Golf has never seemed
more exciting or demanding than it has of late. Take the last month with two of the four majors of the year
squish-squashed into July to allow us the freedom of being able to watch the return
of golf to the Olympic 2016 platform after a 112 year absence. August would have been promising for
golf but for two “slight” problems: the world top ranking golfers took a
raincheck from Olympic golf, eschewing the Zika virus and the security issues
that required you to name your next of kin and your dentist as a matter of
course before you even departed for Rio; and that old chestnut which has
blighted sports from Armstrong on his bike to the scandals at Sochi is now
threatening to turn the summer Olympics into a withered winter of discontent as
the international federation and Bach fail to tackle the debacle of those
athletes who use performance enhancing drugs. Much though golf may need all the help it can get to promote
it on the world stage, the question has to be asked: does golf really need to
be associated with an event that is replete with cheating participants? Keep golf clean and away from Rio. Simple fact.
But
now, let’s backtrack to the beginning of July when Royal Troon was the talk of
the town and our thanks must go to Phil and Henrik for the most amazing show of
golf since the 1977 Open on the Ailsa Course at Turnberry, Scotland when
vintage Watson won by one stroke over veteran Nicklaus in what came to be known
as the “Duel in the Sun”. Before
he and Stenson even got to battling positions on the two last days of Troon,
Mickelson had us hanging off the edge of our seats as he sought to end the
first day on an insurmountable high by making an all-time record course score
which would have seen him as the first golfer to make a sixty-two. Instead, he had to settle for becoming
the 28th player to score 63 in a major and the ninth to do so at The
Open. Amazingly, as that ball - heading for centre stage in the eighteenth hole - lipped out, we all felt the
wow-factor sting of a historical moment lost in the “forever” abyss. Curse on that hole - simple fact yes.
Day
three and four of The Open saw the men separate themselves from the boys. On any other day, Phil Mickelson’s
final score of -17 would have seen him a winner of any major but he reckoned
without the steel of Stenson. For
those of you who reckon that Troon was too easy, get a grip. Why, oh why, would the score of the next
eleven places added together not exceed the combined score of Stenson and
Mickelson’s gladiatorial efforts? We witnessed history as Sweden’s Henrik Stenson shot a 63 for
a four-day total of twenty under par and set the bar for the lowest seventy-two
score in The Open history.
Accurate off the tees, faultless on the fairways, precise with his
putter, Stenson swung the back nine in a truly astonishing display of links
golf. Even with Phil on form and
thrilling to watch, he could not outplay his rival. The “Amazing Jewel in the Sun” was undoubtedly Stenson. Cometh the hour, cometh the Iceman – a
simply indisputable fact.
The
end of July promised us the PGA Championship at Baltusrol, New Jersey. And it delivered – but mostly
rain. Sheets of it. Stair rod rain. Cats and dogs rain, rivalling anything
Ireland can produce. I was washed
out waiting by the telly for play to resume. And when it did, I should have seen Jason Day grip his 2-iron
for the second time on the 18th, having used it off the tee, and
close the second shot of 258 yards to within fourteen feet of the pin. He putted for an eagle but, despite the
Day magic that followed in the fabled footsteps of John Daly and Jack Nicklaus,
he lost to Jimmy Walker. I should
have seen it as it happened but all I have had is the opportunity to watch the re-runs
because I was in fields afar celebrating my daughter’s thirtieth birthday. No contest. Simple family fact.
But
the real joy of July came in the rotund shape of the aptly named Beef. That’s beef with a capital B. A rumbustiously rollicking lad, a
fillet of fun, who endeared himself to a army of golf fans with his straight-down-the-line
answer as to how he would celebrate his Spanish Open win. His response skirted nothing and included
getting hammered, seeing his mum and brother, and spending time with his North
Middlesex GC friends. Unlikely
candidate and not your usual PR-guided profiler, this warm-hearted golfer seems
to unite two nations divided by a common language and, miracle though it is, he
is universally understood by dwellers east and west of the Atlantic waters.
So
what makes him the great unifier?
Butch
Harmon nailed it when he said, “He’s a breath of fresh air”. He’s Joe Ordinary, the friendly boy
from next door who loves his mum and family. He delights in spectator encouragement from outside the
ropes and warmly responds. He gives
hope to every high handicapper that, somehow, the dream is possible and they
can emulate this local lad. He
sports a beard that looks like it houses a nest of stray house martins and one
of his favourite rappers is twin beardie Scroobious Pip. Psst, Andrew, who’s Scroobious? Simple musical fact: rap and me don’t
mix, man.
Recently,
PETA UK wanted him to rebrand as Tofu.
Give an A* for effort to “People for the Ethical Treatment of Animals
UK” but this man is as staunch as the rump of a British bulldog and he’s not
for turning. He has a wedge
branded with nine types of beef.
For the butchers and discerning eaters among us, that’s T-bone, ribeye,
brisket, sirloin, tri-tip, flank, filet mignon, porterhouse and skirt.
In
a real twist of irony, Beef’s nickname has nothing to do with beef. As a twelve-year-old, his hair was
thicker and curlier and it stuck out like an Afro, thanks, in part, to his
quarter Jamaican heritage. Out on
the course, an older player had a “Andrew, wot’s up with your hair?" moment and called
him Beefhead. The name stuck and
has been with him ever since.
Prophetic in the round simple fact, I think.
And
then there’s the chest bump sequence.
At last year’s BMW PGA Championship, he made a hole in one to win a car
and he celebrated in Beef style with a fantastic airborne chest-on-chest connection
with a mate who was following him.
He
loves his sleep. Ten hours are
requisite to keep him vibrant and he once declined a round of golf with Rickie
Fowler because the start time was way too early – 08.30 for those who are
interested in this timely fact.
The diehards of golf will be tut-tutting all along the fairways by
now. Tradition dictates you must
be on the first tee by cockerel call - otherwise, you can’t be serious. He’s not, of course: a Christmas tree still
lurks at the back of the sofa, home fridge is full of chocolate and beer, he is
a comfort eater by his own admission, plays burgers off his practice tees, eats
a Caesar salad twice a year as a cap-tip to a healthy diet and rates John Daly
as his hero. Indisputably simple
facts.
Summer
is his five-year-old niece and she is his number one fan. She followed him round Troon and
proffered hole-by-hole support for her “Uncle Beef”. He has his heart stolen by her and wallowed in relaxing
evenings far from fairway play by indulging in games of “Top Trumps” with her. Top family fact that.
But
make no mistake: this young man is serious about golf. His late father
introduced him to the beautiful game at an early age. He is a joy to watch plugging away on
the course and my simple prediction says he will never become a simulacrum of
his homely self as fame and fortune grow.
He has already amassed a massive cult following that is undoubtedly
deserved and, although he looks like he should be working at the local Tesco,
he makes golf appealing. I suspect
his homespun mannerisms will do more for the exposition of golf on the world
stage than any inclusion in an Olympic format. He is a prime cut of Beef. Fact, pure and simple.
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