I love golf and if love
were enough to make all things succeed, I would be a top-notch golfer. Unfortunately for me, Murphy’s Law has
a way of entangling itself in the execution of my golf and love has not yet
found a way of straightening out those Murphy kinks. That aside, my next love is watching golf and you would
think I would be as happy as a hippo in a wallow of mud when sitting snugly in
front of the telly with a good tournament to watch – especially as it is only a
trivial few days to the first major of the year.
And I should have been a
happy hippo but I wasn’t.
On the run-up to The
Masters, watching the who-is-hot and who-is-not professionals perform is not
merely exciting, it is also informing.
And so it came to pass that I found myself on annual leave from the day
job and with all the time in the world to follow the machinations of the WGC
Dell Matchplay. Little did I know
I was walking into a storm of distraction and my armchair golf would be far
from relaxing and insightful.
It all started when some
bigwig golf pundit took exception to a scribed comment in a European Tour piece
to the general effect that Austin Country Club looked very much like
Dornoch. That’ll be Royal Dornoch in
the north-east of Scotland whose trees, bridges and lakes were “favourably
compared’ to those at Austin CC. In
fact, it made his non-existent hairline curl and caused him to explode his apoplectic fit onto the Twitter medium.
A happy bunny he was not.
My mate, Will Shakespeare, pitched the shot perfectly when he said, “Sarcasm
is the lowest form of wit” and John Huggan was right on target to prove Will’s
point. To add fuel to fire, insult
to injury, Paul McGinley, the voice of reason, proffered the observation that
maybe Austin was more like Valderrama.
The apoplexy went into full stroke orbit and I got distracted big-time
and although the much-respected Mr Huggan did not bring down t’internet in
the manner of Kim Kardashian, he certainly exposed two very big boobs.
For the record, I’m with
you all the way on this, Mr Huggan, sir.
The thirteenth hole at
Austin CC is a great risk-reward short par-4 and that’s where I caught up with
my next distraction when I finally extrapolated myself from the Twitter
maelstrom. There was Phil
Mickelson standing close to the water’s edge and just off the green. I have long gotten over Phil’s
from-under-his-cap maverick hair frolic and am able to look at his golf fair
and square – and it’s only fair to say he is back on magical form. There he was, in the throes of
annihilating young British Masters' champion Matt Fitzpatrick. It was a bit like looking at a modern
day version of David and Goliath, except this time the fairytale ending did not
allow the little guy to win. In
fact, Fitzpatrick’s sole win, coming in the preliminary round robin, came to
being solely because Berger had to concede because of a wrist injury. But here was Phil, putting from the
edge of the green and 5-up, when I re-joined the telly-viewing brigade. I never saw him finish that hole,
having become wildly distracted by his general attire, which can only be
described as square-rigged and beak-bowed. It really wouldn’t have mattered if the gusting wind had
carried him into the close-by River Colorado that snakes its way through Lake
Austin and hugs the outline of the golf course - he would have sailed quietly
away, secure in the knowledge that the over-the-top yardage of his flapping
trousers and collared top would have mightily aided the Pilgrim Fathers in
their Mayflower mainsails and halved their Atlantic crossing time. Those trousers and top should have been
classified as a hazard and penalised accordingly. Poor Matt. I’m
sure he couldn’t hear himself think with all that a-gusting and a-flapping from
Phil but those golfing answers were certainly not blowing in the wind for
him. Despite the loose clothing,
there was nothing loose about Mickelson’s play and he ended his winning game at
5 & 4.
From there on in and to
quote Gwennie P by way of best expressing what I did next, I made a “conscious
uncoupling” so that I could get on with watching golf pure and simple. All was well for a while and a season
until Group 5’s third round where I happen-chanced on Rickie Fowler, world golf
ranking number 5, but hot-to-trot number one in the world golf fashion
stakes. Rickie is cutting edge and
his golf ain’t bad either. I was
supposed to be marvelling at his 198yd tee shot on the par-3 seventh hole,
which he nearly aced - but finished for a birdie putt - but, while the world
and his wife were open-mouthed at his spectacular shot, my chin was hanging low
because I had espied his outfit.
Oh! Rickie! Man!
You have aced it in your
latest outing: cleated high-tops combined with six-pocketed jogger style
silhouette “bicycle clip” pants. You
have single-handedly caused a furore amongst the male golfers, especially those
over and above the years of middle-aged spread, and you have pushed the limits
when it comes to performance and style.
While you may have blinded some with your daring-dazzle fashion and set
the traditionalists in a turn of twizzles, you have put the fun back into golf
and made its stale image young. I
just wish I could be your style director but I confess you’re doing a good job
without me. Carry on campin’ it
up, Ricks.
There are reputedly five
“little known” F-facts touted around the net about young Fowler. He’s Fiercely competitive, loves his
Family, is a bible boy and has a Faith that is important to him, was Fantastic
at motocross and gave it up after a triple Fracture ended that career. But less known, and of equal
importance, is the Foley fact.
Seeing your latest
outfit outing, I remain convinced that your style hero must be Jimmy
Foley. That’ll be my dad, a
prototype, and despite the fact that he was a self-taught, skilled engineer who
could repair anything from a ship to an aeroplane, he never owned a car his entire
life and pedalled himself everywhere.
However, it has to be said that once my dad removed his bicycle clips,
his trousers looked like Phil’s.
In fact, they would power Lefty’s into a pale comparison. While Lefty could potentially have aided
and abetted the Mayflower with his sailcloth trousers, my father’s pants would
have safely floated the entire Spanish Armada on a
round-the-world-in-eighty-days trip.
Sorry, dad, you know I loved you but I was always happiest when you kept
your cycle clips on.
Enough distraction! I am now back following Matchplay again
and seriously watching the beautiful game but before I leave, I need to put
this out there:
Would Phil benefit from
taking a leaf out of Rickie’s book and emulating his “cycle clips” look?
Would Fitzpatrick have
been better able to concentrate on his game, freed from the flapping of Phil’s
pants, and perchance win?
Should Rickie move to
Orange County, given his "You've been Tangoed" look?
Does anybody think that
Oosthuizen’s toothy smile is reminiscent of Jürgen Klopp’s and do they swop dental tips?
Answers on a postcard,
please. No controversial remarks
either. It takes diddly-squat nothing
to distract my featherbrain.
