By the time this post hits the unsuspecting public it will all have kicked off.

By “it”, I mean the Solheim Cup, one of the world’s greatest female sporting contests.  It’s all about Europe versus America; it’s about golf; and it’s all happening for the first time in Spain at the Andalucian course, Finca Cortesin, which handily enough, happens to have an adjacent five-star hotel where the two teams will be staying.

This is the eighteenth playing of the match with the United States leading the way with ten victories to the Europeans’ seven, but on this occasion it is Europe who are hoping to achieve three consecutive victories, something which, hitherto, has been beyond their reach.  The Americans have accomplished this feat twice.

A few months ago, when the two teams were shaping up, I boldly predicted a European win but, as is normal for me, I am now second-guessing myself and wondering was I a little too cavalier with my prognostications.  The next three, nail-biting, exhausting days will reveal all.  How can you be exhausted when you have no intention of leaving an armchair for three solid days?  Except, perhaps, to have a little nervous pacing when critical shots are being assessed and re-assessed……..and re re-assessed.  Goodness, I hope the pace of play is on the brisk side of glacial.

Mind you, from what I’ve read of the golf course – built on the site of an old vineyard – it’ll be a tough ole slog for the spectators with some dreadfully long walks from greens to tees, so perhaps the armchair is not a bad option.  The players will be transported in buggies, of course, so good luck to those who wish to follow a particular match.

I remember working at the Ryder Cup match in 2016 at Hazeltine and being struck by the fact that so many of the greens were on plateaus, resulting in the spectators rarely seeing a putt at all.  They could view the players from the knees up and that was about it.  It was a difficult course to commentate on and I recall saying to Padraig Harrington, one of Darren Clarke’s vice captains that year, that despite all the forensic planning that went into such an event, very little regard seemed to be given to the spectators.  Padraig looked at me in a mildly surprised fashion and said with no little irony, “Maureen, what on earth would make you think the fans are considered?”

I have experienced the Solheim Cup in so many different ways – but alas, never as a player.

When the Europeans won at Dalmahoy in 1992 I was playing full time and the team members were all my friends.  We were collectively incensed when it was reported at the beginning of the week that the Americans had stated that, with the possible exception of Lotte Neumann and Laura Davies, none of the other Europeans would have had a sniff of making the US team.  True or not, it was a grave error on their part and provided motivation and determination on a different level for the home side.  It was rumoured that the Europeans covered a dart board in their team room with the photos of certain American players.  I couldn’t possibly comment.  The result was a European victory, arguably one of the greatest sporting achievements in decades.

Four years later, at St Pierre, I was on duty for Radio 5 Live in the very early stages of my commentary career.  I was in the booth at the back of the final green with the inimitable Tony Adamson when the network came to him for an update on the current scores in a series of fourball matches.  As Tony opened his mouth to begin his report all the computers went down.  He never missed a beat.  Without a single note he had perfect recall of who was where on the course, who they were playing with, what the score was and what was the overall match score.  What a masterclass in broadcasting – certainly the most impressive thing I witnessed that week.

The match at Rich Harvest Farms outside Chicago saw me take on a different role – or, rather, an extra one along with the usual commentary job.  The captain, Alison Nicholas, asked me to be part of her back room team, taking on the responsibility of liaising between the players and the media.  My duties included ensuring the individual players were at the right place at the right time for various press interviews – a little trickier than it may sound.  The most challenging part was shepherding/persuading a beaten team to the media centre for a final full-team press conference.  In the aftermath of a defeat it was understandably the last thing any of us wanted.  It may or may not surprise you as to who were the bolshie ones!

The last Solheim I attended was the Gleneagles one in 2019 where Suzann Pettersen cemented her name in golfing history by holing a seven-footer on the final green for a stunning victory.  She had been one of captain Catriona Matthew’s picks – quite controversially in some quarters, as she’d hardly played in the preceding eighteen months having just had her first baby.

It was so, so memorable but also unforgettable for me for another reason.  It was the last time I worked alongside Peter Alliss, a broadcaster of legendary reputation and status.  It was the final week of enjoying entertaining evening meals in his company, discussing a range of topics on this and that.  Every time I see Suzann’s final putt played out on television I think back to where I was at that moment – sitting right beside Peter in the commentary box.

The Solheim Cup has been good to me and it’s been a big part of my life.  My golf never made the grade but I’ve been privileged and lucky to experience this special week so many times in differing roles.  Oh, and the fun you can have when you don’t have your clubs!

Now for the armchair and the Do Not Disturb sign!

Believe me, you wouldn’t want me as captain of your team, any team, no matter how small and seemingly insignificant.  Because, really, if you’re on a team and you’re trying your damnedest, it doesn’t matter whether it’s the Solheim Cup, the Ryder Cup, the Champions’ League, the Ashes or the Lower Sandford Street Not-Quite-Silver Salver, you want your captain to be on the ball.

Being on the ball is not my forte but even I can recognise manna from heaven, the gift from god that does your team talk for you, primes your players better than you ever could, leaves you with nothing much to do but smile benignly and say, “Go to it.”

This year, Xander Schauffele, the Olympic champion, did the business when he said in an interview that it had taken “nothing special” for the USA to crush Europe in the last Ryder Cup encounter at Whistling Straits.  He was probably right because most of the Europeans played poorly (that’s the polite version) but it was an unwise remark and I believe he’s been doing a bit of backtracking since.  That’s all very well but it’s too late, too late, the damage, with a bit of luck, is done.  Go Europe.

First up, however and already overshadowed by the Ryder Cup in Rome next week, as I’ve just demonstrated, is the Solheim Cup, ‘the Ryder Cup with lipstick’ as Tim Glover, who had his own special way with words, put it.  I’ve always thought it was a brilliant, evocative phrase but a lot of people hated it, thinking it demeaning, belittling the women’s game.  Hey ho.  I still think it’s brilliant, even though my lipstick disappears seconds after it goes on.

Stacy Lewis, the US Solheim Cup captain, is trying to make the Europeans favourites for the match at Finca Cortesin in Andalucía this weekend and I do hope she’s right and Suzann Pettersen’s team win the trophy for the third successive time.  That’d be a first for Europe and a joy for those of us who were at the first, hastily arranged, match at Lake Nona in 1990.  The Europeans, outclassed, were well beaten and one commentator reckoned it would be 100 years before it would be any sort of contest.  Two years later, at Dalmahoy, Europe won and the game was on.

There was no television coverage to speak of because no one was expecting one of the great sporting upsets of all time and Tony Jacklin, who did so much to revive the Ryder Cup, had to follow the action on Ceefax – younger readers please consult your history books or wherever it is you discover the details of ancient technology.  He was enthralled and well understood the magnitude of the achievement as the under-rated Europeans demolished a much-decorated US team.

It’s all much closer now – I would say 50-50 – with the result depending on who plays better over the three days and who holes the putts.  Pretty obvious really but as a captain, all I’d ask is for all (or almost all) my players to be playing well and for them to be putting the lights out – not as in saving electricity but as in holing everything.  No doubt that’s why Leona Maguire, Celine Boutier and Georgia Hall spent many, many minutes on the practice green yesterday afternoon.  I was in awe of their dedication, my back aching just at the thought of it.

I was also hot and knackered, having just tramped around a course that is nothing short of mountainous, with gradients that wouldn’t be out of place in the Vuelta de Espana.  From what I hear Marco Simone in Rome is much the same and it just goes to show that the fans, who make these team events the great sporting spectacles that they have become, are the last people to be considered when it comes down to it.

A nice hotel on site, for the players and officials, seems to be the main consideration these days, which is fair enough.  A walkable golf course, accessible for spectators of advancing years, seems to have disappeared from the list entirely. We’ll yomp to the best of our ability, taking as much water as we can carry, wearing our over-priced bucket hats (I can’t believe I handed over 53 Euro; what a plonker) and raising a cheer if we have breath left.  It’ll be interesting to see and hear what the atmosphere’s like.

My crew from Whittington Heath are planning an early start for the first day’s play but I think I’ll wimp out and aim for the latest bus possible.  I’ve done the first-tee-at-dawn bit often enough to feel no guilt at leaving it to others now, secure in the knowledge that my presence is not required and I will not be missed.

Remember, I’m not the captain.  And I need my breakfast.

The gin and tonics come later.

Finally, all the best to all the caddies this week, they’re in for a heck of a trek and a lot of early starts and a special mention to Colin Cann, who’s caddying for Georgia Hall.  He’s come a long way and tramped many, many miles since he started out with Annika Sorenstam close to 30-odd years ago.

And he’s still going strong, striding ahead of Georgia, who’s in the green.

And finally, finally this is the culmination of many years of work for many people, bringing the Solheim Cup to Spain at last.  Viva Espana and viva Marta Figueras Dotti, whose achievements and honours would take another blog to list.  Vamos.

It seems like there’s a whole lot of dreaming going on at the moment.

If you follow the golfing world and believe even a fraction of what you read and see, you will appreciate that just now a great number of players seem to be realising long-held dreams.  Brian Harman (top pic) has only just made one dream come true by lifting the Claret Jug in July and now another is checked off the list – namely that of making the Ryder Cup team.

There’s no doubt the recent announcements of the 2023 Solheim and Ryder Cup sides are dream-fulfilling for many.  After all, for certain nationalities, these teams are the undoubted pinnacle of our sport.

Bob McIntyre is a case in point.  The genial Scotsman narrowly missed out on making the European side two years ago but on this occasion he managed to snare the final automatic place in the last counting event in Switzerland.  “For me it’s always been a dream to play in the Ryder Cup,” he said.  “We’re going there to Italy to win the Ryder Cup back for Europe and that’s the real dream.”

Ah, he seems to have a part A and part B to his dream, but that’s the great thing about dreams – there simply are no limitations.

Shane Lowry seems to be similar in having a two-part dream.  He achieved part A, making his Ryder Cup debut in Whistling Straits in 2021 where the Europeans were soundly trounced.  Now he wants to be on the side taking the spoils.  That’s part B.

That got me wondering if the players actually meant they consistently daydreamed and visualised themselves achieving their heart’s desire.  Or from the time they were kids did they actually dream in bed at night about playing in the Ryder Cup match?  And how did they do in those dream matches?

I’m a big believer in a positive mental attitude and I am also a prolific and vivid dreamer in bed at night.  But no one, and I repeat, no one, would want my night-time golfing dreams playing out in reality.  All my life I have had golf dreams, most of the early ones centring around achievements in the amateur arena – probably because we didn’t have a professional women’s tour in Europe way back then.

Interestingly, my dreams tended to be about a team match, namely the Curtis Cup, a biennial amateur encounter between Great Britain & Ireland and the USA.  It was rarefied air and a huge ambition of mine to make the team.  So what were my nighttime dreams?

They usually centred around the first tee and my opening drive.  My opponent had already safely negotiated their first shot but when I pegged up my ball I discovered that the tee markers were awfully close to a wall at the back of the tee.  I didn’t have room to swing back without hitting the wall and if I teed up far enough away so as to miss the wall, then I’d be ahead of the markers.  My dilemma was compounded because I knew with absolute certainty that all those spectators lining the first hole, as well as the officials on the tee, were blissfully unaware of my predicament.  I made dozens of swings trying to miss the wall and could sense the growing impatience from the gallery because I was taking so long to play – and for no good reason, seemingly.

If it weren’t a pesky wall waiting to sabotage me, it was an overhanging branch of a tree – again on the first tee.  My opposition was never troubled by this low hanging branch because they were never as tall as me.  At six feet tall, I couldn’t manufacture any type of backswing that wouldn’t result in me getting caught up in the foliage.  As with the wall, no one watching on seemed to notice and the pervasive thinking was, “Why on earth is she taking so long to hit it?”

I never did find out how I coped with these tee shots because I would always wake in a cold sweat before making any kind of contact.  Don’t tell me Shane or Bob have these anxiety-laden dreams (I do hope not), which are, I suspect, uncomfortably revealing about my personality!

And they continue…………  Despite not having played golf for almost two years because of various health issues, it’s apparent I am quite keen to visit the golf course in my dreams.  I seem to have conquered the first tee because I now find I have moved to up around the green where I am afflicted with the occasional chipping and/or putting yips.  Oh, rapture and joy!

I told the sister the other month that, once well enough to play again, I wasn’t sure I would be prepared to put in the work required to contain (not conquer) the yips.  I wonder why I thought I’d get a bit of sympathy!  Her matter-of-fact answer was simply to relay the fact that Henry Longhurst, that doyen of golf writers, professed to feel a huge weight lift off his shoulders once he made the definitive decision to confine the clubs to the attic.

Let me assure you, my dreamland is not a lot of fun and so it really does pique my curiosity (and envy) every time I watch golf on the telly and someone is declaring that “it’s a dream come true”.

For the record, I did play in the Curtis Cup and I had no problems on the first tee.  For me, reality trumps dreamland every time.

I fervently wish you all golfing dreams that are the polar opposite to mine…………….and that they come true!

My mate Kate is a great Elvis fan, devoted to the man – she even went to Graceland and Tupelo with two of her grandchildren earlier this year, the trip of a lifetime.  Dai always pooh-poohed this devotion, decrying Elvis as a debauched druggie (or some such), although I don’t think he ever dared suggest that he couldn’t sing or send an audience into a frenzy.  On reflection, perhaps it was simple jealousy.

You see, Dai used to joke that he could have been the British Buddy Holly – if only he hadn’t lost the dark, curly hair too early and spurned the advances of Larry Parnes at Tommy Steele’s 21st birthday party.  Parnes managed Steele and many other British rock and rollers and apparently had a penchant for young men, though his obituary in the Daily Telegraph said that “he was circumspect about mixing business with pleasure.  The greatest loves of his life were two Alsatian dogs, Prince and Duke….”.

All this came flooding back because we’ve just started back at singing – yes, I’m still persevering, relying on the patience and forbearance of teacher Helen and my nearest neighbours – and one of our new songs is “Can’t Help Falling in Love”, recorded, of course, by Elvis Presley.  Words and music by George David Weiss, Hugo Peretti and Luigi Creatore, arranged by Roger Emerson.  It’s absolutely lovely and sounds amazing, even at this early stage, so I messaged Kate, saying, “Perhaps you were right!!!”

After singing I sat in on a rehearsal for a concert I’m going to miss and now I’m even more gutted that I won’t be there.  Admittedly, I’ll be in Rome for the Ryder Cup, so it’s not all bad but if you go to this concert, you’ll be blown away by the talent.  And it’s all in aid of pancreatic cancer – which doesn’t sound right but you know what I mean.

And here are the performers who’ll be giving it their considerable all.  Don’t miss them.

Earlier in the week, well, at the end of last week, two friends and I went to a concert in the unusual and unique setting of Sandfields Pumping Station in Lichfield, a marvel of Victorian engineering that brought clean water to the Black Country and helped stamp out cholera in the area.  There was a narrator, who’d written most of the material and the shanty singers of the Lichfield Lighthouse Company (a lighthouse in landlocked Staffordshire?), to tell the story of the visionary engineers who made it happen.  It was brill and we only knew about it because Sue M and her art class had been there to do some drawing and painting.

 

What else has there been in the past few days?  Ah yes.  Cricket.  A visit to Edgbaston to watch Warwickshire play Northamptonshire.  There wasn’t a full day’s play because of a bit of rain but we had turkey and trimmings for Sunday lunch in the Tom Dollery Lounge, I shook hands with MJK Smith (book signing) and not a single wicket fell while we there.  By the time we got to the car – just across the road, just after tea – at least three wickets had gone!  Ah well, such is sport – and life.

There was golf too – hooray, a mention at last.  It was WHGC’s Ladies’ Open Texas Scramble and, wouldn’t you know, it rained.  Day after day of sunshine and then…wet, wet, wet. It was persistent but not so bad that it made things unplayable.  My partners and I did OK-ish, respectable enough but a long way off the 61 nett that won.  In this format you have to hole lots of putts and we didn’t.

Still, it was great fun and I got to meet Viv, partner of John, my fount of all Spurs knowledge, at last.  She’s a member at Coxmoor, one of my favourite courses, home of the late, great Dave Musgrove, caddy to Sandy Lyle among many others.  Viv didn’t even know she wanted to play golf until John, a sporty football obsessive, gave her lessons for Christmas and that was it – she was hooked.

Last but by a long way – at least 100 kilometres – not least, many, many congrats to Sue Kershaw and Rachel Bailey, who completed their ultra walk of 100 kiloms alongside the Thames, from Putney Bridge to Henley (I think), in aid of Peaches Womb Cancer Trust.  I’ll spare you the snap of Rachel’s feet after their trek but it’s undoubtedly a good thing that her mum’s a chiropodist…

Outstanding effort.

That was the week that was….