Most of you know that I’ve long thought that professional sports people are a bit (probably a lot) bonkers.  And there’s absolutely no doubt that fans, football fans in particular, are beyond loopy, beyond help and way beyond the understanding of their friends who are flummoxed, baffled, bewildered by the game’s appeal.

How on earth do you explain the devotion of people (71 of them apparently) who travel to Tamworth on a Tuesday night to watch Truro City lose 2-nil?  Now, perhaps not all of them still live in Cornwall and all of us football fans, at whatever level, always travel in hope, no matter what the expectation.

Spurs, for instance, are at Manchester City on Saturday and I wasn’t too happy that one of our younger players mentioned our 4-nil win there last season.  It was a ridiculous result and I really don’t think it’s a good idea to remind City, who looked ominously good last week, of it.   Admittedly, they won’t have forgotten it anyway but no need to poke the bear…

That’s the ingrained Spurs pessimism coming to the surface, not helped by the news that one of the men we really wanted to sign – thought we had signed – is now going somewhere else; and not just any old somewhere else but to Arsenal, our most deadly rivals; yuk, yuk, yuk.  Money talks, of course and they do seem to have offered a lot more than we were willing – or able – to.  Even worse, two of our best, most creative players are injured and will probably miss most of the season…Is that me getting my excuses in early?

Talking of money, how on earth do National League teams like Truro (aka The Tinners, newly promoted and favourites to go straight back down) and Tamworth afford it all?  The travel alone must be expensive and what are the medical expenses like?  Do the players get immediate MRI scans for instance – or do they have to go on the waiting list?  Who knows!

Talking of journeys, Truro’s first match last weekend was at home and at least they have the satisfaction of knowing that all their opponents will have to make substantial travel plans.  Their first visitors were York:  613 kilometres/382 miles.  They had a good trek home because they won 2-nil, with two very late goals; it’s a cruel game, especially when you’re the designated underdogs.

Tamworth-supporting friends of mine, who’ve already been down to Southend, are pondering the best way to the far south west for the Truro return fixture in January.  Do they drive; do they fly; do they  stay at home?  We all know that’s not an option because we all know that they’re all bonkers!

Sorry guys, that’s indisputable.

It took me for ever to get to Spurs last Saturday because the train only went to Milton Keynes and I had to change at Rugby and chug along from there to Euston stopping more than now and again.  Fortunately, I think it was a one-off, perhaps a two-off; if not, it’ll be a long old season.  And then there’s Euston…abominable mostly and mostly unavoidable.

Spurs better play a damned sight better at home this season than they did last!

We managed to beat Burnley 3-nil, with Richarlison, our moody Brazilian, scoring twice, including a worldie that will be goal of the season for at least a week, possibly even a couple of months. It’s a bit unfair to call Richarlison moody – he’s had more serious problems than that and we probably don’t cut our stars enough slack, failing to appreciate how young a lot of them are when they set off, thousands of miles from home, in pursuit of fame and fortune, at an age when many of us would have been hard pushed to get the bus home.

Unusually, perhaps uniquely, it’s been a successful few days for both Spurs and me.  We were probably expected to beat Burnley, so it was good to do so but I wasn’t expected to win on the golf course.  However, on Tuesday, in the Guernsey Jugs (don’t ask me to explain the rules, they’re a tad complicated), I did a Mrs Beaton – I had the best ingredients, i.e. partners – and, lo, the result was a triumph.  They were ace and we came first and second – don’t ask, it would take more than an essay to explain.

It was breezy, sometimes muggy and just when I thought I’d take my jacket off, it got a bit chilly – one of those days that doesn’t quite know what to do with itself.  What’s more the greens had been hollow tined and, although I didn’t hole lots of putts, I always feel I’m at my best on dodgy greens – they suit my dodgy putting stroke. I once beat Dai 7 and 6 on greens that had been sanded…It was in France and I got one of the green fees refunded because the course wasn’t really in a fit state.  Happy days.

Finally, because it’s been a while, a pic of the three spires.

 

 

 

 

After the fun last week at the last major of the year, the AIG Women’s Open at Porthcawl, I thought that that was our lot as regards exciting golf to watch until we hit the Ryder Cup at the end of September – and most of you are aware of my reservations about that particular event.  Well, I couldn’t have been more wrong.

Last Sunday Justin Rose was scintillating over the back nine, as well as in the ensuing three play-off holes, managing to best J J Spaun, the current holder of the US Open title, and win the FedEx St Jude Championship.  Said championship is the first of a trio of tests that make up the FedEx Cup play-off series.

A little while ago Justin himself said he was hoping for a golden autumn to his career but I think he’s forgotten that and he now looks more like a player in his prime than he does a 45-year old hoping for a couple of decent showings now and again.  He has managed to avoid significant injury over the years, which is key, and he has remained competitive, focussed and professional.

Many of his peers (Messrs Poulter, Casey, McDowell, Garcia, Stenson and Westwood spring to mind) must surely look on enviously from the good ship Liv-i-pop and wish they could trade places with Justin.  Money means nothing to these boys – they have pots of it already, untold millions in fact.  The common denominator is that, at heart, they are all highly competitive and the cushy, no-jeopardy Liv golf scene doesn’t breed champions – they simply wither away faster than is necessary.  Carbon doesn’t turn into a diamond without significant pressure.

Justin and Fooch (Mark Fulcher, his caddie) are a great team and I was witness to the start of their time together at the Players’ Championship in 2008.  Having known Fooch for many years when he caddied on the women’s tour I felt excited for him and helpfully instructed him on the Wednesday evening “not to stuff it up”.  They missed the cut.

It didn’t take long for them to hit their stride, however, and apart from a couple of breaks – most notably when Fooch had heart surgery – they have remained a solid partnership ever since.

Despite being delighted for Justin I couldn’t help but feel for Tommy Fleetwood who finished one shot out of the play-off.  He is still searching for that elusive first win on the PGA Tour and I could almost feel his angst and disappointment oozing through the screen.  I have heard the word “choker” bandied about a bit.  I don’t think Tommy needs to be too concerned about that.  After all, it was a label given to Tom Watson for a long spell before he got it over the line.  He didn’t do too badly.

It takes tremendous courage to keep putting yourself out there in the goldfish bowl of professional sport and I’ve no doubt it’ll pay off.  Keep going, keep believing, Tommy.

The PGA Tour has done its best to instil a modicum of excitement into these seasonal play-offs with, quite frankly, a singular lack of success.  Their attempts to wow American sports fans during the month of August, in the quiet time before the great beast of  NFL football lumbers into view, have met with limited success.  Numerous formats have been given an airing since 2007 but they have not sparked the fan fanaticism enjoyed by the core sports of American football, baseball and basketball.

It’ll be interesting to see how the new commissioner of the tour, Brian Rolapp, who himself comes from an NFL background, tackles this particular thorny problem.  I imagine that Mr Rolapp will have quite an extensive to-do list once the hand-over period comes to an end next year.

I’m not holding my breath but I’d love to see a number of things happen:  the end of limited field events with no cuts;  the introduction of a “tournament” ball that flies much shorter thus bringing some of the older, classic courses back to being relevant;  application of slow play penalties;  reduced sales of alcohol at the majors and Ryder Cup and, possibly, elsewhere.  I could go on (and frequently do) but that’ll do for starters.  If the PGA tour were behind a few of these initiatives they would have more chance of being adopted globally.

I know, I know.  It’s naive and foolish and not in the interests of the top players and sponsors so it’ll never happen – but I can dream, can’t I?  If I were Queen for a day……………………!

If I were Queen for longer than a day I would do more of what I did in the middle of the week.  I joined two special girls for lunch on what must have been one of the hottest days of the year.  The two in question were Olive and Mabel, the lovable labradors who, according to the blurb on Amazon, “broke the internet with more than 50 million views on social media”.  Fame does go to some folks’ heads but not these two.  They were delightful, willing to engage (mostly) and good lunch companions (they didn’t try to eat off my plate).  They also gave me a tour of their extensive, lovely garden.

It was hard to tell but I think they quite liked me.  Anyway, I must have passed muster because we have agreed to schedule in a future lunch date.

Can’t wait.

Maureen wouldn’t be the greatest cricket fan but last Monday, as we were driving home from Wales after enjoying the Women’s Open at Royal Porthcawl, we both listened, enthralled, to Test Match Special and the last knockings of the fifth and final test between England and India at The Oval.  It was brilliant radio, tense, compelling, vivid and I had to work hard not to sit on the edge of my seat because I was driving.

The ground was pretty well packed, even though everybody knew that there’d be about an hour’s play at most, weather permitting.  After all, England only needed 35 runs to win and India only needed three wickets (I think; what with all the excitement and emotion the fine details now escape me!), including that of Chris Woakes, down to one arm because of a dislocated shoulder.

You wouldn’t dare make it up.

The atmosphere crackled and sizzled across the airwaves and Mo and I were so hooked that we listened to the last few balls sitting in a service station car park.  Radio rules OK.

Our maternal grandfather was a keen cricketer and he gave me his bat – a big, heavy thing that I couldn’t wield as an adult let alone as a single-figure child.  He had three daughters and four granddaughters and decided that I, the tomboy, was the nearest he was going to get to a grandson.  Sadly, the only cricket we played was in the garden or on the beach, with Mum keeping wicket in her rubber gloves and me being bamboozled by Dad’s cunning spin.

I’ve passed the bat on to Pampa’s great grandson, the first boy in the family for a generation or two; hope you’ve still got it, Chris!

Cricket correspondents undoubtedly work hard but the TMS team have all the action there in front of them and don’t have to put in a lot of legwork – except to try and keep in some sort of shape; I believe they still get cakes and other goodies from grateful listeners and some cricket lunches are legendary, so waistlines must be under constant threat.  I suppose that’s the case for many of us as we get older but tramping around golf courses does wonders for the step count.

Goodness knows how many miles the BBC’s golf correspondent Iain Carter has walked over the last few weeks.  The Beeb doesn’t do golf on the telly any more – apart from the odd highlight – but its radio coverage of the big events is still second-to-none and in this country that means Carter and his colleagues are on the course more often than not.  There’s nothing flat and boring about Portrush and Porthcawl, so following matches every step of the way is more like hiking than strolling.  They won’t need any rocking at night.

In fact, the inestimable Iain, a big cricket fan, was so cream-crackered after Porthcawl that he didn’t have the energy to go to The Oval on that memorable Monday; that’s exhaustion for you.

Terrain apart, following the leaders – or birdie-blitzing Brits who are threatening to lead, perhaps even win a major – is not an easy job, even from inside the ropes:  you have to keep a clear head, remember who’s hit what shot where, take in the leaderboard, watch out for brambles and bunkers, avoid buggies and tv cameramen, all while sounding calm and informed, well, it’s a job for an expert.  And it’s mentally and physically taxing.

In amongst the championships on this side of the pond, Cameron Young was winning The Wyndham Championship in Greensboro, North Carolina, his first victory on the PGA Tour.  He was also billed as the 1,000th winner on said tour, dating back to 1860, apparently, when there was no golf at all in America.  It is a claim so ridiculous as to be beyond ludicrous.

Talk about making yourself a laughing stock.

Not Cameron Young.  He was anything but.  He won by six shots and admitted to a certain amount of confusion after hugging his caddie and shaking hands with his playing partner on the 18th green.  “What do I do now?” he said.

“Every time I’ve come off the last green my entire career, I have shaken the hands of whoever I’ve played with, thanked the standard bearer and our walking scorer and then walked through the tunnel to scoring.  Today there were about 150 people between me and that tunnel….I didn’t know if I did that first or if I spoke to somebody first.  That’s the first time I’ve done anything any different after holing out on 18.

“I would prefer that outcome more often.”

A lot of good judges think it’s something he’ll probably get used to.

Meanwhile, back here at a more lowly level of performance, I’m trying to teach myself to breathe properly after decades of getting it wrong.  It’s not straightforward but my friends and family will be glad to learn that part of the process involves taping my mouth shut…

Can you hear the cheering?

 

 

 

 

They say it’s a good idea to start at the beginning, so perhaps that’s the best thing to do. The problem is that I’ve pressed a button or two and am now writing this piece in an unfamiliar format and have no idea if it’ll turn out all right or not. In the general scheme of things and given the state of the world, it matters not a jot but it’s become a source of pride (prepare for the fall) to get the damned thing out on time, more or less, every week. Is it a chore? Not really, more a joy but there are times when it’s more complicated than it should be and this looks like being one of those occasions – especially since my technical adviser has gone to bed and I’m hunting and pecking on my iPad having forgotten to pack the keyboard.

It seems I’m starting at the end after all but perhaps I have half an excuse because on Monday I gave blood for the 69th time. Nothing much to boast about really but not a bad effort either. My (modest) ambition was to match my age and all being well I should squeeze in two more sessions before my 72nd birthday next summer but now I’m desperate to get to 75 donations. Then you get some sort of token – emerald I think – to mark the achievement.

I go in to Birmingham to donate and there were two treats in store: a new (to me) train route in because our line is closed for works of some sort – we passed through places I’d never heard of – and The CBSO (City of Birmingham Symphony Orchestra) playing in the middle of New Street Station at lunchtime. What a joy. Just the boost a blood-depleted bod needed.

Birmingham City Council, which is properly (or improperly) bankrupt, decided to cut the CBSO’s funding and I suggested to one of the staff that they should consider changing their name.  The very sensible reply was:  “We’re the City’s orchestra, not the City Council’s and we have a name that’s known worldwide.”   And so they do.  Renowned, in fact.   They also want their home city to embrace them and bring the joy of music to all and sundry.

Sometimes golf makes the heart sing and sometimes it makes the temper tantrum – perhaps simultaneously.  At a very benign Whittington Heath on Monday, in the PGA Midland Open Series, James Freeman from Rotherham GC had the round of  his life – a 59 that featured 12 birdies (seven of them in a row) and no bogeys.  It didn’t count as a course record because, for whatever reason, at the height of summer, there were preferred lies. Even more galling, it was a 36-hole event and James eventually finished second, three shots behind Irishman Niall Kearney, who surged to the top with a second round of 60.  

I didn’t have any birdies when I played the course on Wednesday and there was no sign of a 59 at a (mostly) bright and breezy Royal Porthcawl on the first day of the AIG Women’s Open, the final major championship of the season.  There was some excellent golf but Mo and I saw not a single sign advertising the event on our way to the course.  Yes, there were signs directing you to the car parks – green, blue, whatever – but they were only meaningful and useful to those of us who knew there was something going on.  Perhaps all the advertising is being done online – by AI bots.  Or is it botts?

We watched quite a bit of Lottie Woad, the woman of the moment but mostly we fell in to chat as we bumped in to friends from far and wide.  Most memorably, the inimitable Kirsty Taylor (née Speak, a Lancashire lass long based in Minchinhampton, introduced us to Corinne Durber, a single figure golfer and a former Gloucestershire county captain now renowned as the router of gambling giants Paddy Power.

Shamefully, this story of  the Golfing Gardener from Gloucestershire (think Gambling also fits in to the alliteration somewhere) had passed us by but it transpires that Corinne, playing some sort of online game, won the jackpot – a mere million quid or thereabouts – only to be fobbed off with a measly £20,000 by PP.  They claimed some sort of technical hitch – a problem with the software/hardware/wiring/satellite biorhythms/whatever – but reckoned without Corinne’s tenacity.  She took them to court and earlier this year, after five years and a lot of angst, the judge found in her favour.  Hurrah.  

(For full, technically and judicially correct details, please do further research elsewhere.  This is the bare bones, gleaned on the golf course while trying not to disturb Woad and co with gasps and half-stifled shrieks.)

More sedately, it was wonderful to see Bridget Jackson, that great and enduring woman of golf, who played in the Curtis Cup at Porthcawl back in 1964.  The Americans won, though not by much and Bridget was not disgraced.

NB  Please note that I have waited until the very end to mention this score, from Hong Kong:  Arsenal 0 Tottenham Hotspur 1.