I had people round to mine for bridge on Wednesday evening (which meant I missed tai chi but sometimes something has to give).  It was lovely, a really happy occasion, with lots of chat and laughter, some intense but not entirely classic play, some serious discussion and a warm realisation that there’s nothing like friends for making life worthwhile.

We at the AGW (Association of Golf Writers) have been losing friends hand over fist recently – I suppose we’re that sort of age – but the good thing is that the sadness is tempered with memories of lots of laughs and lives well lived, giants of a golden age of golf.  There have been some wonderful tributes to Renton Laidlaw, whose picture (technical glitches permitting) appears at the top of this piece.  Renton, who has just died at the age of 82, started out at the Edinburgh Evening News (his first Open, pre his official appointment, was Muirfield in 1959, sending in the scores); became well known on local telly; moved to the Evening Standard in London; then really made his name in television and radio – he was BBC radio’s golf man for many years and thanks to the World Service his warm, Scottish voice was recognised all over the globe; then the Golf Channel made him a star in America.

I always remember a stint he did on ITV – their foray into golf, an expensive sport to cover, was brief – and there was some sort of major delay, weather or whatever and Renton filled majestically – on live TV.  It was a real tour de force, typical of the man whose speeches were always fascinating and enlightening but never renowned for their brevity.  In his considerable, enduring heyday – he became the first European journalist to cover 40 Masters – he was non-stop, criss-crossing the globe as though he were a shark that would stop breathing if it stopped moving.  He was here, there and everywhere, knowledgeable, informative, respected and loved by the great, the good and the rest of us.  His work for the AGW was immense:  secretary from 1978-1995, chairman from 1995-1998 and president from 2004-2015 (thanks to Alistair Tait’s lovely tribute – one of many from all over the world – for the dates).  We were so lucky to have him.

Renton never married – he had some near misses I was told but charmingly dodged and weaved his way into the wide, blue yonder, leaving a bruised heart or two in his wake.  He hadn’t been that well for the last few years and had given up the travelling but he kept going cheerfully, keeping tabs on things from his home in Drumoig, near St Andrews, where he lived with his sister Jennifer, a wonderful support and foil.  Condolences to her and love and hugs.

On Sunday, my friend Sue, owner of the sainted Alice and I took the train up to Manchester – all up to time, no dramas, no replacement buses, wonder of wonders – to see the Grayson’s Art Club exhibition at Manchester Art Gallery.  It didn’t disappoint.  It was just as wonderful as the telly series, hosted by Grayson Perry and his wife Philippa, that kept us going during lockdown.

Neither Sue, who is an artist (amateur) and can paint, nor I (no artist, a drawer so inept that Dai and I fell off a log laughing at my efforts to draw said log as we waited for a boat on the Marquesas) submitted anything to the programme but nearly 10,000 people did.  Many of the results were stunning – and moving, as people tried to cope with lockdown and the pain of the pandemic.  The exhibition is free, though you have to book a time and it is on until the end of the month.  If you can get there, do.  It’s worth the detour.  And, like us, you might discover Adolphe Valette.  Awesome.

On the golf front, Jon Rahm didn’t manage to bag his third consecutive Spanish Open title but fellow Spaniard Rafa Cabrera Bello won his national championship for the first time, beating compatriot Adri Arnaus at the first hole of a play-off.  It was Cabrera Bello’s first European Tour win for four years and completed his set of Spanish national championships, amateur and professional.  “I’ve always dreamed about holding this trophy,” he said.  “It was definitely on my bucket list…..I came here in probably the worst shape I have been in in the last decade, close to say and to walk out of here with a win, it’s very special.”

At WHGC, the ladies/women/whatever we are these days battled it out in the captain’s versus vice’s match and it ended in a draw/tie/half, trophy shared.  My partner and I, playing for the captain, lost on the 17th after a ding-dong game, though am sorry to report that my new woods are struggling to cope with the vagaries of my swing…Ho hum, not really a surprise, I suppose.

On the journey home from Manchester we encountered loads of weary but happy-looking bods wearing medals.  They’d just completed the Manchester marathon and it reminded me that I hadn’t paid proper tribute to Andy, a near-nephew (technically I think that by marriage – his – he’s something like a first cousin once removed; whatever, he’s lumbered as a relly!) who completed the London Marathon while I was watching Spurs beat Villa 2-1.  Can’t mention either of those results too often.

Well done Andy.

 

 

 

 

Last week my better half and I escaped to the Emerald Isle for a wee break (we’re still here) – the first time since pre-pandemic days.  We had an outstanding ferry ticket to be used from the shenanigans last year, so booked ourselves a passage from Holyhead into Dublin on the Dublin Swift.  I always opt for the Swift as it takes the shortest time, about two and a quarter hours and my friends and family know what a lousy sailor I am.  Last time I was here and was faced with a few too many ripples on the water between me and home I aborted and headed to the airport, leaving the husband to ferry home alone.

Things didn’t get off to a rip-roaring start when, 24 hours prior to sailing, a text message pinged in saying due to adverse weather conditions we had been moved to the big ole tub of a ferry, complete with stabilisers and so on, which sailed three hours later than our original scheduled time.  Apprehensive didn’t quite describe how I was feeling about the whole trip but, armed with ginger tea, seasick pills, a roll of kitchen paper and copious discreet sick bags, I weathered the rolling about not too badly at all.  It was strange, though, coming off the boat and immediately having to join a queue for Customs – a throwback to days of yore, and not a welcome one at that.

It is essential to pack holiday reading and I brought with me a tome that has been in my possession for at least two years but one which I hadn’t got round to reading before, Donald Steel’s “Thin End of the Wedge”.  I’m halfway through and engrossed and at that delicious point where you hope it’ll be raining later on so you can return to base with a clear conscience, sink into a comfy armchair and get reading again.

Donald is one of those who, to the outsider, looks effortlessly skilled at all sorts of things, mostly to do with golf, although cricket does come a very close second.  Intriguingly he has on the cover of his book, “Memoirs of a golf correspondent, player and course architect”.  I’ve been pondering the order he listed those three parts of his life.  Although undeniably all are inextricably linked, if the order were chronological would it not have been player, golf correspondent and architect?  So why put golf correspondent first?  Perhaps he himself gives more weight to that part of his life?  Hmm, hard to think that of such a prolific and talented architect.  He didn’t plump for anything as mundane as alphabetical order and although Donald may just have dashed these nine words off with scant thought I secretly hope there was some rhyme or reason behind it.

I’m enjoying his book on so many levels.  There’s no one in golf he doesn’t know; he is a bridge for me back to golfing folk I never met but was a fan of in my early days; I’ve played, and enjoyed, many of the courses he has designed; he’s a brilliant raconteur and, for me almost most important of all, he writes beautifully.

This brings me to a topic oft discussed and argued about in our household – the evolution of language, both spoken and written.  As regards the latter, I find myself increasingly intolerant of poor grammar and spelling when reading anything by people who get paid for writing.  The number of “correspondents” who can’t write grammatically appals me.  It certainly distracts me from the point they are making and detracts from my enjoyment of their pieces.  Of course, the opposing point of view is that language evolves and what does it matter if the apostrophe is in the wrong place?  You understand what is being communicated, don’t you?

I’ve been so, so lucky to have read so many wonderful writers on golf over the years.  My late brother-in-law, David Davies of The Guardian, wrote beautifully crafted pieces, littered with little gems of information that you would never be able to find by googling something.  The writers of that era, and Donald Steel certainly fits into this category, knew the players they were writing about, forged friendships with many of them and there was a shared respect and trust.

The landscape is different for more modern writers, of course.  Tour players, like a rare species, are protected from having to mix with the hoi-polloi and access to them is strictly controlled and monitored by Tour media bods who are constantly poised to whisk away their precious charges.  Therefore, opportunities for relationships of mutual respect and understanding are more limited – and, heavens above, friendships, as in Donald’s day, are rare beasts.  In lieu of really knowing a fellow human being, Mr Google (with all his faults) assumes greater importance and shallow, ill-informed writing is the result.  Because of budgetary constraints many journalists aren’t sent to tournaments and spend their Sundays watching the action unfold on television.  How impossible the task to write well when at the mercy of whatever pictures a TV producer chooses to show you.  With no chance to talk to players or get the feel of the action on the ground good golfing journalism is dying a death.

I know already that this book of Donald’s will be one I read and read again.  As I type this, I’m looking out the window at what the Irish call a “soft day”.  In other words it’s raining again and on this holiday that means only one thing – pass me Thin End of the Wedge, please.

 

Whenever people ask me what I’ve been up to over the last few days, I tend to panic and my mind goes blank.  What on earth have I been doing?  Nothing much really, the days just go and suddenly another week has passed and we’re hurtling through another month.  It’s amazing how a mad whirl of golf, bridge, singing, tai chi, WhatsApping (when global glitches allow), visits to Tottenham Hotspur Stadium and Bath, via assorted diversions, eats up the time.

Last week was quite hectic, with singing (or an approximation thereof from me) and tai chi on Wednesday; golf at Delamere on Thursday, a shotgun start in aid of Stick ‘n’ Step charity.  A lovely day on a lovely course, breezy and mostly bright, until the final downpour that had us dripping our way to the car.  The four of us had a nearest the pin and birdie 2 between us, enough for three balls each and assorted goodies but not enough points to challenge the top teams – the winners had well over 100 points.

On Saturday, with a full tank of petrol thanks to Morrisons and a tip-off from a friend (crisis, what crisis?), I set off for Maidenhead in the pouring rain, holed up in a faded but friendly Travelodge and on Sunday morning caught the Spurs supporters’ coach to Tottenham.  This season ticket business is a bit of a logistical challenge but we managed to beat Villa 2-1, so at least I’ve got the bragging rights for a wee while.  The programme commemorated the incomparable Jimmy Greaves, who died last month and it would have been quite something to see him in his prime.

Steve Perryman, who was at the start of his career when he played with Greavsie, was in awe of his talent and said:  “He was a professional goalscorer.  That was it, from start to finish – he knew how to score a goal.  He didn’t really want to run about but he ‘thought’ the game and he floated over the grass. Can you imagine how bad those pitches were?  He floated over them, he glided over them and when defenders like me were running through the ground, he was floating on top of it.  What a player.”

Running was not his thing, though.  “He definitely did not enjoy training,” Perryman said.  “Anything to do with running, he wasn’t involved….His game was built on that first two or three metres.  He was very single-minded – his job was to be on there and score a goal.  He lived for scoring goals….”

Whether or not his work rate would pass muster with today’s coaches, it’s hard to argue against the Greaves strike rate:  266 goals in 379 appearances for Spurs between 1961 and 1970 and 44 goals in 57 games for England.  He also scored 41 goals for Chelsea in the 1960/61 season, still a club record.  Phenomenal.

Ignoring all the Nike stuff in the Spurs shop (their sponsorship is saving me shedloads of money), I took a detour to look at an art exhibition called Balls.  Every work is based on the shape of a football and there’s a plea in capital letters:  PLEASE DO NOT KICK THE ART.

Where to next?  Ah yes, Bath for a lovely couple of days – although  I think I might let the train take the strain next time I go there:  it is not a car-friendly place.  Luckily enough, the weather was bright and breezy, with no rain, so I swirled round the city in an open-top bus, soaking up the architecture and the atmosphere.  Fantastic.

At this point, Mo might be saying that there’s not enough golf in this piece, so she’ll be glad to know that we passed very close to what is known as “the most dangerous place in Bath” with a warning to beware of “low-flying golf balls”.  It’s a wee golf course for beginners and just down the hill from the timeless elegance of the Royal Crescent is a playground for the pre-beginners.

On the real golf front, Jon Rahm, the world No 1, is back in Europe, in Madrid, attempting to win his national championship, the ACCIONA Open de Espana presented by Madrid for the third time in a row.  Only Seve has won the title three times but even he did not manage three in a row and Rahm is well aware that he has the chance to achieve something special.

“It would be very unique,” he said.  “It doesn’t matter what event it is, not many people have been able to win one three times in a row so I’m hoping I can get it done – it would truly be my honour.”

Finally, there’s a big boost for the women’s game with a new sponsor for the first major of the 2022 season.  The Chevron Championship will replace the ANA Inspiration for at least the next six years.  The prize money has been increased by a whopping 60 per cent, to $5 million and after 2022 the tournament will move from Rancho Mirage to a new home, yet to be decided but probably in the Houston area and a new, slightly later date.

It’ll be a bittersweet occasion, leaving Mission Hills Country Club behind but there’s no doubt that the tournament that once led the way when it came to prize money had been lagging behind its peers for far too long.  Chevron’s involvement is a giant leap for women’s golf – perhaps even for womankind in general.  Time will tell.

 

 

 

 

Ole, ole, ole……….oh dear, oh dear, oh dear!  Europe were well and truly thumped at the Ryder Cup in Whistling Straits last weekend.  Outplayed, out-performed, outclassed and out of sorts.  Their resistance to the steamrolling juggernaut that turned up alongside Steve Stricker, the American captain, was paltry and the harder the Europeans tried the more elusive became the laser-like approach shots and clutch putts they required.

There has been a triumphant fanfare from the American press that this is the dawning of a new era, that this is an American side that will dominate for decades to come.  Just a second – let’s not get too carried away here.  All sport is cyclical and ebbing and flowing is all part and parcel of the game.  And just because the Europeans were in the ebbing part of the cycle this year doesn’t mean they’ll still be ebbing come 2023 and Rome.  In fact, I bet you they aren’t.  There are a number of young players waiting in the wings and many more we’ve never heard of harbouring fierce ambitions to be in the team in two years’ time.

Apart from the result (for the Europeans, that is) there was plenty to enjoy about this Ryder Cup.  Whistling Straits is a wonderful, scenic test of golf although I would have preferred it if the players had not had a 9-iron or wedge in their hand for quite SO many second shots into the green.  I enjoyed seeing Jordan Spieth back near the top of his game and his match with Koepka on Saturday against Rahm and Garcia in the fourballs was a matchplay delight.  Sergio may have been the grizzled veteran in that European combo but he was like a wee boy in his eagerness to hit the next shot.  At times he wasn’t a million miles removed from that effervescent 19-year old who famously went skipping and jumping up the fairway after a stellar shot from the roots of a tree in the 1999 PGA Championship.

How could you not love Shane Lowry?  A great big bear of a man who made no secret of the fact that this was what he was born for.  The outpouring of emotion the second after holing the winning putt on the final green of his Saturday fourball with Tyrrell Hatton will live long in the memory.  We hadn’t  witnessed that at Portrush in his fairytale winning of the Open a couple of years ago.  The Ryder Cup inspires many players to more than they could fathom.

Every American player contributed to the points tally.  Dustin Johnson looks back to his best and in winning five points out of five he joins Larry Nelson and Francesco Molinari in producing a full house in what could be called the modern era.  The only other player to tee it up all five times was Jon Rahm, world No 1 and undoubted on-course leader of the European side.  He succumbed in the singles to Scottie Scheffler which just goes to show what a monumental task it is for any player to deal emotionally, physically and mentally with five outings.

The players say every single shot, right from the off, is like a shot when you’re in contention on the back nine of a major on Sunday.  Right there that puts it more in perspective for those of us who will never know what it’s like to step into that sort of exacting arena.

I enjoyed watching the hatless (definitely not hapless) Patrick Cantlay fashion three wins and a half from his four matches, even if he did beat Shane in the singles.  Cantlay came to the Walker Cup at Royal Aberdeen in 2011 as the No 1 amateur in the world and great things were predicted, and expected, of him.  A few years later he had the crushing and life-changing experience of witnessing his best friend and caddy being killed in a traffic accident.  Dark days followed and, coupled with injury, those days turned into years.  His quiet demeanour, which has often led to him being mistaken for being taciturn, has kept him largely in the background as far as the fans are concerned.  This is definitely his time, however – winner of the Fed-Ex Cup and a $15 million bonus and now unbeaten in his maiden Ryder Cup.  Hats off indeed, Mr Cantlay!

Much as there was to enjoy there was quite a lot to abhor.  Never, ever, have I heard the opposition in golf being booed when introduced on the first tee.  Thankfully, that seemed to be sorted out by the Sunday but that behaviour must not be tolerated and must be stamped out once and for all.  It’s not acceptable at any level and what is the point in having the digital screens flashing up messages saying abusive behaviour will lead to eviction from the course when nothing happens?  Cheer like mad for your own team, yes.  Greet the opposition with polite applause or even silence, yes.  But we can do without the “get in the water” and “miss it” cries.  It is so important the powers-that-be do not let the game descend into the gutter.

As usual, an honours degree in mental agility and memory was required to follow the leapfrogging nature of the television coverage.  Sky did their valiant best to deal with the peripatetic feed from the US broadcasters who frequently missed out key shots or putts, or worse still, played the shots out of turn.  Too often the commentators were hung out to dry and scrabbling to remember who was playing whom and what the score was.  A few more graphics would have helped but they weren’t forthcoming from the host broadcasters and then in an instant we were off to another match.  You couldn’t leave the room for a second and expect to return knowing what was going on.

Nevertheless, it’s been a feast of golf this year and huge congratulations must go to the US for winning the Walker, Curtis and Ryder Cups.  Congrats, too, to a wonderful European Solheim Cup team.  Like Rory, I can’t wait to do it all again!