Solheim Cup player and multi-tournament winner.  Lawrence was coaching Trish at the time, along with a number of other players on the Ladies’ European Tour, notably, I remember, Aussie Karen Lunn, who blitzed the field at Woburn in 1993 to win the Women’s British Open by a whopping eight shots.

I had never, to that point, met anyone with such a detailed understanding of the golf swing, matched only by his desire for more and more information.  His voracious appetite for reading and researching all things golf was what struck me greatly and that enquiring and searching mind is present to this day.

And when Lawrence made up his mind to do something he was unwavering in achieving his goal.  One day he decided he needed to up his fitness levels, so he started training with a view to running the London marathon.  The greatest obstacle to his success turned out to be when his Dandie Dinmont dog ate the microchip that Lawrence was supposed to wear on his shoe to time and track his progress during the race.  Ignoring our advice that now he would have to run carrying the dog, he completed the first of his three marathons, then turned his attention to cycling and shortly afterwards completed the Land’s End to John O’Groats trip.  Another goal was ticked off the list.

We spent some 90 minutes last week hitting shots and talking golf and I came away, as always, refreshed by this remarkably enthusiastic coach, encyclopaedic in his knowledge and blunt in his delivery.  He never stops learning, questioning, striving and I’ve learned so much from him as regards my own coaching career.  He inspires me every time.

If you told me I could never play another round of golf but I could hit balls and chat with Lawrence for 90 minutes every other week, I would be happy with that – THAT’S how much I enjoy our sessions.

On the long, wet journey back from Somerset with the tail end of hurricane Lorenzo as a companion I began to muse on other influential figures in my golfing life.  First of these was a man I met when still at school.  My mother had written to Peter Alliss asking him to recommend a good golf coach in the Edinburgh area as Patricia had just gone to uni there.  Back came the answer:  John Shade, the professional at Duddingston Golf Club.  And so as a 15-year old I travelled over to the Scottish capital to spend half-terms and holidays with my big sis and I began to have lessons with JS, as we called him.

I don’t think that I realised for one minute then just how good a coach he was.  Sure, I knew that he had coached his multi-initialled son Ronnie (RDBM – known as Right Down the Bloody Middle) to five consecutive Scottish Amateur Championships, four Walker Cups and four professional wins but it was only as my own knowledge grew that I appreciated him more.  We worked hard together on the practice ground and boy, did we laugh!  He was straight-talking with a Scottish gruffness that frightened me a little at first, but he was kindness personified, giving me lifts across the city to where Patricia lived so I wouldn’t have to clatter up and down to the top deck of the bus swaying its way down Princes Street.

They were great days but far too short.  JS died in March of 1979 three months before I won my first British title.  He would have been proud of that but more proud, I suspect, of helping set a gangly teenager from Northern Ireland off on a wonderful journey in the world of golf.

Sandwiched in between these two professional giants and inspirations in my golfing life was another person pivotal to my development, both as a player and person.  Pat Park was the coach/manager of the Lamar University women’s golf team in the 1970s and was brave enough to recruit me, amongst others, to the Texas uni in the hope that the team would qualify for the National Finals for the first time in their history.  We repaid her belief in us by finishing in the top 25 in the country, thus qualifying for the finals in Hawaii.  We repeated the feat the following year as well – a tremendous achievement by a coach with limited financial resources but boundless energy, positivity and enthusiasm.  She took many young, very green players under her wing and helped them produce their best with a no-nonsense attitude that encouraged a strong work ethic and team camaraderie.  We are friends to this day and still in touch.

Yes, golf is great, but it’s the people in your life who make your life.  I feel anybody in any walk of life who finds a mentor is very fortunate.  I have been very lucky, very lucky indeed.

The first match isn’t due to tee off until the morning of Friday the 13th of September, weather permitting – and given the current volatile climate that’s no idle proviso – but I’m already getting excited about travelling to Gleneagles for the Solheim Cup.  For the non-golfing reader that’s the biennial match between the women professionals of Europe and the United States of America.

Tim Glover, a Welsh journalist with a way with words, described it as “the Ryder Cup with lipstick”.  It’s a phrase that some people loathe but I still love it, it has a touch of genius, even in these oh-so-correct times that ban ads featuring Dads being distracted enough – by what?  Cars, chocolate, betting on football, washing machines? – to lose the kids.  Nowadays, there’s often face paint as well as lipstick but the rivalry is real and the play as intense as any Ryder Cup.

Celine Boutier, of France, one of Catriona Matthew’s four picks, will be making her debut for Europe and said, “I have been dreaming of playing Solheim Cup since I was a little girl and it really is amazing to know that my dream will come true in a month’s time…..”

That should make me feel old because I was at the first Solheim, a hastily arranged affair at Lake Nona in Florida, in 1990.  It doesn’t seem that long ago but it must be if it’s got to the stage where little girls dream of playing in it.  It also means that Louise and Karsten Solheim’s dream of making a lasting difference to women’s golf has become a reality.  Whatever their other contributions to the game – and there are many – the Solheim Cup has established itself as one of the world’s great sporting contests,  a lasting memorial to two great people.

A star-studded (no exaggeration) United States team had little trouble beating an overawed and outclassed Europe in the first match and some commentators reckoned it would be 100 years before the match became competitive.  It took two.  Well, maybe a little longer before it became seriously competitive but Europe upset all the odds at Dalmahoy in 1992 and won handily.  It was one of the great sporting upsets.

“This has to be one of the sporting achievements of the century,” said Europe’s captain Mickey Walker (who’ll be in charge of Europe’s Junior Solheim team this year).  An exaggeration maybe but not by much.  “It’s unbelievable,” she said in the euphoric aftermath of an amazing victory. “We didn’t just beat them.  We outplayed them totally.  I really believe that when they came over here they thought they would win comfortably.  Now I think they’re in shock.  So am I, for a different reason.”

Dottie Mochrie (nee Pepper and now Pepper again), the world No 1 at the time, said that she barely spoke on the flight home.  The Americans, with 147 titles and 21 major championships between them, had been taken to the cleaners.  Golf, as some underdog once said, is played on grass not on paper and on this occasion the Europeans shredded the form book.

At The Greenbrier two years later, the favourites, still hurting from the humiliation in Scotland, justified their status with a commanding performance, inspired by a ferocious Mochrie, hair dyed red for the occasion.  The home side, captained by the iconic JoAnne Carner, were tense, fearing losing again more than anything but they played outstanding golf when they needed to and regained the trophy.

The Americans will be favourites as usual this year and they’re going for three wins in a row under the captaincy of Juli Inkster, as ferocious a competitor as you could hope to find anywhere.  However, it’s always hard to win away from home and Catriona Matthew, Europe’s captain, a Scot from North Berwick, is also a competitor par excellence.  She may be understated but she should never be underestimated.

She’s already made an interesting choice by announcing Suzann Pettersen as one of her picks.  Pettersen, who has hardly played any competitive golf since the birth of her son Herman nearly two years ago, was due to be one of Europe’s vice captains but finds herself playing instead.  “Catriona knows that match play brings out the absolute best in my game and that I will be ready to deliver points for her come September,” she said.  “I honestly believe that my best contribution to our Solheim Cup campaign will be on the course and I am very grateful to Catriona for having the confidence to choose me for this year’s team.”

Well, almost every captain makes a contentious choice – Matthew herself was a surprising omission from Dale Reid’s team at Loch Lomond in 2000 – and they stand or fall by the result.  Win and you’re a genius, on a par with the luckiest generals, lose and you’re an eejit, incapable of seeing the obvious hitting you in the face.

Pettersen, a Norwegian who has played in eight Solheims, is a competitive animal to her fingertips and her social rounds probably have the ferocity of a Solheim or Ryder Cup decider but it’s quite an ask to throw her in at Gleneagles so lightly raced.  Whatever, I gave up questioning captain’s picks a long time ago because that’s what they are:  the captain’s pick.  Not mine, not yours, not anyone else’s.  Every captain follows his or her gut instinct and they usually plump for the tried and tested, the players they know and feel they can rely on.  As a captain, the only thing I’d want is for my players to be playing well on the match days and putting the lights out.  If that wasn’t enough to win, so be it but I couldn’t ask for any more.

Bring it on.

To end on a winning note, congratulations to Barb Waite and Mike Jones (below) on their victory in the Whittington Heath Senior Open last Sunday.

Oh, just one last thought on captaincy.  I read somewhere that Tiger Woods might pick himself for his U.S. Presidents Cup team to play the Internationals at Royal Melbourne in December because he can no longer qualify as of right.  Surely not.  He may be Tiger Woods but he can’t be that arrogant or stupid.  Unless, of course, he thinks it’s only fair to give the opposition a chance of winning what has become a hopelessly one-sided contest.

That must be it.