Well, didn’t Justin Thomas produce a major championship style performance last Sunday to win his second US PGA title at Southern Hills in Tulsa last Sunday?  He started the final round seven strokes back, trod water for the first third of his round and then birdied six out of his last twelve holes to force a play-off with the pencil-thin Will Zalatoris.  He then went on to birdie two of the three play-off holes and now openly revels in being described as a “two-time major champion.”

Winning majors is anything but easy – everyone says so – and Thomas openly admitted he didn’t think it would be so difficult, or take him so long, to add a second of the big ones to that 2017 PGA victory.  He battled through the worst half of the draw with a couple of exemplary 67s for openers and then struggled to a 74 on the Saturday, another difficult day weather and course-wise.  Frustrated and disappointed he repaired to the range with his caddy, Jim “Bones” Mackay.

Bones is almost as famous as his employer.  He was a permanent fixture at Phil Mickelson’s side for almost a quarter of a century and was on the bag for five out of six of the lefty’s major wins.  He then “retired” and took like a duck to water to a broadcasting role for a television network, still patrolling the fairways but with a lighter load, a simple microphone as opposed to a hefty set of clubs and the assorted essentials every player requires.

Bones told his wife there was only one player in the world who could entice him back to caddying – Thomas was that player and he called after the 2021 Ryder Cup.  In April, I picked him to win the Masters, largely because he now had Bones on his bag, but, alas, I was one major too early.

But back to last Saturday evening on the now almost deserted range at Southern Hills.  Only two figures remained, Thomas and Bones and Thomas wasn’t happy, venting his frustrations at what he felt was a lacklustre score that day.  Cue Bones and the perfect pep-talk, advising his boss not to be so hard on himself; he was in contention almost every time he played; and he was to ” keep staying positive so that good stuff can happen”.  Timing is everything in life and Thomas, jitters quelled, said of the range chat, “I left there in an awesome frame of mind.”

And so the scene was set for a roller-coaster of a final day and an emotional ride for the Thomas connection.  Dad Mike, a PGA pro, is Justin’s coach and watched anxiously from inside the ropes during the play-off.  When the championship was complete, and as I was watching a clearly spent and overcome Thomas try to take it all in, I wondered if he’d have reacted like this if he’d just won a few million for one of the titles on the proposed Saudi-backed tour.  I doubt it.

Perhaps, thankfully, after all, some things ARE more important than money.

As for Bones, he, too, received something very dear to him – the flag from the 18th green, which traditionally goes to the winning caddy.  Thomas made sure Bones received it immediately, something Mickelson had never done for his bagman in their five winning majors together.

Yes, indeed, some things are more important than money.

Major championships are special and it is now 25 years since I commentated on my very first major – the 1997 Open at Royal Troon.  I was a little overwhelmed, to say the least, at being in the midst of a plethora of stars – players, journalists, broadcasters and photographers – many of them giants of the industry.  One familiar sight to us all was photographer Dave Cannon, who by then had already been traipsing round the golf courses of the world for a good 15 years.  Goodness knows how many steps he has clocked up since or how many hundreds of thousands of pictures he has taken.

Last week in Tulsa the PGA of America awarded Dave with a Lifetime Achievement Award in Photojournalism and I can think of no more deserving recipient than this most unassuming of men.  Our paths crossed frequently on various courses round the world and it was noticeable that Dave was frequently off on his own, not taking up a position adjacent to the other snappers.  His uncanny ability to choose the right match, the right player and the right place to be at the right time was a skill honed over years of practice.

One good example of this remains with me from the 2014 Women’s Open at Royal Birkdale where there were three players in the mix come the closing holes.  They were Norway’s Suzanne Pettersen, already a major winner and former world No 2;  Shanshan Feng, also a major winner and the first Chinese player to become a member of the LPGA; and then there was the unheralded American Mo Martin, who was yet to win on any of the main tours – and it was her match I was covering.

On the final hole, the short-hitting Martin needed a 3-wood for her second shot to the par five – and there, all on his own, was Cannon, 40 yards from the player, right behind her with a bird’s eye view of one of the most important shots of her life.  She nailed it to the heart of the green (I’m not sure she didn’t actually hit the pin) and rolled in the putt for a life-changing one-shot victory.

Dave was the only person to capture THE shot of the championship – a not infrequent occurrence.  Years later I asked him what made him choose to be there at that moment.  “Instinct,” he said.

His instincts had also proved correct in 1984.  Arguably his most famous photographs of the lot were of the joyous celebration of Seve Ballesteros on the final green at St Andrews in the Open.

There are three other pictures, however, that, for me, supersede these and they hang in my kitchen – not, I hasten to add because of the subject matter, but because they were taken by Dave.  And anything taken by Dave Cannon is to be treasured.

I wonder if it has occurred to Sandra, Gill and Pam that these photos are on the wall because of the man behind the lens, NOT because of the people in front of it?!

On the Sunday morning of the US PGA Championship I woke up and smacked the bed hard with both hands.  There might even have been an expletive uttered from the prone position as I lay there, still rankled by what had happened the evening before.

It wasn’t Rory’s implosion (or whatever it was) in the third round at Southern Hills that annoyed me, though that was disappointing and frustrating enough for his fans as our hopes of another long-awaited major title faded into near nothingness.  After all there was still Seamus to cheer on, more Power to the pride of Tooraneena and Matt Fitzpatrick, a Yorkshireman who is, apparently, less dour than he looks and has the sense to have the sainted Billy Foster on the bag.

Some days you’d never have to putt if you were Matt’s foursomes partner, you’d spend your time picking the ball out of the hole or up as an increasingly demoralised opponent said, “That’s good; that’s a gimme; pick it up.”  So far, though, he’s lost all three of his Ryder Cup foursomes – partnering Henrik Stenson at Hazeltine and Lee Westwood twice at Whistling Straits – and both his singles.  Let’s hope he makes the home match next year at Marco Simone Golf and Country Club in Rome and all the Europeans bring their best stuff, with the Americans sticking to their role as home track bullies!

No, what was still pissing me off when I woke up was my failure to make a contract of 5H (five hearts for the non card players) early on in our keenly fought Zoom bridge game – once a week during lockdown but now down to once a month.  It was a slight tricky ask – you can only afford to lose two of the 13 tricks – but I failed to make it by one solely because of my ineptitude and, worse, idiocy.

As I opened my eyes on Sunday morning all I could see was the last card on the table, useless, irrelevant.  It was the ace of spades (the top banana) that I could still see sitting there, reproachful but mercifully silent – unlike my partner and our delighted opponents, who went on to smash us out of sight.

Goodness knows how Mito Pereira, the Chilean who led the PGA after 71 holes, felt when he woke up the day after the championship.  Of course, he might not have gone to sleep at all.  He needed a par 4 to win, a bogey 5 to be in a play-off.  He took 6.  SIX.

That really will take some getting over.

I have managed to play golf this week – 10 holes early on Wednesday – and it was lovely.  We started at the 8th, at 0800 and got the best of the weather, a bit blustery but no rain.  I played quite well, by my now not-too-demanding standards and there’s nothing like a few holes of golf to rattle you towards and beyond your 10,000 steps.

Later this year, at the beginning of August, plonk in the middle of the Commonwealth Games in Brum, some proper golfers will be playing – undoubtedly painfully slowly because that’s women professionals for you – at Muirfield, which is hosting the AIG Women’s British Open for the first time.  It’s a marvellous venue, one of the world’s great golf courses and home to The Honourable Company of Edinburgh Golfers, who joined the modern world not so long ago when they decided to admit women.

The club’s earliest written records date back to 1744 which really has nothing at all to do with what I’m about to say!  The current members, men and women, didn’t do themselves any favours when they sent out an invitation to their Women’s Open media day that included the following bit of dress code:  “…jacket or long-sleeved dress for women.”

Muirfield, Muirfield, woe is Muirfield.  Months and months of hard work and rehabilitation undone in a single, ill-chosen edict.  It had specified jacket and tie for men, still normal attire for the males of Muirfield when in the clubhouse, I’m reliably informed.   Not sure what kind of socks they’re allowed on the golf course but we won’t go there this time.

I don’t care who approved the long sleeves phrase but they couldn’t have been more WRONG.  WHAT WERE THEY THINKING?

Hannah Holden, the long-suffering equipment editor of National Club Golfer, criticised the form of words on Twitter and has, of course, had abuse as well as support.  Well, I’m in Hannah’s corner.  It’s ridiculous.  Immediately, I toyed with the idea of going in a burka.  No, what about something with long sleeves and a very short skirt?  Or something long-sleeved and very see-through?  Plenty of ways to get creative and put two fingers up to the dress code.

Many of the smartest, most fashionable and elegant women I know go to summer dos in short-sleeved or sleeveless dresses.  You could take them anywhere but perhaps it’s particularly cold in the clubhouse at Muirfield?  It is a chilly part of the world, even in August.  Or perhaps they’re feeling the pinch because of these energy hikes?  After all, who wants to look at arms, however well honed, covered in goosebumps?

I had a little mooch round Lichfield yesterday morning, to see what was on offer, just window shopping, hence the reflections but it was all in the interests of research because I’m not going to the media day, or the dinner.  I wasn’t invited.  (And I don’t think Maureen was either.)  The blog just isn’t high enough up the pecking order.

To sum it all up (don’t forget the bridge, especially the bridge), using the International Radiotelephony Spelling Alphabet:  Bravo, Oscar, Lima, Lima, Oscar, Charlie, Kilo, Sierra..