All sorts of season-ending trophies, titles and bonuses are being handed out at this time of year and the professional tours have been recognising the best of the best.  Meanwhile, the amateurs up and down the land are trotting forth to try and win a Christmas turkey, braving all sorts of adverse weather conditions and perhaps being inspired by their heroes.

In this most disruptive of years in the professional game we have had some really heart-warming stories and there’s no better place to start than in the women’s game with New Zealander Lydia Ko.  Now 25 years of age, Ko amazingly has just completed her ninth season on the LPGA tour.  In her early days she swept all before her, becoming the youngest ever world No 1 back in 2015 at the tender age of seventeen.  For a while she could do no wrong but an extended period of a revolving door of instructors and caddies derailed her to the point that she slipped outside the top 60 in the world.

Many a player would have been thrilled to have owned Lydia’s record during these “off” years.  She “only” recorded two victories on the American tour between the 2016 and 2022 seasons but her work ethic and innate charm never wavered despite her travails on the course.  I remember interviewing her after one of her rounds in the 2016 Women’s Open and not looking forward to it as she had driven OB at the last and finished with a double bogey.  Players can be very thorny after a finish like that and need to be approached warily (think Colin Montgomerie or Darren Clarke or almost anybody).  Lydia, however, couldn’t have been more courteous or co-operative and added a sparkle that I wasn’t expecting.  I’ve never forgotten it.

And now she’s back to her best, tucking away a cheque for $2 million dollars last Sunday – the largest first prize in the women’s game – for winning the CME Group Tour Championship.  This was her third win of the year enabling her to scoop up the Vare Trophy for the season’s low scoring average as well as the Rolex Player of the Year award.  In her own words it has been a “dream season” and with her wedding to look forward to on December 30th it will be a year she never forgets.  She’s a class act.

Finishing runner-up to Lydia last week and pocketing the biggest cheque (US$550,000 or thereabouts) of her four and a half year professional career was another class act, Ireland’s Leona Maguire.  She notched her first LPGA victory back in February and had three other top five finishes, most notably a fourth place in the AIG Women’s Open at Muirfield.  This has all been instrumental in propelling her to a career best eleventh place in the world rankings.

Leona’s 2022 report card has not been the only positive one produced by European players, which must be very pleasing for Solheim Cup captain Suzanne Pettersen, who is undoubtedly already sizing up the contenders for the match in Spain in September.  For golf fans from these islands the maiden LPGA wins of Jodi Ewart Shadoff and Gemma Dryburgh were real high points, as was Charley Hull winning for the second time on the American tour. There was also continued good play from Celine Boutier and Georgia Hall, two stalwarts of last year’s Solheim victory.

The ever reliable Swedish production line seems to be rolling along nicely with the phenomenal new talents of Linn Grant and Maja Stark and I was particularly pleased to see Anna Nordqvist finish highly last week after a difficult season.  So, all in all, I’d suggest that it’s quite a rosy picture for captain Pettersen to contemplate.

And perhaps things aren’t quite so bad for Luke Donald either as he ponders his selections for the Ryder Cup, also being played next September and also a home European fixture.  Rory reigns supreme, having climbed the world ranking mountain to the No 1 spot again, at the same time finishing top on both sides of the Atlantic.  In my, clearly unbiased, opinion he has been No 1 both on and off the course, assuming the role of chief spokesman on behalf of the PGA tour and its players in the ongoing LIV saga.

Sterling performances from Matt Fitzpatrick, the US Open champ, the ever formidable Jon Rahm, and the resurgence of Tommy Fleetwood, Dubai’s newest resident, will surely gladden Donald’s heart.  And whenever he casts his eyes towards American shores, he’ll see Ireland’s Seamus Power sitting proudly atop the standings.

Seamus has had a golden month, starting with winning for the second time on the PGA tour at Bermuda.  He followed this up by being in contention in his next two starts, finishing third and fifth and growing ever more comfortable in the heat of being in contention.  It’s a long time till the Ryder Cup in Rome but it’s a great start.

Viktor Hovland, Shane Lowry, Alex Noren and Tyrrell Hatton will all surely be noted in Donald’s little black book but I’m sure he’ll also consider the super talented Hojgaard twins from Denmark and Scots Ewen Ferguson, Richie Ramsey and Bob McIntyre.

Perhaps Europe’s Ryder Cup team will be less affected by the LIV desertions than the Americans.  After all, who are we losing?  Sergio, Westwood, Poulter, Casey…?  All in their forties with, dare I say it, their best golf behind them.  On the other hand the Americans will be without DJ, Koepka, Dechambeau, Patrick Reed and Phil Mickelson, all but the latter potentially in their prime.  Somehow, come Rome, I don’t think we the golf fans will be giving any of the aforementioned a single passing thought – we’ll be caught up yet again in an enthralling Ryder Cup tussle.  So, no, we won’t miss them.

I started with a Kiwi and can’t finish without the mention of another Kiwi, Ryan Fox, who finished runner-up to Rory in the DP World Tour rankings.  His has been an outstanding year which is all the more heartwarming coming after difficult Covid years when he could barely get back home to see his wife and young family, so difficult was it to travel in and out of his native land.  It seemed like he was in contention every week – two wins, four seconds and a third place bear testament to that – and a meteoric rise from 213th in the world rankings at the start of the season to 27th (one ahead of Seamus) assures him of starts in all the majors for 2023.  His is a very well-deserved off-season.

I must add one PS for fear of not being allowed back into Ireland if I don’t mention Padraig Harrington’s stupendous maiden campaign on the US Seniors’ tour.  With four wins under his belt there was no one to touch him…..except Steven Alker, who also notched four victories and played golf of the highest order.

And, oh yes, Alker is another Kiwi.  There’s clearly been some sort of magic dust sprinkled on the men and women from the land of the long, white cloud in 2022.  Wonder if we could bottle it too?

Congratulations all.

I wasn’t going to start with golf but I’ve played twice this week and only got drenched the once.  Even then we nearly made it – the serious rain started about four holes from home and didn’t become torrential until we were leaving the 16th and making the trek to our monstrous 17th.

I say monstrous because for those of us of moderate hitting ability, it is a long, long way, especially coming where it does.  The card says it’s a relatively modest 441 yards from the red tees, one yard shorter than the 18th, which is a completely different animal.  If it was the 5th, say, or the 9th, it wouldn’t have such a psychological effect, it wouldn’t seem so long or so daunting.  As the second last, uphill, into the lashing rain (no exaggeration, I’ve got the sodden gear to prove it) and a wind that even Dad would have conceded was a mite stronger than a zephyr and on the official Beaufort scale would register at least as a strong breeze (umbrellas used with difficulty, among other things)….In short, it’s a brute.

Several holes earlier my partner and I looked around and wondered where everybody was; it looked as though we were the only people left on the golf course, bar the fourball behind us; what was it that we didn’t know?  Was the foul weather forecast sending them heading for cover, taking no chances?  Were we bonkers to be still ploughing on, nipping and tucking, never more than one hole between us?  It would seem that the answer was “Yes”!

When I got home, I put comfort before economics and switched on the heating several hours early.  Then it was off to Specsavers to order some new glasses as a matter of urgency – rather belatedly admittedly.  The updated prescription was written in January but I stuck with the old specs until I had no choice.  And thereby hangs a tale.

My main pair disappeared a few weeks ago, presumed missing in the North Sea or buried deep on Warkworth beach, Northumberland way, so I was reduced to my reserve pair.  They were ok, if a bit flimsy but as it turned out a wonderfully effective camouflage colour – green and brown frames, impossible to spot, by me anyway.  The house has been turned upside down and still no sign of the buggers.  I’ve looked under the sofas, chairs, bed, in the hotpress, the fridge, every cupboard, the rubbish bag, every pocket of every jacket/coat, everywhere I can think of – and still no sign.

Of course, now that I’ve chosen and ordered my new specs, the old ones are bound to turn up.  Until then, I’m doing most things specless.  Not so long ago, in a fit of decluttering, I rounded up my old glasses and handed them over to charity, so, apart from a pair of reading glasses, that’s it.  Fortunately, my sun specs have an insert that allows me to drive without peering and at night I’m cadging lifts with friends who can see – or whose squinting is closer to 20-20 than mine.

Many years ago Gary Wolstenholme, much capped by England and GB and I, a man who has always marched to the beat of his own drum, talked about biorhythms, to the bafflement of most of his listeners.  If he played badly, it was often down to the old biorhythms being out of synch or out of kilter or, simply, out of rhythm.  Everybody has days – or, in my case, sometimes, weeks – of being a bit off for no apparent reason;  those times when you think that maybe you shouldn’t be allowed out on your own and I, shortsighted as ever but more open-minded, am beginning to think that Gary was onto something with his biorhythms…

The other night mine certainly went missing or were on a go slow or whatever they do when friends, having a rest from bridge, introduced me to Balderdash.  It’s a word game and we journalists, retired or not, are meant to have a way with words…Guess who finished dead last?  Well behind my four opponents, trailing all the way, bluffed from the first throw of the die (there’s only one) to the last.

The Scrabblers in the company thought they’d add new words to their armoury but of course, being the age we are (that’s our excuse), we could barely remember the words or their meaning a few goes later.  Did you know – none of us got this right not even the horsey person – that rataplan is the sound of a horse galloping?  Well, it’s a drumming sound, from the French, according to my trusty Chambers and it does have a classier ring to it than clippity clop.

Whatever – and this is not in my dictionary – we had an evening that was positively gelogenic.  That’s something that makes you laugh, apparently and there was no apparently about it – we roared from start to finish.

And, red wine notwithstanding, we stayed dry.

 

 

 

Christmas has come early in this house with the unexpected, joyful arrival through the door the other day of the tome Peter Alliss was working on when he died.  For me, that was the end of all meaningful accomplishment for a few days as I nestled down to enjoy PETER ALLISS:  REFLECTIONS ON A LIFE WELL LIVED.

I don’t know quite what I was expecting.  In truth, I hadn’t given it much thought but Jackie, Peter’s wife, had confessed to me that it was a difficult project to bring to a close and that the family was keen that it should be done as a lasting testament to Peter.  On opening the first pages I discovered that Peter had enlisted the talents of fellow Norn Irish person Bill Elliott in this, his final project.

I whooped with delight.  This must surely be a marriage made in heaven.  Bill is as skilful with the pen and keyboard as Peter was with his impeccable timing and mastery of the spoken word.  The irreverent, observational Elliott humour has been capable of holding court in a multitude of media centres around the world and when you add this to an almost encyclopaedic knowledge of golf it is a delightful mix.  And as Patricia drily reminded me, “Bill has been around for a very, very long time!”

The book only very loosely follows some semblance of a chronological timescale but, rather like its author, it rambles hither and thither, just exactly the way good conversation does with an old friend.  There’s nothing wishy-washy about Peter’s opinions, however, and in a wonderful chapter near the end of the book he discourses on a range of subjects from Brexit to modern day education to Gary Player to Love Island.  Where else would you come across such a range of diverse topics, all in a clump?  No punches pulled, but a gentle questioning wonderment as to how on earth did we arrive at this point?  Peter always left you with food for thought.

I was privileged to spend quite a bit of time with Peter over the years and be in his company when he was in full flow.  A number of my favourite stories are absent from this book, which just goes to show the extent of the treasure trove of yarns at his disposal.  How Bill and Peter corralled their collaborations inside the covers of a manageable book is a mystery.  No worries about lack of material here, I’d venture to suggest, so ruthless censorship must have been the order of the day.

One of my own favourites is the tale of Peter going to the Dublin area for a tournament after which he decided he’d stay an extra day with some friends.  When he did get home he had somehow “misplaced” a whole four days of which he had zero memory.  Four weeks later an important looking envelope arrived in the post – the deeds to a tract of land he seemed to have purchased in Wicklow.  When he did get round to visiting it some years later he discovered it was situated on an almost vertical hill and was neither use nor ornament to anyone.  He assured me, however, that he was positive he’d had a wonderful time while acquiring this useless field!

Censorship notwithstanding, the book bounces merrily along discoursing on such topics as the Masters, the Ryder Cup, television and rubbing shoulders with the stars of stage and screen.  Underpinning it all, however, is a great sense of the support of family and especially Jackie, Peter’s wife of many years.  The closing chapter is a touching epilogue on “My Peter.” by Jackie, an enabler of the highest order.  She kept everything running so Peter could go off and do what he did best and when mobility became an issue for him in later years she was his constant companion, waiting in our BBC production office for the day’s commentary to come to an end when we could all be released back into civilisation and, with a bit of luck, to a nice evening dinner.

The book is a wonderful read, thought-provoking, funny, poignant and beautifully written.  Enjoyable for those who never knew Peter personally and enjoyable for those of us who did.  It’s hard not to delight in his obvious zest for life itself and his disarming acknowledgment that things came rather easily to him down the years amazingly never seemed to produce rancour or envy in others.

Jackie states that she was “so very blessed to have shared over fifty years with such a unique and special man”.  I feel that we are the lucky ones – lucky that the family so generously shared Peter with the rest of us down the years.  They have done so again with this book.  Buy it, read it, treasure it.

And now that I have taken care of all your Christmas shopping, what are you going to do with all this free time?

Growing up playing golf in Ireland, you got used to playing in the rain  because if you didn’t, you didn’t play.  Nowadays, I’m much more of a wimp and if it’s chucking it down and I don’t have to play, I don’t.  Mind you, I know my waterproofs still work, so do my shoes and so does my brolly.  It’s just that, without a caddy to do all the hard drying, golfing in a deluge is a bit of a faff, when you could do with extra hands.  For me, now, golf is to be enjoyed, not endured.  Coffee please!  And bridge.  Or Cluedo.  Or any indoor game you care to mention.

Not that I’m much of a hand at games – bridge is fun but frustrating; crib is still a bit of a mystery; and as for Cluedo – I didn’t realise you could move Miss Scarlett from the drawing room (or was it the conservatory) to stop someone else from revealing her as the murderer in the right room with the right weapon.

I suppose that’s what most of the LIV golfers have signed up to – more fun, less grind.  Golf lite.  Who am I to criticise them?  But, really, I have no desire to watch them – or write about them.  Plenty of other people know a lot more about it all and once again, I particularly recommend Eamon Lynch, of Golfweek/USA Today, who’s implacable in his opposition to the whole concept.

It’s the time of year when the game’s best (or a fair number of them anyway) are swinging in the sunshine, attempting to put the icing on the cake.  In Dubai, at the Jumeirah Golf Estates, Europe’s finest are fighting it out to be the continent’s No 1, still a worthy ambition.  Rory McIlroy, the world No 1, had an up-and-down first round of 71, one under par and found himself six shots behind US Open champion Matt Fitzpatrick, who started with five birdies and the mercurial Tyrrell Hatton, who is a law onto himself.

Elsewhere, players are battling away to get a card somewhere or other and Alastair Tait (alastairtaitgolf.com) wrote about the trials and tribulations of those fighting it out at the European Tour Qualifying School at the Infinitum Club in Tarragona, Spain.  I’d been mulling over my own memories of Q-School and despite the wonderful stories at every turn, I hated it.  It was brutal, six rounds of hell – or heaven, at least for a while, if you made it through.

All I saw were friends (or lovely, long-standing, a lot-more-than acquaintances) standing in front of scoreboards watching their lives drain away….That’s a bit melodramatic and most of them survived well enough one way and another but that’s what it felt like at the time.  It was hideous and one year we were somewhere near Montpellier and the weather was grim and everywhere was shut, which didn’t help the mood of gloom and despondency.

I can’t remember the year and I can’t remember if that was the one that Retief Goosen won, a lad so shy and quiet that it was just as well that we at least knew his name and his nationality (South African) and what he’d scored because we learned very little else from him.  At least he went on to have a heck of a career (two US Open titles and a lot else besides) and is still starring on the Legends Tour in America.  Not every Q-School winner does so well but at least the card holders head out with hope in their hearts.  Good luck to them all.

Alastair wrote about experienced, battle-hardened veterans – Ryder Cup players – losing their nerve at Q-School, double bogeying the last to miss out on regaining their card.  At least they kept giving it a go; I didn’t even have the bottle to cover more than a couple of the marathons; I wimped out, snuffling into my hanky.

The football world cup starts in Qatar on Sunday, so that’s the end of my trips to N17 for a while.  Fortunately – very fortunately – Spurs ended on a high note with a 4-3 win at home to Leeds.  We were behind three times and at the end, the Leeds manager, a passionate American called Jesse Marsch, said he felt as though his heart had been ripped out of his chest.  I’m not surprised.  It was a bonkers game, a manager’s nightmare.  As the sainted Sir Alex once said, “Football, bloody hell.”

I travelled down from Lichfield with Essie, a Tottenham fan who grew up in the area, a lot closer to White Hart Lane than Portstewart is.  She’d been to the old White Hart Lane but this was her first visit to the swanky new stadium and she loved every minute of it.  Now we regulars want her to come to every game because she’s obviously a lucky mascot.  Even better, despite hordes of people pouring into London – and back out – for rugby, Remembrance events, football, theatre, whatever, the journey could scarcely have been smoother.  Thank you Essie for a wonderful day.