Thinking about the blog this week has been making me feel a bit blah and irritable, cross in an indeterminate sort of way.  I’ve been sad and down since hearing about Dave Musgrove’s death the other day – given the current rate of attrition, this could easily turn into an obitblog – but deep down I know what’s been annoying me.  (I was tempted to use another expression but just in time remembered my resolution to reduce my swearing!)

It’s all this stuff about golf being too dull and boring and needing to jazz up its image, to get its act together and appeal to a younger demographic, to try different formats and liven things up.  I heard European Tour boss Keith Pelley on the radio the other day – couldn’t see if he’s still rocking those blue-framed specs – hyping up this week’s bold new event in Perth (the sunny one in Western Australia) and then I heard myself, shouting at the radio.  Oops.

“Don’t blame the game.  It’s your fault; it’s professional golf that’s to blame, with its interminable diet of 72-hole stroke play events, week in, week out, all over the world, now televised day in, day out (yawn, yawn) in its tedious entirety.  It encourages players to be risk averse and, above all, slow, slow, slow.  It’s not golf that needs livening up, it’s your players.”

We amateurs, certainly in Ireland and Britain, have always tended to play matches with our friends and even mix our competitions up with different formats:  greensomes, foursomes, Stableford (oh happy invention), the odd Texas scramble (fun but always long for some reason).  For the pros, however, it’s the spirit-sapping tyranny of the card and pencil.

And how slow they’ve become at it.  Now that they’ve nothing else to do, no shop to run, no members to teach or placate or beat up (on the course), nothing to do but play golf, they don’t care how long they take about it.  They may pay lip service to speeding up but they won’t bother their eye, continuing to waste the time of rules officials like the legendary John Paramor, a man of infinite patience, who was recently awarded the Christer Lindberg Bowl for Services to European Golf by the PGAs of Europe.  Perhaps the Tour should unleash an impatient Paramor, an angry bull elephant permitted to trample any slowcoaches into the turf no questions asked.  Paramor on the rampage, that would be a sight worth seeing.

Sadly, the only thing likely to help is penalty strokes, lots of them, applied ruthlessly and relentlessly but no tour player is going to vote for that and they will continue to dawdle and footer about to their wallet’s content and the game’s detriment.

Because, worst of all, the rest of us will follow their example, taking hours longer to play than we should, forgetting that golf, invented in Scotland, where it is often bitterly cold even in the summer, is a game played on the move for fear of hypothermia.  Too many people seem to have forgotten, or never learned, to think and calculate as they approach their ball, so that their decision about the next shot is nearly complete by the time they reach the ball.  If you mostly play on your home course, why do you need long deliberations over what club to hit from a position you’ve been in thousands of times?  You don’t.   As my aunt used to say, “Just get on with it, dear!”

Anyway, on reflection, I think that Keith Pelley and I are probably on the same side because he’s trying to remind everyone, not least his players, that golf, big business though it’s become, is FUN and a game for everyone, from toddlers to totterers.  If you’ve got time to spare, seek out a copy (undoubtedly remaindered) of Teach Yourself Golf by David and Patricia Davies, who try to share the sheer enjoyment this frustrating game has given them over the years.  For a start, we’d never have met without it!

This train of thought raises other issues, including providing people who are new to the game with places to play.  We don’t need more ‘championship’ courses, we need more munis that are accessible and well run.  That takes money that councils don’t seem to have any more, failing to appreciate that if golf is available to all, it has health and social benefits that could be invaluable.  Perhaps the R&A could use some of its Open money to fund local, low-key, accessible nine-holers; could help councils keep open their munis; and could help ensure that people taking up golf and developing a taste for it, have places to play and progress.

The professional tours, the sponsors and the governing bodies need some serious joined-up thinking if the game is to thrive as it should.  If it’s beyond the wit of man, perhaps we women should step up to the tee.

 

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.

 

Jill Edwards, a former chairman and president of both the Ladies’ Golf Union and the Welsh Ladies’ Golf Union, has lent madillgolf.com a veritable treasure trove of golfing lore, namely a chest full of that renowned and much-loved women’s golf magazine of yesteryear, Douglas Caird’s Fairway and Hazard.

An indulgent hour of leafing through these old favourites was just what I needed after a week that saw Brian (husband) have surgery to reattach his triceps and elbow to the bits they’re supposed to be attached to.  They had parted company after a nasty fall on an icy pavement in London and I chose that very same time to succumb to a dreaded lurgy that has kept me indoors, mostly in bed, for four out of the last five days.  So, what better than a little indulgence of the reminiscing kind?  It wasn’t long before I was stepping back in time.

What are the following ingredients the recipe for:  the month of March, snowy weather, creaky, unoiled golf swings and the Red and Blue courses of The Berkshire Golf Club?  Mix them all together with a liberal dose of competition and laughter and it can only be the Avia Foursomes, the season’s opener, our very own Augusta, signalling the arrival of another year of competitive golf.  Welcome to 72 holes of the unpredictability that only foursomes golf can bring and such was the Avia’s popularity it ended up being over-subscribed every year, with all the best British and Irish players attending, as well as some of the best Continentals.

I played first in 1980 although I didn’t intend to.  I was at home in Portstewart and had gone out for a run along the strand in a vague attempt to up my fitness levels.  Upon my return, Dad (home from the office for his lunch) said, “Douglas Caird rang for you.  He wanted to know if you’d play with Linda Bayman in the Avia.”  Douglas was the editor and publisher of Fairway and Hazard and, along with Joan Rothschild, organiser-in-chief of the tournament.  Linda was an eminent English internationalist who had won this prestigious title on five previous occasions.  Truth to tell, I was in awe and so somewhat horrified at Dad’s easy arrangement with Douglas that “of course Maureen’ll play.”

Linda and I met for the first time in the car park of The Berkshire at the start of the week.  We never looked back, winning on our debut and following it up with high place finishes on a few occasions.  I think we may even have won it another time.  Those details I tend to forget now, but not others.

There was the thrill of playing two great courses and the marvellous opportunity to spend some serious dosh in Keith Macdonald’s pro’s shop, which he and his wife Ivy stocked to the gunnels for the week.  One of the highlights was the totally green window display on one of the competition days each year, a nod to St Patrick’s Day and the large, noisy, visiting Irish contingent.  The clubhouse food was superb and constant.  Coping with more than 300 women golfers for a week, The Berkshire never missed a beat, providing endless supplies of towels and drying facilities for bodies and equipment.  The week finished on a high with a hilarious prize-giving and speechifying from all section winners.

The Avia was an integral part of the season for all those keen to advance their careers and realise their ambitions but above all it was FUN.  A 72-hole strokeplay foursomes tournament was a tremendous test and more’s the pity it has exited the calendar.  Am I the only one sick of all the super-serious golf our young squad players are expected to play?  If golf is made to seem like work it soon will be.  The greatest work is achieved when it’s so enjoyable you don’t even realise it’s happening and the time flies past.  Viva the Avia!