Our next installment in the tale of Tom Cox’s year as a Pro.
Potted history so far; was promising junior and gave it up (see, or rather read, ‘Nice Jumper’, also by Mr. Cox which describes this particular era) – and at the ancient age of thirty decided to give it another whirl. The swing remained the same (ish) and he, in this extract, has recently turned Pro and is a little bemused by the ease of the transition. He seeks technical support.
‘Hand action’s better,’ said Steve. ‘Cleaner. The problem is, you’re still going through the ball like a complete puff.’
I’d met Steve the previous spring, after an on-form golfing friend had recommended his services. Over the years, he, his colleague Dave Wilkinson and their late, legendary thorny guru, Lesley King (a man described by Steve as ‘golf’s answer to Brian Clough’), had built up an impressive list of pupils at their underground golf school, on a quiet, regal street just behind Harvey Nichols, in London’s swanky Knightsbridge district. Amidst the signed photographic testimonies on the wall from Christopher Lee, Des Lynam, Hugh Grant, Bryan Ferry and Geri Halliwell, I definitely recognised a picture of a bloke I remembered finishing quite high up in the Portuguese Open a few years ago – for the time being, I just couldn’t quite remember his name. To be fair, Steve and Dave had taught quite a few future golfing stars in their earlier days – it was rumoured, for example, that the swing philosophy that had brought Nick Faldo’s old coach, David Leadbetter, to prominence in the eighties had its roots in Knightsbridge – but, having been left bruised by a couple of incidents of heartless abandonment, they now preferred to teach within the amateur ranks. That these amateur ranks also happened to look not unlike the guest list at an Elton John housewarming party had nothing to do with a policy of exclusivity; it was simply a measure of how adept celebrities are at keeping a good thing to themselves. Still, Knightsbridge Golf School couldn’t stay a secret from the outside world forever, and my presence in itself suggested there’d been a wrong turn somewhere along the grapevine.
‘We had [then Chelsea midfielder] Gianfranco Zola in here not long ago,’ said Steve. ‘He’s a total hero of mine, but he had one of the worst swings I’ve ever seen. Took the club so far around his body that he smashed that mirror behind him – even worse than you, Tom. We put him right, though.’
Over the nine months I’d known him, I’d found that my mentor was far more interested in talking about the fortunes of Chelsea FC and the recent albums of Neil Young than golf, or the ever-increasing number of rich and famous people who played it. In fact, from what I could gather, Steve no longer bothered playing the game, in its conventional outdoor incarnation, at all (‘Full of stuffy retired colonels, isn’t it?). That did not mean, however, that he wasn’t on a mission to scientifically perfect its execution, here in his underground lab. If, indeed, you could apply the term ‘lab’ to a shabby former squash court equipped with an ageing video camera and recorder, Four Astroturf mats and a couple of nets that looked as if they’d played host to the leisure pursuits of an overzealous panther cub.
‘Ninety-five per cent of golfers suffer from the same faults.’ Steve would explain repeatedly to me. ‘We tend to teach people the same things here. It’s like a conveyor belt. Why do you think people call us the swing factory? Tell him why they call us the swing factory, Dave.’
‘Because we’re like a conveyor belt, Steve,’ Dave would say.
‘That’s right, Dave. Come over here and tell me what you think of Tom’s backswing. Cleaned up nicely, hasn’t it, Dave?’
‘Ooh, yes, cleaned up nicely, Steve. Tom, is Steve bullying you? Don’t let Steve bully you.’
‘I’ll bully him if I like, Dave. You like being bullied , anyway, don’t you Tom? That’s what you need isn’t it? If you don’t have me nagging on at you, you’re never going to get any better, are you? Isn’t that right, Dave?’
‘No, that’s right, Steve. Listen to your uncle Steve, Tom; he’s always right, you know.’
‘Thank you, Dave.’
I wasn’t entirely sure if the 1980s-sitcom nature of Steve and Dave’s relationship was a device intended to disorientate their pupils into submission, or simply the result of spending too many years in a small windowless room with one another, but they had quite a double act going. Apparently, the previous summer, the newly golf-crazed Ant and Dec has visited the school for a couple of lessons, but had never returned, and I couldn’t help wondering if the Geordie entertainers had simply got spooked by meeting their comic match.’
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