Answer, this weeks Vousden Column:
Thought for the day
Eagles may soar, but weasels don’t get sucked into jet engines
Buddy, can you spare me a putt?
We either like, dislike or are indifferent to golfers for any number of reasons – some valid and some simply the result of a personal predilection that can’t really be explained by logic. And despite his many tantrums, like kicking his golf shoe towards an official, being fined several times for poor behaviour, spitting in the hole, getting over-enthusiastic at the Ryder Cup or whinging after the Open Championship that he never gets a break, I have rather a fondness for the young scamp Sergio Garcia.
Those mistakes I mentioned were largely those of impetuous youth, but he wears his heart, along with some pretty lurid outfits, on his sleeve and even I can remember what it’s like to suddenly erupt in youthful, petulant fury at the unfairness of it all.
Ever since he won his first European Tour event – in only his sixth start as a pro in the 1999 Murphy’s Irish Open – it has been clear that the lad has talent to burn. He followed that by finishing third in his debut US Tour event, the GTE Byron Nelson Classic and then underlined all that potential by pushing Tiger all the way in that season’s final Major, the US PGA Championship at Medinah. It was there that his drive on the 16th finished behind a large tree, from where he hit a 6-iron, with his eyes closed, and ran down the fairway in a moment of spontaneous delight at his own ability, to watch it land on the green.
He has since come close in Majors again, most notably in 2007 at Carnoustie (we’ll overlook his disastrous outward nine in the fourth round at Hoylake in 2006 when he lost, again to Tiger, because he decided to dress like a canary) and for someone of his ability, to blow a three-shot lead on the final day must have hurt a great deal. That, the fact that he goes through caddies they way Alan Sugar goes through apprentices and his period of constant gripping and re-gripping the club in 2002, suggest an inner turmoil of the sort that most us, thankfully, are unlikely to experience on a golf course.
But worst of all is his putting stroke, once a thing of smooth precision but in recent seasons about as reliable as a Nick Faldo wedding vow. Watching Sergio over a crucial six-footer is akin to watching England in a penalty shootout – a long drawn out torture in which hope springs eternal but is inevitably misplaced.
It has been suggested that the worst kind of love is that which is unrequited – to feel an intense passion for someone that is not, and never will be, reciprocated. I disagree. I think the worst kind is where you both fervently adore each other but then your partner’s feelings change, while yours do not. You keep thinking that somehow, if you can find the right combination of words and actions, you will re-kindle the ardour they once felt.
So it must be with Sergio and his putting. He is desperate to regain the affection of his putter but she stubbornly refuses to show him any mercy or affection and it must eat at him like a particularly potent virus. He made his return to the competitive arena in Bahrain last week after a 10-week gap necessitated for the sake of his sanity and must have been, if not wildly confident, at least mildly optimistic that he has turned a corner. And opening rounds of 67, 69 might have reinforced that optimism. But an ugly 73 on Saturday, in which he again looked as if he’d rather be holding a live snake than a putter in his hand, must have resurrected all the old demons.
Sergio is still young, good-looking, healthy as far as I know and rich enough to never have to work again but I can’t help but feel sympathy.
Dumb question of the year
You may recall that last time I mentioned the TV viewer who got Camilo Villegas banned by spotting a rules infringement but was too dumb to know how to contact the appropriate authorities, so by the time the mistake came to light, Villegas had already signed his scorecard. The man concerned was a former TV reporter and the theme of journalists who make morons look like Einstein is a recurrent one, particularly in America, and I am reminded of an incident in advance of the 2010 WGC-CA Championship. Padraig Harrington, who of course was disqualified himself last week in similar circumstances, was asked: ‘If you should win here, would it be a triumph for Ireland or the British people?’ Padraig patiently gave the reporter a quick lesson in European geography.
I also recall with particular relish an incident between Seve Ballesteros and an American reporter on the practice putting green at St Andrews during Open week of 1978. When Seve first arrived on the scene Americans seemed incapable of getting his name right, not just for a few weeks or months but in some instances for considerably longer. A full two years after he had burst onto our consciousness at the 1976 Open, finishing runner-up to Johnny Miller, Seve was an established international star but a few journalists continued to get his name wrong, leading to the following exchange:
Reporter: So, Steve, could you tell me…’
Ballesteros: ‘No, my name is Seve, not Steve.’
Reporter: ‘Oh, okay Steve, could you tell me…’
Ballesteros, with just a hint of acid: ‘No, my name Seve, your name arsehole,’
But the best, or worst example, depending on your viewpoint, comes from the US Masters several years ago when, in a pre-tournament press conference, Tiger Woods revealed that, in addition to his wife and child, his home now also had a canine companion. The usual questions about name, breed, size and so on were asked and then, to a slightly stunned silence, a reporter posed the immortal question:
‘So tell me, what’s it like to be Tiger Woods’ dog?’
Quote of the week
If a lot of people gripped a knife and fork the way they do a golf club, they’d starve to death.
Sam Snead