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Moving on Up

The Open Championship has for twelve years been the tournament I have consistently performed worst in, which has always been a bit of a pain seeing as it is the biggest event in world golf. Forty fifth was until this year my best finish, not exactly awe inspiring to say the least. That being said I have had my moments over the years, have got myself onto the leader board at times and have missed the cut from seemingly impossible positions. Royal Troon comes to mind, out in five under back in seven over to miss the cut by one, would you believe.

This year it was back to Royal Birkdale, scene of my greatest triumph to date, forty fifth back in 1998. Staying with my good friend Mike Williams in Hightown, some fifteen minutes from the course, was a nice change this year, being able to get away from the hustle and bustle of an Open.

Mike and Jean’s delightful hospitality helped me on my way to an opening nine holes played in 7 over par. I think they were worried about what they had done to me at this stage. There were extenuating circumstances though, this was possible the hardest opening morning the Open has seen in many a decade. Cold wet and extremely windy, bobble hats on, hand warmers and mittens needed, four layers of clothing making for the shortest backswings you could imagine.   All in all it was foul. I started with four bogeys and it felt like they would never stop. My only solace at this stage was to look around and notice that everyone else was struggling just as badly.

After three putting 8 and 9 however I have to own up and say I was completely demoralised. Last year I was four over after three, this year seven over after nine. It is true to say that the Jockey and I were discussing just how much we were not enjoying the experience. I know that sounds bad, after all it is the Open and people from all over the world come to watch let alone play in the thing.  However, we all know how golf can make you feel, pretty crap at times.

So just as things were getting on top of me, a birdie appeared like a ray of light on the tenth, a bogey followed however another birdie followed by a string of pars and a birdie at 17 left me at six over, not so bad after all. In fact I was almost pleased with myself for hanging in there.

My job on Friday was obviously to try and make the cut, which would have been a lot simpler if The Jockey had not turned up looking like a character out of Star Trek, skin tight chest revealing body armour I believe they call it, add a bobble hat into the mix and a Californian style tan and its no wonder that I was confused as to what club to use off the first tee. Am I on a windy British links course, a Califorinian holiday retreat or am I actually on the moon, with someone called The Jockey by my side?

One thing The Jockey did like about Open week was the bibs were a nice tight fit for once what with wearing waterproof jackets, and most of the week he was able to wear waterproof leggings, which very conveniently hides the fact that his legs do actually belong to a jockey, not to a muscle bound, bag carrying gym freak.

To his defence though, as always he kept  thinking positively, encouraged me all the way into making the half way cut and loyally stood by my side early on Sunday morning, when we would prepare to do battle with Royal Birkdale once more,

It is safe to say that at 8.20  in the morning, with the weather once again windy overcast and basically very unpleasant a few of the leading  players would still have been lying in bed, awaiting a good northern English brekkie, not in the least concerned about someone who had already teed off.

Well it just goes to show what an incredibly strange game golf is. My brother Ian came all the way from Swindon to watch me for the first time in the Open, and clearly my poor record is all down to his lack of support in this event over the years because Sunday could not have been more different than usual.

I got off to a reasonable start, I made a few birdies, I kept on playing well, I had a little luck along the way, I eagled seventeen and in the end I shot 67 and was in 30th place.   I had lunch, I was in 25th place; I packed my clubs away, 22nd place; I packed my case, 18th, my brother started to drive me home 16th, he drove really slowly as I was still clubhouse leader, for two more hours, 14th, I rang my manager, 12th, I got a message from my manager, 8th, I got home, put the kettle on, flicked the tv on, and worked out that my final day charged had left me in a tie for 7th place, in the Open Championship.

I certainly have never had a more profitable drive home before, even accounting for the price of petrol these days. The Jockey was ecstatic obviously, and the messages of congratulations came flooding in, and another bonus is that a top ten finish gives you an exemption for next year’s tournament.

Every body has a what if story from that Open, what if  this what if that, all except for Padraig of course who performed brilliantly over the back nine to retain his title, a remarkable achievement. My what if is, what if my brother had turned up for the whole week?