The major bus that Rory McIlroy has been awaiting for eleven years has arrived.  It has drawn up, admittedly belching a bit of smoke and possibly leaking some oil, but it’s here.  It’s not a modern, luxury coach.  It’s undoubtedly noisy, probably diesel and certainly uncomfortable and when the doors open no smooth, automated steps come down to assist would-be boarders.  So, right to the end Rory has had to fight with every fibre of his being and he has dragged himself on board by the very tips of his fingernails, battered, bleeding, spent…..but victorious.

We his supporters – millions of us – are beyond exhausted.  We have swithered hither and thither in our emotions from hope, awe, certainty, despair, fury, resignation and back to hope again – and that’s not just this week, but in this last decade-plus when our hero was seemingly at a bus stop where the service had been discontinued.

Thing is, no one told Rory it was discontinued so he waited and waited, not necessarily with patience, but with the eternal optimism he deems one of the most important qualities a golfer can possess.  And we had no option but to wait with him.

Golf is cruel though, and right at this historic moment in our game, another class act, Justin Rose, was forced to stand by and endure another gut-wrenching personal disappointment.  If he’d been up against anyone else in the world apart from Rory I would have wanted him to win.  I hope Justin can find more pride in this golden autumn of his career than disappointment.

Patricia (sister) has already declared the dawning of a new era – no, not necessarily a tsunami of major titles heading McIlroy’s way (though that is a very real possibility) – but something a tad more mundane. Apparently AFAs are here and to be enjoyed by us all.  These are “Angst-Free Aprils,” set to commence in 2026 and last for the foreseeable.  How lovely to have that to look forward to, our very own version of a green jacket and a career grand slam.

A couple of weeks before this year’s tournament Rory and his caddie Harry visited Augusta National on a scouting mission.  When Harry was asked what they spent their time doing the answer was they worked around the green complexes ad nauseam.  “It’s always the greens,” he said.

Lunch at The Bear’s Club with six-time Masters champion Jack Nicklaus was another part of the preparation.  Rory outlined to the great man exactly how he was intending to tackle the course and which strategies he would employ for each hole for the myriad of pin positions he would face during the week.  Nicklaus said he had little to add to the Irishman’s meticulous planning.  How’s that for positive reinforcement and validation?  But there’s planning and there’s doing and often the two are poles apart.

Earlier this week I started to scroll back through various WhatsApp exchanges with friends during the long, tortuous hours of watching.  Starting with Rory’s Thursday doubling of the 15th they read as follows:  sickening;  wow all round;  just opening another bottle of red;  everyone in Ireland is on the lash (that was from an Irish friend after Rory opened with six consecutive 3s on Saturday); you still watching?; yes, Rory!!!;  eagle coming up; TORTURE!; still feel sick; am exhausted; we’ve told B to stop drinking as he’ll be driving us to A&E; the awful thing is not wanting Justin to win.

Obviously I have omitted some of the more colourful explosions of emotions, but you get the drift.  Nothing, absolutely nothing about this Masters watch was comfortable, the result in doubt till the very last gasp.  When Rory was four ahead after the 11th and just when we thought we might have a reasonably enjoyable last hour or so he dumps a wedge in the water at the 13th and takes seven.  Then he drops another on the 14th.

A sensational second at the 15th fails to yield an eagle and par, birdie at the next two leave him with “only” having to make a four from the centre of the last fairway, wedge in hand.  Cue fanning it into the bunker on the right and more hyperventilating from his supporters after his putt for destiny doesn’t even hit the hole.

But, you know what, that birdie on the play-off hole exonerates us from having to think about all those wobbles down the stretch.  Who cares about those now?  We can marvel over the brilliance we witnessed, the resilience, the talent, the effort.  If the result had been different, however, we would be picking apart every swing, every nuance, every bit of body language and asking why he’d fallen short…..again?  Could Rory have come back from another heart-wrenching failure?  Thankfully, we’ll never know.

It just goes to spotlight the knife-edged existence you inhabit when playing Augusta National and trying to win the Masters.  How can we even begin to imagine what that is really like?  And as for having the career grand slam on the line……that is another level altogether.

Ireland can relax now – we can all relax now.  The wait is over and the weight that has accompanied Rory for so many years can slide from his shoulders.  It’s rumoured he is returning to Norn Iron to see his parents and celebrate with them.  I can’t imagine that will happen without some great impromptu victory celebration being planned – we Irish are rather good at that.  And if there’s a bus, of the open-topped variety, in the equation, I don’t think he’ll mind waiting for it one little bit.

It is Ireland after all.

 

 

The good thing about watching Spurs away at Eintracht Frankfurt last night was that, agonising as it was, it was as nothing after four emotional, gruelling, rollercoaster rounds at Augusta National last week.

It’s taken me the whole week to recover some sort of equilibrium and catch up on lost sleep but there’s also a wonderful feeling of calm, of satisfaction and the delightful realisation that Aprils will never be the same again.  They – and the seemingly endless, months-long run-up to the Masters – will be angst free, without anxiety, a place of peace, perfect peace, a time to admire the blossom and smile in the spring sunshine.

Thank you Rory.

The only downside was hearing myself pulling against Justin Rose and Fooch/Futch, his caddie Mark Fulcher; I never though I’d see the day.  Two lovelier men it would be hard to meet, consummate competitive professionals who are class personified.  Proper human beings.

Justin had ten birdies in his final round of 66, including one at the last, to give himself what proved to be a bit more than a sniff at the title.  Losing out wouldn’t have been so gutting if Rory had done the decent, expected thing and put his second shot at the 72nd hole on the green not too far from the hole for a routine, if history-making par.

What a ridiculous thought!  Where’s the drama in that!

Instead we had hopes raised, dashed, raised, dashed, then, for one man, smashed, for the other man and his long-suffering fans, soaring up, up and away into the stratosphere.

We’re still up there somewhere.

As for the footie, well, of course – well, not “of course” because we’re talking about Totspurs here, tottering our way through a season best described as dire, crap really, with the team displaying as much defensive nous as a dead gnat….

So, of course, we go to Eintracht Frankfurt, in a cauldron where they rarely lose, in rubbish form (well beaten, 4-2, at Wolves on Sunday; I brushed it off with a resigned shrug, preferring to concentrate on the agonies of Augusta) and we win 1-nil.  Ridiculous.  That meant we won 2-1 on aggregate and are now in the semi-finals of the Europa League.  Blimey.

It was agonising, though not as agonising as Augusta and certainly not as bonkers as the quarter-final at Old Trafford, where Manchester United (arguably even worse than us this season) were playing Lyon or the one in Rome, where Lazio were playing the Norwegian side Bodo/Glimt, rank outsiders despite winning the first leg 2-nil.

Against all the odds Glimt, who now play Spurs, won 3-2 on penalties.  Lazio took the game into extra time with a goal in the 93rd minute.  Than they went ahead on aggregate in the 99th minute, only for Glimt to score in the 109th!  You can imagine the din and the mayhem – and the disbelief when Lazio lost.

Even so, it would have been as nothing to what was going on in Manchester.  Sir Alex “Football Bloody Hell” Ferguson, the master of the late, late, late show, was there, scarcely able to believe what he’d just witnessed.

It was 2-all after the first leg in France, United go 2-nil up just before half-time, then Lyon score twice to level things up but have a man sent off in the 89th minute.  Ridiculously, the visitors score twice in extra time and lots of United fans give up the ghost and head out…You must never, ever do that….

Out of nowhere United score three goals in six minutes, to win 5-4 on the night, 7-6 on aggregate and their old stadium, scene of many a manic match, was in danger of disintegrating altogether as the fans, put through the ringer this season, self-combusted.  They play Athletic Bilbao next after the Spaniards – oops, apologies, Basques – saw off Rangers 2-nil.

So, it’ll either be Bilbao versus Glimt in the final (which is in Bilbao) or Man Utd v Spurs (unlikely but not impossible).  Watch this space.

Oh, and while I’m on the subject of football, congrats to Birmingham City on winning promotion to the Championship.  Also, come on Wrexham, who could go up too.  It’s beyond the comprehension of some of the blog’s devotees that football could be of interest to anybody but there are a lot of us tragics out there, including Blues and Red Dragon (previously Robins) fans.

Down here on earth, away from the highs and lows of elite sport, my main concern is changing my car.  People do this sort of thing every day but it’s doing my head in.  Having tootled around in my solid, reliable Ford Fiesta for ten years, no bells, no whistles, road tax nil (though you do still have to pay it as I discovered when I did nothing, then got a red bill insisting that I owed nought pounds and nought pence!), it’s a bit of a shock to see how different more modern cars are – and how expensive.

Taking advice from more savvy friends, more car buffy than I’ll ever be, only adds to the confusion.  Electric, hybrid, petrol.  How difficult can it be?  Confusion reigns as I start consulting Which reviews, discover Honest John and others, endlessly on and on.  How’s a woman to make a decision?

Perhaps I should just stick to the bike, very eco-friendly but with me on board the mileage will be so limited as to be impractical.

And there are the golf clubs to consider too.

 

 

 

 

Lottie Woad mounted a stout defence of her Augusta National Women’s Amateur (ANWA) title last weekend, eventually finishing third, three shots behind Carla Bernat Escuder, who closed with a 68 for a twelve-under total, thus becoming Europe’s second winner of the tournament and the first from Spain.  Carla is the first player to shoot three successive sub-70 rounds in the ANWA.

One of my favourite moments of the whole week was seeing the great Jose Maria Olazabal patiently waiting for the young victor as she made her triumphant way from the 18th green to the recorder’s area.  The two-time winner of the Masters tournament politely removed his cap before embracing his countrywoman.  What a connection Carla will now share for evermore with the great and the good of Spanish golf who have triumphed at Augusta National.  You could see her reeling quite considerably when asked how she viewed joining Seve, Jose-Maria, Sergio and Jon Rahm in the list of victorious Spaniards at this iconic venue.

Carla hails from the same town as Sergio and Viktor, Sergio’s Dad, has been her swing coach for as long as she can remember and he supports her constantly from afar as she makes her way through the American college system.  That student part of her life is soon to come to an end when she graduates this summer and after that, she will turn professional and continue to aim for the stars.

I foresee many future battles between Carla and Lottie on the world stage, but happily they will be wearing the same colours when it comes to the Solheim Cup.

So much happens at Augusta in the lead up to the main item on the menu, namely the playing of the Masters tournament.  On Tuesday evening there is the champions’  dinner, hosted by the previous year’s winner with the menu chosen by him.  Scottie Scheffler is once again in the chair and his menu hasn’t changed too much from the last time.  Scattered through the starters and main courses are cheeseburgers, ravioli, meatballs and chilli – pretty much any food that can be found at a fast-food outlet.  I’ve no doubt, however, that it’ll be elevated to a sumptuous feast.

Many years ago – in 1991 to be exact, the year I attended my first Masters – Ian Woosnam donned the green jacket and much of the ensuing twelve months was taken up with pondering his menu as host of the champions’ dinner the following year.  Choices made, he invited my late brother-in-law, Dai Davies, to a trial run-through of the meal, with the main course being lamb cooked in hay, a nod to his Welsh and farming heritage.

The day dawned and they met at a local (to Woosie) hotel in Oswestry where they worked their way through the menu to a universal thumbs up.  The pitfalls lay further down the road, however – Woosie was not allowed to have the Welsh lamb flown over to the States because of US import laws.  (Some things don’t change!)  Then the chef wasn’t the least bit impressed with the prospect of setting hay alight in his kitchen in order to cook the main course.

Unfortunately, it’s at this juncture that my source (i.e. Patricia) becomes a little vague and can’t supply the details I was eager to hear – for example, did the wee Welshman change his main course completely?  What made the final cut at the dinner that year?  Unless one of us bumps into Woosie again (unlikely) or he reads this blog (even more unlikely) we shall never know.

The eve of the Masters this years was important to many of us because our great friend and colleague Lewine Mair was being honoured with the 2025 PGA of America Lifetime Achievement award.  This is a wonderful accolade and wholly merited for a woman who has charted a tough passageway through a very male-dominated journalistic world in (amongst others) an exceedingly male-dominated sport, namely golf.

Tales of having to squint through clubhouse windows to see the scores in a tournament so she could write her copy are commonplace, as are stories of being swept in one clubhouse door and straight out again, simply by virtue of being a woman.  This didn’t happen just the odd time, but over the course of years and years.  It beggars belief to think of it now but there were only a handful of these female warriors in this world at that time and hats off to them all.  Non-aggressive diligence and perseverance eventually resulted in the media world opening up to many more women where talent alone matters, not your gender.

For many years Lewine was the golf correspondent for The Daily Telegraph, the go-to paper for all things golf, men’s and women’s, amateurs and pros, in the UK.  To that end she travelled extensively covering all levels of the game and she was certainly a constant presence throughout my own playing career, from top amateur events to professional tournaments on the Ladies’ European Tour.

She was an accomplished sportswoman, with a tennis background but turned pro at golf for a short spell and in her amateur days was in an all-female band.  She has written many, many books but not, to my knowledge, an autobiography – that would be a great read.

So, come on Lewine – take time out from dusting your latest, high-profile, much-deserved award and treat us to tales of your own life.  I do know enough to know that would be as entertaining as all the tales of others that you have treated us to over the years.

I had a great time this weekend just past:  a family wedding on the Saturday – Mark, one of the great-nephews (Dai’s side), married Amy in Leamington Spa – then it was off to Wrexham on the Sunday for a lunch to celebrate Pam Valentine’s 70th birthday.  They were both joyous occasions and well worth the detour.

And, of course, there were detours.  Trying to find the Holiday Inn Express Warwick in the dark last Friday (not really that difficult, it’s hard by the M40) proved beyond me and my Waze app.  Trouble was I couldn’t get the thing to speak to me and it’s well-nigh impossible to follow the route highlighted on the phone when you’re devoting most of your attention to the road.  I ended up going through the middle of Warwick, which was packed with hundreds of revellers, mostly female, either hen partying en masse or reclaiming the night or some such.

In the end, the problem was solved the old-fashioned way:  by ringing the hotel and getting directions from a knowledgeable local.  Phew.  Time for a hug with the groom and half a Guinness with his dad.  I cadged a lift to the ceremony with the groom’s mum and her mum and even though we went to the wrong church first of all, we made the right church on time – just!  Good thing Leamington’s roadworks aren’t as all-encompassing as Lichfield’s – we’d have had no chance.

Then, at the start of Masters week came some sad, sad news:  Peter McEvoy had died at the age of 72.  He was an extraordinarily good golfer, one of the best amateurs ever to represent Britain and Ireland, capped goodness knows how many times for England (despite his Scottish heritage) and winner of the highest honours:  the Amateur Championship in 1977 and 1978, leading amateur in the Open twice, the first British amateur to make the cut at the Masters, member of numerous Walker Cup teams and non-playing captain of two winning teams, at home at Nairn in 1999 and then in 2001 away at Ocean Forest on Sea Island in Georgia.  His list of achievements runs much longer but those are the highlights.

More importantly, he was Dai’s and my best man and gave the eulogy at Dai’s funeral.  Peter, who played for Copt Heath and Warwickshire, was one of Dai’s Birmingham Post parishioners and they became good friends.  There’s nothing better than having a star to write about (and the Post had a few, not least Sandy Lyle and Ian Woosnam) but a star with opinions that they’re happy to share, well, that is beyond price.

McE, who qualified as a solicitor, had more than his fair share of opinions, often backed up with impressive statistics, many of which he’d made up off the top of his head.  Dai and he enjoyed many a full and frank discussion (translation:  argument), as Peter explained in the piece he wrote for The Guardian’s special, unpublished front page produced to mark Dai’s retirement as golf correspondent.  It’s a great, entertaining read.

In his book For Love or Money, written with Mark Reason and published in 2006, Peter talks about his love of the game but admits that if he’d had his success twenty or so years later he would almost certainly have turned professional.  “Agents would have been splashing so much cash in my face that it would have been almost impossible to say no.  I was 25, not much more than a year older than Luke Donald when he turned pro.

“Nowadays I could expect a plump signing-on fee, various clothing and equipment contracts and exemptions to a number of tournaments.  I could have expected to pick up something in the region of half a million pounds…But the only thing that you were guaranteed in the Seventies was a dodgy haircut.”

The book’s a cracking read, funny, insightful and a wonderful look at golf at the highest level.  Re-reading it is a joy and I’m just sorry I can’t tell Peter that.  Maureen and I send our love and condolences to Helen, Peter’s wife and all their family and friends.

To finish, I just can’t resist using this joke from The Essential Dave Allen, edited by Graham McCann.  It’s called Heaven and Hell and it’s easy for those of us old enough and lucky enough to have seen a lot of the inimitable Irish comedian to hear him weaving his magic with this gem.

“Many people think that Heaven and Hell are on different levels.  They’re not.  They are side by side, separated by a fence.  A wooden fence.  One day, God was walking around the area and he started to inspect the fence.  It was falling down.  All bits and pieces had fallen off it.  So he calls out to the Devil over the fence:  ‘Excuse me.  Mr Mephistopheles?  Hey, NICK!’

The Devil yells:  ‘Whaddyerwant?’

God says:  ‘The fence.  Look at it.  It’s falling down, it needs repairing.  And the posts are on your side.  This fence is your responsibility.  When are you going to fix it?’

The Devil says:  ‘Ah, screw you!’

God says:  ‘Now, listen:  if you do not do something about this fence very soon, you are going to hear from my solicitor!’

The Devil says:  ‘Where are YOU going to find a solicitor?'”

Well, we know where:  on the golf course.  And God would have the Devil’s own job getting them off it.

RIP dearest P McE.