Golf: Memorable Moments

For all my scattergun accusations of all USA citizens being xenophobic megalomaniacs, I do sincerely believe that one or two are thoroughly decent folk, including members of the professional golf fraternity. Tom Watson always seemed genuinely humble and generous after devouring each Scottish links, and I’d have loved him to succeed at Turnberry in 2009 where he led after three rounds at the age of 59! A par on the final hole would have done it.

‘Gentle’ Ben Crenshaw was another American I supported for a while. In the Seventies he was always there or thereabouts in The Open and other majors and I recall being chuffed when he clinched the US Masters in 1984 and again eleven years later. I fostered similar proud thoughts in 2004, staying up late on a Sunday night to cheer perennial runner-up Phil Mickelson to his maiden Major triumph at Augusta. Although he sometimes wore his heart on his sleeve, the big left-hander endeared himself to me with his lop-sided smile and ursine lope, and thoroughly deserved his place in the history books.

On the subject of bear-like golfers, the maiden Major for John Daly also springs to mind. Dad and I didn’t often pay much attention to the US PGA tournament but for some reason we found ourselves viewing the Beeb’s live coverage one August Sunday evening. The big blonde Californian really stood out, in part because he bore a vague resemblance to my brother-in-law Phil. On the Crooked Stick course, however, he played like nobody else. His ‘grip it and rip it’ style won him many fans and his powerful drives were truly ‘ossome’. Such apparent recklessness off the tee ought to have landed him in constant trouble but somehow, while rivals such as Faldo, Stadler and Couples faded, ‘Long John’ played superbly to win by three strokes. The amazing thing is that he only played because several others dropped out before the start but through the Nineties he became a top draw and also won The Open in ’95. 

As Daly turned to his addictions, Americans soon found a new star to ‘whoop’ for: Tiger Woods. After turning pro in 1997, records tumbled at his feet, notably his astonishing 12-stroke margin of victory at that year’s Masters. At first, I was swept along in global admiration for the sport’s young superstar. His mixed-race heritage upset the applecart at the traditionally racist Augusta club, where black faces were only allowed as caddies or servants, for which golf should be forever grateful. Between August 1999 and September 2010, only Vijay Singh interrupted Tiger’s lengthy reign as world number one. However, by this time the golden glow had tarnished. Not because of his marital infidelities and other personal problems – they would emerge later – but simply because he was too good. His dominance on the PGA tour and in Majors had long since become boring. Am I an awful person for revelling in seeing Tiger’s scary scowl and final round signature red shirt shrouded in rain-sodden sand or chest-high Scottish grass rather than him lifting another piece of silverware? Golf had always been interesting because a high ranking was no guarantee of winning the biggest tournaments. Tiger's brilliance removed the thrilling uncertainty out of the sport, robbing the also-rans of the success their talent deserved. Just ask the perennial European Tour winner Colin Montgomerie who, like British former world leaders Luke Donald and Lee Westwood, enjoyed a very healthy bank balance but surely regretted missing out on a Major.

Before the Tiger first showed his teeth, there was The Shark, Greg Norman. Like Woods, the Aussie was extremely successful around the world but, unlike the American, that didn’t translate into an armful of Major titles. While he often had storming final rounds he is best remembered for his collapses, such as the 1996 Masters against Faldo. That simply endeared him to me even more and I took particular delight in his 1993 Open triumph.

Sunday evenings in late April glued to the stunning flora and evil greens of Georgia listening to birdsong and Peter Alliss are all very well, but most of my favourite moments are associated with our own Open Championship. Not all are triggered by golfing magic. I have little recollection of Ian Baker-Finch’s strokeplay in ’91 but will never forget his interview in which his young daughter, sensing a giant ice lolly being held before her face, attempted to lick the microphone.

Then of course there were the harrowing scenes at Carnoustie eight years later when the clear leader Jean Van der Velde self-destructed on the seventy-second hole. Having already sliced into railings, a wall and thick rough, his made the catastrophic decision to play his third into the Barry Burn. As the Frenchman rolled up his trousers and removed his shoes to play from the water, I yelled at the telly urging him to abandon such folly. Van der Velde must have heard me because he eventually settled for a drop. How must he have felt when, with the flag taunting him just yards ahead, his chance was blown by a triple-bogey. He entered a three-way playoff but his confidence was shot and the little-known Scot Paul Lawrie was victorious. Heartbreaking stuff.

Carnoustie also introduced me to a young golfer who was to fill Tiger’s considerable shoes when the American took his tumble out of form and out of favour. In 2007, the curly-haired 18 year-old Rory McIlroy was hailed the leading amateur at The Open. Unlike so many others, this Silver Medal winner was to fulfil his teenage potential and more. His first few years as a pro featured steady progress in Europe, the Middle East and US, blazing a trail into the top 10. In 2011, he endured a horror round at Augusta but had the mental strength and natural talent to shrug it off and produce a phenomenal performance at the US Open, winning by eight strokes and breaking the tournament record score. He’d out-Tigered Tiger. However, while he was harvesting titles like some collect stamps, for me the one that mattered was The Open.  The stars aligned perfectly in 2014 when McIlroy duly delivered at Hoylake and I was chuffed for him.

Those early days of the decade were incredible for Northern Ireland. Graeme McDowell also claimed Majors across the pond but possibly the most popular winner of all was Darren Clarke. With a tragic back story that would make even X Factor producers green with envy, the 42 year-old former tour and Ryder Cup stalwart emerged from the depths of despair to lift the Claret Jug at Royal St George’s in 2011. Tears gushed all round, although personally I felt more emotion over McIlroy’s subsequent triumph.

But for all the holes in one, outrageous putts at Augusta, tear-jerking finales and head-in-hands disasters, the most memorable moment must be reserved for a man I’ve mentioned before: Severiano Ballesteros. I will simply never tire of seeing his celebrations following his winning birdie putt at the 1984 Open. The man himself may have passed away eight years ago aged just 54 but that triumphant smile at his peak is eternal.