I was in Stoke yesterday for the memorial service of Geoffrey Conway (Geoff) Marks, who was quite a golfer and an even better man.  He was a stalwart of Trentham Golf Club – it’ll take quite a while for the members to get used to the fact that Geoff is not at his usual table for lunch, setting the world to rights – and Staffordshire, wearing his skills so lightly that many people had no idea how good he was.

He played for England, and beyond, was a member of the Great Britain and Ireland team that won the Walker Cup at St Andrews in 1971 after years of despair and was captain of GB and I when they won the Walker Cup for the first time in America, in 1989, at Peachtree, Georgia.  The visitors nearly snatched defeat from the jaws of victory but Geoff’s calmness in the face of disintegration and humiliation (always hovering menacingly where golf is involved) helped calm enough of his players to dredge up the 1 1/2 points required from the eight singles matches.

Geoff was a cricketer who batted left-handed but bowled right, was a left back (mostly) at hockey who barely seemed to move because he read the game so well that he was Bobby Moore-ish in his positioning, almost always in the right place and a devoted golfer who travelled miles and competed fiercely, all in the name of  playing for fun.  He earned his living as an architect, met his wife Joanne on a green at Harlech clad in an eye-catching, life-changing pale blue cashmere sweater – thanks to the resounding Reverend Geoffrey Eze for that revelation – and introduced her to a life in which golf loomed large, first as a player then as an administrator.

I was too young, honest, to see Geoff in his prime but I learned about him, David Marsh, Trevor Homer, Rodney James, Martin Poxon, Peter McEvoy (our best man) and numerous others from Dai, my husband, whose parishioners they were when he worked for The Birmingham Post.  I felt I knew them, even thought I didn’t, really, but I did get to know them a bit over the years, read about their exploits and absorbed their love of the game, the joy they had in playing and competing, sharing the triumphs and defeats and enjoying each other’s company.

Yesterday, there were memorials to Geoff from his brother Christopher, eight years younger but a double-take lookalike; Frank Botham, a hockey mate whose golfing ineptitude tested even Geoff’s famed equanimity; David Marsh, whose 2-iron (I think) to the heart of the infamous 17th, the Road Hole, at St Andrews, sealed that Walker Cup triumph in 1971; and Keith Hodgkinson, a Staffordshire man through and through whose golf, and life, were transformed and enriched by GC Marks.  It was a lovely, sad, emotional occasion.

Back at a packed Trentham for the wake, Mr Homer assumed I was a dispenser of tea (the smart grey and black outfit is now on its way out!) but I still deemed him worthy of the latest treasure I’d unearthed during my never-ending de-cluttering.  I didn’t think to photograph it for blog purposes, so it isn’t here but it was a fully-filled-in (by Dai) draw sheet, running to several pages, of the Amateur Championship at Muirfield in 1974.  In the 5th round, Marks was beaten by Poxon, who lost in the semi-final to Jim Gabrielsen of the United States, who was beaten by Homer in the final.

It’s always great to find the right home for things and Trevor was chuffed, not least because he’s going to be playing at Muirfield soon, for the first time since that win in 1974, a Christmas present from one of his sons.  Muirfield, reputation notwithstanding, is a warm-hearted place (admittedly, they do seem to pride themselves on keeping that quiet!) and I’m sure they’ll welcome the Homers whole-heartedly, whatever the current quality, or lack thereof, of their golf.

Also back to pay tribute to a friend, mentor and inspiration were Lisa Hall (nee Hackney, nicknamed Hackers cos she wasn’t one at all) and her husband Martin, who’d flown in, shivering, from Florida.  Lisa, who grew up at Trentham and became a Solheim Cup player, couldn’t remember not knowing Geoff and Martin, now one of the best-respected teachers in the world of golf, spent hours playing with Geoff and talking golf, golf, golf and, probably, life.

Geoffrey Conway Marks is a sad loss but, like all the best people, he’s still here, living on in his family and friends, making us all laugh, cry, try harder.

 

Tiger Woods, I’m told, are two words that will get your blog rushing to the top of the hit parade but it’s more than likely that you’ll get crushed in the stampede, swamped and washed away, or whatever.  Still, the man who was the indisputable world No 1 for so many years and looked as though he was certain to sweep past Jack Nicklaus’s total of 18 major championships with contemptuous ease is back in competition after an absence of 16 months and deserves at least a mention in any blog connected with golf.  So, there you have it.

The women, those female persons who have the temerity to think that golf is a game for them – no heavy lifting for a start – have, very sensibly, had a bit of a winter break and are now back in action in a serious, world-class way at the Pure Silk-Bahamas LPGA Classic at the Ocean Golf Course on Paradise Island in the Bahamas.  How idyllic does that sound to those of us looking out at grey, freezing foggy conditions?  And we’re then bombarded with pictures of sun, sea that runs through a whole pallet of blues and greens and, of course, sand.  Oh, and players in shorts and no sleeves hitting wonderful shots to pristine greens.  Though Brittany Lincicome, the early leader, who had a 9-under par 64, wore long sleeves in what looked like breezy conditions and would have got a nod of approval from my dog-walking dermatologist.

Ariya Jutanugarn, the world No 2 from Thailand, is the highest ranked player in the absence of world No 1 Lydia Ko and she, Lexi Thompson and Brooke Henderson are worth crossing oceans to watch.  Stephanie Meadow, the Northern Irishwoman who played for the University of Alabama, finished third in the US Women’s Open at Pinehurst on her professional debut and represented Ireland at the Olympics in Rio, is not in that league yet but she’s been enjoying her time in the Bahamas.  She tweeted that she’d been accosted, in the nicest possible way, by a couple of Canadians, snow birds following the sun, who mistook her for Henderson.  The Ulster and Canadian accents are not dissimilar, just listen carefully to the vowel sounds!

It’s a Solheim Cup year – hooray – so even the eligible players who say that they’re not thinking ahead to Des Moines in Iowa in August (18-20) know that they are.  It’s where any player with a competitive bone in her body (i.e. all of them), wants to be and Annika Sorenstam, Europe’s captain and Juli Inkster, captain of the United States, are on the case.  Inkster, who was in charge when the USA won in Germany two years ago, is playing in the Bahamas and Annika, whose captain’s blog (beam me up) is already on its sixth edition, has been getting her Florida-based Euros together at Lake Nona.  They’ve been laughing, chatting, admiring rings (Suzann Pettersen got married earlier this month and Pernilla Lindberg is engaged – congratulations to them both, wishing them every happiness), eating paella cooked by vice-captain Marta Figueras-Dotti and playing games, golf games, that are fun but have a serious competitive edge.

Annika is a numbers nerd and a meticulous monitor of the minutiae and if she can cope with the less obsessive, more freewheeling members of her team and keep them happy too, Europe should give the Americans a real fright in their heartland.  Whether the visitors can win away in the USA for only the second time depends on things that go beyond the most detailed preparations.  Germany two years ago is a classic example of things spiralling off in an unanticipated direction and requiring cool, clear-headed thinking in a swirling, bubbling, competitive cauldron.  What’s the old saw?  Heart in the oven, head in the fridge?  Even so, as a captain, I’d take everything that’s thrown my way in exchange for 12 players playing well and putting like Bobby Locke (younger readers, if there are any, should look him up but rest assured the man could hole putts when it mattered).   Bring it on!

By the way, Tiger hit a tree with his opening drive at Torrey Pines but we’re eight hours behind California (though who knows, that may change now that Donald is president and whizzing through his “to do” list) so I didn’t stay up to see how he finished and it could have been anything.  It’s sport after all and the only predictable thing is its unpredictability.  Hull City 2 Man Utd 1 anyone?  Or Liverpool 0 Southampton 1.  Or Liverpool 2 Swansea 3.

P.S.  If Rory wants to persuade Tiger to pitch up at the DDF Irish Open at Portstewart in July (6-9), he can assure the great man that there are no trees on one of the world’s best links courses and when you stand on the first tee, arguably the most scenic anywhere, there isn’t a tree to be seen.  Mind you, there is a beach, made famous by the Game of Thrones and it is, I believe, out of bounds.

It’s not easy writing about two legends – and the word is not used lightly – at once.  In fact, it’s quite intimidating, not least because reading about their exploits and achievements makes you – well, me – feel totally inadequate and think, “what on earth have I been doing (or not doing) all these years?  Blimey O’Reilly, how did they do it?”

John Jacobs and Rachael (that ‘a’ in the middle is a blooming nuisance) Heyhoe Flint are the legends in question and they’ve died within a week of each other, at the age of 91 and 77 respectively.  John, a towering figure in the world of golf (no exaggeration), did not make the front pages but Rachael, a whirlwind of a Wulfrunian from Wolverhampton, was on the front page of The Times and The Daily Telegraph, for whom she wrote for many years.

This is an appreciation, not an obituary and I would urge you to learn all you can about both these remarkable, inspirational people.  Rachael’s autobiography Heyhoe! was published in 1978, featured a foreword by Eric Morecambe, of Morecambe and Wise and millions of viewers, and is candid and entertaining in equal measure.  There’s a lovely, loving tribute on the Wolves website, not a natural port of call for a Spurs supporter, where they talk fondly of being Rachaelised, essentially corralled and railroaded, in the nicest possible way, into doing something for the club or the community.  Her memorial service will be at Molineux, where, thanks to Rachael, Maureen and I took Dad, a Sunderland supporter, on two occasions.  The first time Sunderland were 3-0 down in about 15 minutes; the second time, they equalised very late on, with Dad frozen in mid-cheer, waiting, with a fatalism born of years of disappointment, for the ref to disallow the goal; he didn’t!

It was as a pioneer of women’s cricket that Rachael really made her name, with the help and support of fellow Wolves and cricket fanatic Jack Hayward but she also played hockey for England, taught, coached, wrote, broadcast, spoke, promoted, persuaded, hustled, laughed, loved, bossed, charmed, exasperated and changed the unchangeable.  She always denied that she was a feminist but just by being herself, a formidable, competitive, forceful, funny woman who always asked, didn’t take no for an answer and had the unswerving support of her husband, family and friends, she advanced the cause of women.  “Girls don’t play cricket,” she was told early on.  They do now and Rachael helped persuade the MCC to admit women as full members (long before the R&A saw sense) and she eventually moved from the Long Room at Lord’s to the House of Lords, as Baroness Heyhoe Flint of Wolverhampton.

All that explains why a friend of mine recalled that by far the proudest moment of her sporting career was  scoring a goal against Rachael, a one-time England goalie, who played against Scotland at Wembley in front of 60-odd thousand screaming schoolgirls.  There were about 60,000 fewer people at Tettenhall watching Tamworth Cricket and Hockey Club beat the home side in an (alleged) friendly one Sunday and it was Chris Allsop ( she won’t mind the name check), now a golfer at Whittington Heath, who scored the winner.

Most of the obits don’t mention golf but a lot of the tributes on Facebook are from golfers because Rachael not only played for South Staffs but also promoted a women’s European Tour event at Patshull Park for several years.

Jacobs, another strong, forceful character, who excelled at shooting and fishing as well as golf and was a cricket buff to boot, was a Yorkshireman who grew up at Lindrick, where his father Bob  was the professional and his mother Vivien the stewardess.  Bob, who was born in Brancaster and was assistant at Royal West Norfolk, was in the trenches in World War I and committed suicide when John was nine.  John’s cousin Jack succeeded his uncle and was Lindrick’s professional for more than 50 years.

The golfing pedigree was impeccable and John became a handy golfer, with golf taking precedence over homework.  One early school report was littered with comments like “lacks effort and interest; most disappointing; wastes time; needs to work much harder.  Conduct:  unsatisfactory.”  His mother signed off the report with the warning:  “Never bring home another report with ‘conduct unsatisfactory’ in it.”  He never did.

John was good enough to play in a Ryder Cup and was captain twice but it was as a teacher that he was to excel, becoming known as “Doctor Golf”.   For many years, there was hardly a decent golfer, amateur or professional, who had not been counselled and helped by Jacobs.  He set the standard for teaching all over Europe and in America, developed a successful golf school business and was also instrumental in the founding of the PGA European Tour.  That was a process not without its intrigue, in-fighting and acrimony and is documented in graphic detail in Laddie Lucas’ illuminating book John Jacobs’ Impact On Golf, The Man and his Methods.

The preface to the book was written by Peter Dobereiner, a golf writer par excellence, once of The Guardian, The Observer, Golf World, Golf Digest.  He wrote of John:  “He does not teach a system; he teaches people.  He assesses a pupil’s potential, decides which areas to leave well alone and concentrates on parts of the swing which will yield major improvements…..His method is pragmatic and individual……..

“Even if he had not been the greatest teacher of his era or the father of European tournament golf I would still have admired and liked him for one reason.  He is an enthusiast, a real golf person.  For my money, enthusiasm washes away all sins…..”

Jacobs and Heyhoe Flint, enthusiasts both and quite remarkable.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

I’ve always loved North Berwick and its old-fashioned, proper golf course with its walls, views of the Bass Rock, a par 3 called the Redan and the bewildering 16th green with what the club’s website calls a “gully” in the middle; it’s a veritable rollercoaster really.  Of course, I’m completely biased because I played some of my best golf there in the junior home internationals and shared some memorable moments with people who are friends to this day.  I think I nearly fell in love that week but was too gauche to realise it let alone make any sort of decisive move.  In my defence it was a long time ago (1971) and I thought that blue mascara was the height of daring raciness – I had a very sheltered upbringing and was unbelievably slow on the uptake!

Whenever the Open was at Muirfield (remember those days?), we’d play at North Berwick early in the morning, then head off to cover the championship.  Madness!  I remember playing the last at just after eight o’clock in the morning and hearing an American playing the 1st say, in awed amazement, “Gee, do you think they’ve played 18 already?”  We had indeed and I played the first few holes like a proper golfer because I was still half asleep and most of my faults were lying dormant.  Magnificent!  Those were the days.  Where has all that stamina and staying power gone?

Still, stamina, stubbornness, endless enthusiasm and sheer bloodymindedness are pretty well essential attributes for all golfers, particularly women, as you’ll discover if you read Ailsa Fortune’s fascinating book Par For The Ladies:  The Extraordinary Story Of The Women Who Golfed At North Berwick.  I thought I’d have a quick skim through it and pass it on but this is a proper book, a real social history written by a woman who specialises in such things and I’ll be sitting down and reading it properly once the pre-Christmas mayhem subsides and the wrapping paper is cleared away for another year.

The photographs are brilliant and so are the names.  For many years North Berwick was the haunt of the rich, the  famous and the regal and was known as the Biarritz of the North.  You’ll learn about Mary Constance Nisbet Hamilton; the Gillies Smith sisters; the Hamilton-Dalrymples; Blanche Anderson; the Hon Miriam Pease; Dorothy Campbell; Catriona Matthew (nee Lambert); Elsie Grant-Suttie and many more.  The battle of the sexes features too, of course, although, as ever, men can be feminists too.  Not all male golfers have to ask advice on how to cope with “the ladies”…..Instead they recognise fellow members of the human race (??!) and fellow enthusiasts for a mesmerising, infuriating game….

North Berwick Ladies’ Golf Club (NBLGC) has been in existence since 1888 but it wasn’t until 2013 that Ailsa began her research, prompted by Anne McCarthy, lady captain from 2012-2014, who thought that a proper written record was long overdue.  She was right and congratulations to everyone who worked so hard to make sure that this terrific book saw the light of day.  It’s published by Stanton Press and is available from them (info@stantonpress.com) or major bookstores like Waterstones.

We wish Season’s Greetings to everyone, bearing in mind that it’s a sad time for people who’ve lost loved ones this year.  Just as I was writing this I heard that Geoff Marks had died, another good man gone.  He was a stalwart of Stone, Trentham, Staffordshire, England and GB and I and respected worldwide as a golfer and a person.  Condolences to his family and friends.