AGW Members Memories

The following is a wonderful collection of career memories from members of the Association of Golf Writers.

It was an Association initiative during the course of the 2020 Coranavirus pandemic and the support in the troubled and uncertain times was superb.

Thank you to the following AGW members – Tony Jimenez, Denis Kirwan, Iain Carter, David Hamilton, John Whitbred, Michael McEwan, Donald Steel, Mike McDonald, Mark Garrod, Lewine Mair, Jock MacVicar, Bill Elliott, Jim Black, Mitchell Platts, Graham Otway, Barry Ward, Nick Rodger, Dermot Gilleece, Geoff Sweet, Peter Higgs, Philippe Herrman, Richard Simmons, Martin Vousden, Declan O’Donoghue, David Purdie, Philip Quinn, Bob Davies, Brian Creighton, Bernie McGuire, Norman Dabell, Isabel Trillo, Jeremy Chapman, Ed Hodge, Dave Edwards, Henrik Knudsen, Erskine McCullough, Jed Scott, Dick Turner, Scott MacCallum, Liam Kelly, Robert Green, Dan Murphy, Gordon Richardson, Patricia Davies, Peter Dixon, Carly Frost, Jerry Tarde, Viswanthan Krishnaswamy, Tony Garnett, Alan Fraser, Petra Himmel, Elspeth Burnside, Ben Evans, Paul Trow, Silvia Audisio, Tim Glover, Colin Callander, Dave Facey, Liz Kahn, Art Spander, Aliston Root, James Mossop, Brett Avery, Adrian Milledge, Trevor Peake, Mark Townsend, John Redmond, Tony Rushmer, Fergus Bisset, Robin Barwick, Ben Evans, Andrew Both, Rob Perkins, Jesus Ruiz Ortega, Brian McLaughlin, Kevin Garside, Shane O’Donoghue, Jerry Tarde, Scott Michaux, Geoff Sweet, Mike Blair, Alan Fraser, Tony Adamson, NIck Dye, Tony Stenson, Mike Aiken, Alan Hedley, Len Shapiro, Gordon Simpson, Karl MacGinty, Greg Allen, Martin Hardy, Derek Lawrenson, Philip Reid, Jaime Diaz, AGW President, Martin Dempster and John Hopkins.

• Note – The ‘memories’ were posted stricktly in order of receipt (Updated 28th May, 2020)

TONY JIMENEZ

As a young pup of a sports journalist in the early 1980s working for a less than auspicious news outlet, it was with some trepidation that I wandered up to a quiet practice putting green at Woburn to ask one of my golfing heroes if he could spare me five minutes for a one-to-one.

The golfer in question instantly says no, saying somewhat haughtily, ‘I only do international or national interviews’, before waving his hand to signal that he would prefer me to keep my distance.

After turning round very sheepishly with my tail firmly between my legs, I carried on watching the golfer doing his stuff from the side-lines as he continued putting from various different distances and angles.

I was still watching transfixed some five minutes later when he crouched over yet another putt and saw me in his direct eyeline. Slowly, he stood upright, flashed a typically dazzling smile and said, ‘Hey you! Come on, let’s do interview now’.

That man was Seve Ballesteros.

Unforgettable.

DENIS KIRWAN

Padraig Harrington’s Open Championship victory at Carnoustie in 2007 was the undoubted highlight of my time covering golf. 

Padraig was the first winner of the Open from the Republic of Ireland and the first Irishman to lift the claret jug since Fred Daly had done so at Hoylake in 1947 – a yawning chasm of 60 years. Carnoustie once again served up an Open thriller. 

One ahead with one to play, the then 35-year-old Dubliner, paid two visits to the infamous Barry Burn before a superb 58-yard pitch shot to 4-feet set up a double bogey, that ultimately would change his life. 

Sergio Garcia had to par the last to win the claret jug but his 8-foot par putt somehow managed to stay above ground. Harrington took an early lead in the four-hole play–off and was never caught. 

This incredible drama provided us with one of the biggest Irish sports stories of all time and paved the way for an extraordinary total of ten Irish major victories in the subsequent dozen years. 

Shane Lowry’s victory on home soil at Royal Portrush in 2019 was almost as special and ultimately put an exclamation point on an incredible period for Irish golf. 

Harrington subsequently went on to become the first golfer from Ireland or UK to win back-to-back Opens since Scotland’s James Braid achieved the feat more than a century prior to that in 1906. In 2008, Harrington then became the first European golfer to win the US PGA Championship since the Silver Scot, Tommy Armour, had done so way back in 1930.

One small story about what a joy Harrington has been to cover as a sports journalist – the following Wednesday after his Carnoustie win, I had put in a request to speak with him for a few short minutes, if possible, for a weekend magazine feature.

Padraig duly rang me at 5pm that evening and at 6.45pm, I had to say to Padraig – “Listen I really appreciate your time and I know you are the Open Champion, but if you don’t mind, I actually have to go as I’m late for an appointment!” A truly great player and an even better person.

IAIN CARTER

Being more about the spoken than the written word I could easily choose commentating on Martin Kaymer’s putt to cap the Miracle of Medinah, but instead I’m going for my very first on course radio golf commentary as BBC Correspondent.

It is 2003 and Tiger Woods is about to begin his quest for a second Open title.  He is on the first tee and I am some 200 yards down the right-hand side of the opening hole describing the scene as I stand in wispy, knee high fescue.

Adrenaline is pumping, it is a nervous moment and that’s just for the commentator.  I’ve dreamt of doing this job for my entire professional career and now the moment has arrived.

Woods swings, his ball heads right and lands somewhere near us, but no one knows the exact position.  My first commentary is disjointed, gobbledegook as I join the search party for the great man’s ball.

At one point the delightful Steve Williams walks past as I’m describing the scene while continuing my search.  “If you’re here just to talk, you should f*** off out of here,” he says. A warm welcome to my new trade.

Then I tread on a ball.  “There’s a ball here,” I breathlessly tell my listeners.  Alas it is a beaten-up Titleist and not the pristine Nike for which we were searching and never found. 

Woods went three off the tee and eventually finished fourth.  The next time I saw my boss, a bloke called Bob, he bollocked me for not finding the ball.  “Imaging the publicity for 5Live if you’d found it,” he said.

Bob is now managing director of the BBC, imagine what would have become of me had I found Woods’ ball?  Well, the truth is, I’d still be in lockdown and Steve Williams would still be a very rude man.

DAVID HAMILTON

The first Open Championship I attended as a working journalist was in 1978 at St Andrews. Bill Robertson took me on in my first job in golf, on the long gone Golf Illustrated, in January that year and I recall we travelled to the Old Course in his car.

On the way we stopped overnight at one of his relatives, can’t recall if it was his parents, near Dumfries.

We drove on the following day to St Andrews and I was thrilled to be involved in this great sporting occasion. Things were much more relaxed then than they are now but it was great to see Jack Nicklaus emerge victorious.

It is something that is locked in my memory and even more poignant after Bill’s recent passing. I shall always be indebted to him for giving me my first job in golf writing.

JOHN WHITBREAD

As a humble 24-handicapper, I have played in numerous golf events including the Association of Golf Writers tournaments, without ever getting near the prizes. It can always recall with some pride the time I helped win the Open Championship.

It was early on a rather quiet opening morning of the 1981 Open at Royal St George’s that I ventured from the press tent hoping to find an interesting story for the evening papers. I soon spotted up-and-coming young American Bill Rogers on the practice putting green, and this being the rather more innocent days when you were not separated from the players by a phalanx of yellow-coated security guards, I was able to wander over for a chat. I had enjoyed meeting Bill just two years before, when, as a virtual unknown outside the United States he had come over to Britain to outgun a stellar field and claim a surprise victory in the Suntory World Match Play Championship at Wentworth, beating Japanese ace Isao Aoki in the final.

He was willing to stop for a few words and it was while enquiring about his prospects for the week I happened to glance at the draw sheet.

“What are you still doing here Bill, when you should be on the first tee?” I asked him.

“Oh, there’s no worry” he replied. “I am not off until 8.42.

“No Bill, it says 8.22 on the sheet,” I insisted, just as the clock ticked round to 8.21.

Oh no,” exclaimed Rogers, as, calling for his caddie, he raced to the first tee, arriving just as the starter was announcing his group and thus avoiding a potential two-shot penalty.

At the time it made no more than an amusing first morning addition to the main action story of the day.

But the full significance of that narrow escape, and my delight in playing a small part in it, became much clearer over the weekend as the tall and slender Texan put together four immaculate rounds to outgun an all-star field and finally see-off his nearest challenger Bernhard Langer by four shots.

Sometime after the winning putt had dropped and Rogers had been feted by the massed crowds at the official prize giving, I was sat at my typewriter finishing my last report for The Northern Echo when the new champion returned to the press tent.

Imagine my surprise and elation when he placed a magnum of champagne on my desk with the words. “Thanks for giving me the chance to win.”

It’s a memory I will treasure forever, together with an equally unexpected sequel 19 years later. Rogers was invited back, along with all the other past Open champions still able to play, for a four-hole exhibition match on the eve of the 2000 Open at St Andrews.

I had an old picture of me watching him play at Wentworth that I wanted to get signed, so I waited for him to return to the famous old clubhouse.

I was amazed that, after all those years, he immediately recognised me and raced over to shake my hand before turning to his son, who had been caddying for him and declared: “This is the reporter I told you about, the man who helped me win my Open.”

The only disappointment is that apart from earning him a place in America’s famous 1981 Ryder Cup team, Rogers’ Open win did not prove the launch pad for more international triumphs. In fact, he is unique in the United States as having his two biggest victories on this side of the Atlantic.

Not surprising then that he always kept the Union Jack flying proudly alongside the Stars and Stripes outside his San Antonio home and I have kept that signed photo sitting proudly on my bookcase.

MICHAEL McEWAN

As we all know, Monty’s reputation has largely preceded him throughout his career. “Wonderful on Wednesday, Thunderous on Thursday” etc. We would also probably all agree that, on his day, he has been as good an interview and as generous with his time as anyone in the game. That has certainly been my experience, anyway. 

On one occasion, early in 2014, I went to interview him at The Carrick on Loch Lomond. Unbeknownst to me, he’d already had a full day of schmoozing and interviews and I was last to go. It was 4.50pm and I was meant to have him for 20mins. Conscious of his reputation, I braced myself and hoped for the best.

“Colin,” I began. “Thanks for your time. I know you’ve had a busy day. I just want to speak to you about a certain biennial event you’ve got a special fondness for.”

Without missing a beat, he replied: “Right, great, the President Cup. Good stuff. Wonderful. You know, funnily enough, I’ve never lost a single’s in that one either.”

Forty-five minutes later, he was still going strong. All credit to him.

DONALD STEEL

When asked what he would do if he wasn’t a champion golfer, Roberto de Vicenzo, with typical jest, replied. “become a golf writer. It’s easier, you never miss the cut and somebody else pays”. He’s right. We have a front row seat everywhere. We befriend some of the best players. We see all the great courses with the added joy of trying our hand on most of them. There is a new setting each week. We mingle with a fine body of assorted, kindred spirits. The Press Tent is as much a Club as a workplace.

The undoubted highlight? Getting the opportunity in the first place. I was 23 in 1961 and had never written a word. My newspaper was new, too. Events owed more to fate than shrewd planning. I met Bernard Darwin, Bobby Jones and Roger Wethered. At my first Open at Royal Birkdale, a day’s play was lost after the refreshment marquee was blown over, leading to a decree from the R&A that, if the championship didn’t end on Saturday, it would be null and void. However, end it did. Arnold Palmer conquered all including the stormy weather. And the Sunday papers had first shout. There was no looking back.

MICHAEL McDONNELL

1993 Royal St George’s. It is the evening before the Open. The place is virtually empty. My office called. They want a hole-by-hole description of the course by a famous golfer. What? At this time? 

Blind panic sets in when suddenly a lone figure emerges through the gloom. Bernhard Langer, the new Masters champion. I said: “Bernhard I need a great favour.” He nodded.

We went into a catering tent where the staff were clearing up for the day and Bernhard outlined every hole while also signing autographs for the waitresses and then went off to prepare for his second major of the season. 

Saved my neck and made me a fan for life. No, he didn’t win but he remains an all-time winner in my book.

MARK GARROD

The Johnnie Walker Championship in Jamaica did not last many years, but I remember it for three reasons.

Firstly, playing chess against Seve Ballesteros at Montego Bay Airport. He saw I had a computer game, challenged me and beat me easily. I just wish I had a photo of it.

Secondly, after buying some nuts out on the course I left them on my desk in the press centre, went to do an interview and on my return found hundreds of ants – no, make that thousands – tucking in.

Thirdly, my favourite golf headline of all time. There was an attempt to set up a breakaway circuit and just about all the players in Jamaica were being approached. Nick Faldo was amongst them and told us he wasn’t interested. When the newspaper cuttings arrived the following morning they included one from the Straits Times in Singapore.

The headline was “Faldo to World Tour – Bugger Off”.

LEWINE MAIR

The idea was that I would have a friendly 18 holes with X, a 40-year-old with a dark past. He had been in a series of prisons in the Atlanta area for manslaughter but was now, according to a snippet I had seen in a US golf magazine, a reformed character who played in various one-arm competitions. The item read that he was well-known for his massive hitting and giving money to charity.

Alas, X got the wrong idea about our “friendly 18 holes”.  He saw it as a match he ‘had’ to win – and it wasn’t very long before I was of the same opinion.

I had arrived at what was an otherwise deserted country club at 8 a.m. and, when he pulled up – a muscle-bulging skin-head in a sports car – he asked if I would be kind enough to get his golf glove out of the glove compartment.  It was apparently too fiddly to access with just one good arm.

So I opened it. No sign of a glove, just a gun.

When I got back to the UK, I rang the Secretary of the One-Arm Golf Society and asked if he remembered X from his appearance at a World One-Arm championship in East Lothian some years before. “The very name,” said the secretary, “fills me with trepidation. To say he was too keen is an understatement….  He used both hands to smash his putter, and he used both hands again when it came to the long-driving contest.”  

Once he was back in the States the society sent a letter banning him “sine die”.

JOCK MACVICAR 

As they say, it’s been a long time.

I began covering golf for the Scottish Daily Express in 1961, and the first tournament I covered was the Northern Open at Lossiemouth.  I stayed in a small hotel in Hopeman on my own, and after a couple of days I thought ‘this is going to be a boring job’. How wrong I was. Having been asked by the then sports editor, Bruce Swadel – one of the good guys – if I wanted the job, I said yes, as it was the sport that interested me most, and at that time I was a 5-handicapper at Dunaverty in Kintyre.

Before long that boring ‘trial’ event up north was forgotten and I was straight into the big stuff.

I began covering The Open in the early ‘60s, and the clearest memory I have is of standing behind the 18th green at Troon, in front of the big windows- would you believe – and seeing Arnold Palmer win. What an introduction that was, and what followed did not disappoint, although the facilities were very different and much more taxing. You wrote your copy out in longhand, then faced the laborious task of dictating it to a copy-taker over the telephone.  Typewriters followed, then electric typewriters before laptops and mobile phones arrived, and all you had to do was push a button.

There also are memorable characters, Ronnie Shade, Bernard Gallacher, Sam Torrance and Colin Montgomerie, a one-off, if ever there was one.  He dominated Europe seemingly forever, topping the Order of Merit eight times.  In some ways, though, Monty has never quite grown up. When everything is going his way there could not be a more congenial person.  When they are against him, he is ‘unplayable’. We didn’t call him ‘Wonderful on Wednesday’ for nothing as he was out on his own on preview day.  When stuck for a line, you just had to talk to Monty, and you had your story, although you always had to check the details he gave you.

When things went against him during the tournament he was a different person. “Not today”, he would snap as he strode past you in a rage. “I’m not the story”.  Of course, it was the story – “Raging Monty storms off course”.

I recall waiting with the former PA golf correspondent, the incomparable Mark Garrod, waiting for him at the Scorer’s hut at an event on the continent with music blaring out of the clubhouse and Monty having a three foot putt. Inevitably, he missed, and as he tore past us he muttered, ‘is this a golf tournament or a f……g fairground!’ 

However, unlike so many sportsmen, he wasn’t afraid to volunteer his views on pertinent issues. To be honest, we Scottish journalists miss him, and while he has had his moments and his enemies, especially after that dodgy drop in Jakarta, he does have compassion.

It isn’t widely known that he gave a lot of money to the Western Infirmary in Glasgow, where his dad, the former secretary at Royal Troon, had a successful heart operation. And, during my own recovery from surgery in France 18 months ago, I got an email from him wishing me all the best.

The golf scene is a wonderful and fascinating place.  I’m so glad I decided to stick to it after those initial doubts.

BILL ELLIOTT

And then there was one…

SCRAMBLING into more golf writing than football reporting in the late ’70s anyone with even a vague sense of the old game’s history might well suggest that my accidental timing was perfectly spot on. Seve was soon to win The Open while behind him Faldo, Lyle, Langer and Woosie formed an orderly queue as they waited impatiently to pass through the big door marked ‘Great’.

It is not, however, this posse of truly gifted golfers that made my entry into this golf writing lark memorable. Sure, they were terrific if only because they made the expensive trips to various exotic parts of the world easier to wangle out of a clutch of sports editors than otherwise would have been the case but when I look back now I can see clearly why I was more than a shade lucky.

And what took my timing the sharp side of immaculate was another cohort of men, the blokes who occupied the often primitive Press Tents that passed for Media Centres – a phrase waiting to be invented – back then. They were a disparate bunch offering something for everyone in personality, looks and, most crucially, dress sense.

Together, Ronnie Wills of the Mirror, Jack Statter of the Sun, Michael Williams of the Telegraph, Peter Ryde of the Times, Michael McDonnell of the Mail, Mark Wilson of the Express, Renton Laidlaw of the Evening Standard and BBC radio, Ron Moseley of PA, Micky Britten of Extel, Dai Davies of the Birmingham Mail and Mitchell Platts and Gordon Richardson who seemed, between them, to cover everything else, were some group to infiltrate.

Each was talented, each was his own man and each knew there was someone else in the tent who was better at the game. This was Peter Dobereiner of the Guardian, the Observer, Golf World (UK) and Golf Digest (USA). Tall, angular and usually smoking a pipe. Dobers moved with all the awkward grace of a camel trying to arrive stealthily behind a smokescreen. No sooner had I ambled hesitantly into the tent than Peter asked me if I drank red wine, white wine or beer. “All three, “I admitted. “Excellent, said Pete, “Let’s go and order some”.

So began a friendship that I value among the most important things I’ve managed in my life. Put simply, I loved him, loved his easy wit, his mastery of word play, his knowledge of not just golf but pretty much everything. He could dissect a swing in seconds but he could also explain quantum physics so that I almost understood what the hell he was talking about.

He lived in a rambling, slightly chaotic, house in Pratts Bottom in Kent. He and his wife Betty loved the house but they bought it because it was in Pratts Bottom. I stayed there several times and learned that Betty was an accomplished poet as well as an instinctive humourist who knew how to handle her occasionally irascible husband. Fed up once with Peter’s habit of returning from London late for supper, Betty wrote a note and pinned it on the front door. It read: Welcome back, your supper is in the oven, the oven is in the kitchen, the kitchen is through the third door on the right as you enter. I’d have married her myself given the chance.

Dobers used to write the lyrics for Millicent Martin’s show ending song on That Was The Week That Was which probably explains why I found him one morning in a Press Tent eagerly beavering away which was as unexpected as my own arrival before lunch. I was curious and probed deeper when he explained that he’d come in early because he had some urgent work to finish. “If you must know, “ he said, setting down his pen with an exasperated flourish, “I’m trying to finish off a lyric I’ve promised to do for Glen Campbell.”

And one or two old colleagues wonder why I gave up the football schtick.

JIM BLACK

I can’t split the Turnberry Opens of 1977 and 2009.

Tom Watson, a player for whom I have the greatest admiration, both as a golfer and a man, was the central figure on both occasions, albeit you would never dare label Jack Nicklaus a “bit player”.

Being present to witness the Duel in the Sun was a privilege for a young sportswriter still with stars in his eyes and even after all these years I can still recall in detail how arguably the greatest head-to-head in golf unfolded. Given that I was already a Watson fan, having watched him win at Carnoustie on my Open debut as a reporter in 1975, I very probably wanted him to win, though, in truth, I can’t be certain. No matter, watching two of the legends of the game slug it out in such magnificent gladiatorial style was indeed special.

Fast forward to the day that a now 59-year-old Tom came within a putt of creating the biggest sports story of all time, the sun did not shine with the same intensity as it had done all those years before. But the occasion was no less captivating –  or emotional.

My abiding memory is of the manner in which the five-time champion accepted his defeat. Sensing the almost funereal atmosphere when he walked into the interview room, Tom somehow managed to produce a smile of sorts and quip: “Has someone died?”

That’s what I call class.

MITCHELL PLATTS

Seve Ballesteros smiles as he remembers being drunk at the age of 12. “I came home and my father and mother had gone finishing. My lunch had been left and there was a bottle of wine so I took a drink. I had four glasses. I was drunk when I got back to school. I slapped the women teacher and I was suspended. It was revenge because she had smacked me across the hand with a ruler because I was talking in class.”

This is how my story started in a series in the Saturday Review of The Times entitled: Childhood. It was 1992 – my final year as Golf Correspondent of The Times before I joined The European Tour. Seve and I were good friends and for this article we enjoyed an emotional breakfast at The Ritz in London’s Piccadilly.

Seve went on to explain that he gave up alcohol at 14 and school at pretty much the same time. He realised alcohol would handicap his ambition to become a professional golfer. School? “I didn’t like it at all. I only enjoyed playing with my friends and running. I won the regional championship for 1500 metres by 25 or 30m. They gave me a tiny trophy. It is worth maybe only 50p, but I still have it in my trophy cupboard.”

We talked about his upbringing following his birth on April 9, 1957, in a two-storey stone farmhouse above the Real Club de Golf de Pedrena across the Bay of Santander. “The house had belonged to my mother’s uncle. My mother took care of him until his last days and he left it to her. My earliest memory is of my mother coming in the room to try to wake me to go to school. She often found me on the floor because I shared a single bed with Vicente (one of Seve’s three brothers) and when I was asleep he would push me out. I got my own bed when I was ten, but we shared the room until I was 14. There were no windows. We called it the dungeon.”

Seve spoke of a happy upbringing, despite his father and mother always working, and of there being no holidays for the four children. He recalled walking to the church on a Sunday and returning – his father would go for an aperitif on the way back with friends – for a three course lunch with meat and tomatoes as the main course. After, as the youngest, Seve would clean the shoes of all the family. “I got five pesetas which was enough to go to the cinema.”

If one thing commanded the attention of the young Ballesteros, apart from golf, then it was watching a good western or an American television series. When he was at school there was only three bars in Pedrena and the only television in the village (population 3,000) was to be found in one of them. “I loved to watch Bonanza and The Fugitive. There was no golf on TV in Spain in those days. I never saw golf on television until I was 16.”

We breakfasted for two hours in a packed Ritz dining room. Suddenly, as he spoke, proudly, of his father, Baldomero, remembering at first the days when he would help him clean the shed where they kept cows, he fell silent.  He was consumed by memories, by emotion, perhaps even by guilt, as he succumbed to a moment in his life which haunted him. Seve cupped his right hand to shield his tears, but they flowed unashamedly. Finally, he put his hand on my shoulder and said: “I promised my father before he died in 1986 that I would win The Masters at Augusta and I was in the lead when I put the ball in the water at the 15^th on the last day.”

Today the golf world, especially those of us so privileged to share his incredible journey, will understand the relevance of the story. If Seve was still with us he would be 63 on April 7 two days before the 2020 Masters Tournament was scheduled to start.

Severiano Ballesteros Sota, of Spain, lost the one fight not even his prodigious courage would allow him to beat when he died on May 7, 2011, following a valiant battle with cancer.  No European golfer can match his CV of 50 European Tour wins, 38 other titles worldwide, and a remarkable Ryder Cup record crowned by his winning performance as Captain in 1997 at Club de Golf Valderrama in the country of his birth. His legacy can be measured not only by the titles he captured, but the way in which he won them. He threw caution and technique to the wind. You didn’t have to like golf to love Seve.

GRAHAM OTWAY 

Switching from just  football and cricket to cover golf for the now defunct Today newspaper my first tournament was at Woburn, and having never covered the sport I thought I would go along on the Tuesday and just try to work how the week might go. Imagine my delight then when late in the day a European Tour official told me I had been included in the pro-am the next day. And being off single figures at the time I was not overawed. I did ask who the pro would be but he said: “Just be here before 9.30am and by then the draw should be complete”.

Needless to say I hardly slept and getting up early was at the course at hour earlier and quickly discovered that my pro would be Bernhard Langer who just months earlier had won The Masters.

Thankfully I already knew the course because Mike Selvey, at the time the Guardian cricket correspondent, was a member there and I had played it many times and any nerves quickly settled as I made two birdies and a net birdie in the first three holes t get on the scorecard nd Bernhard’s smile was accompanied by the words that he would have to get close two the two corporate members of the team who from the first hole never looked capable of hitting the ball further than the front of the tee.

Needless so say my golf could not live to that opening standard  but the better ball scores carded by Bernhard and myself saw us finish inside the top 15 on the leader-board and Bernhard proved to be a gentleman when he went on hunt to find the corporates who were feeling too embarrassed to join us for the pro-am lunch. In the years that followed it was one of the highlights of my life that in pro-am’s and got to play with seven other Major winners including Ryder Cup captains like Jim Furyk and Darren Clarke but never managed to produced anything like the same  quality of golf with them.

But clearly it made an impression on Bernhard. Seven years later when handed a pro-am place at the BMW in Munich, I found myself paired to play again with Germany’s biggest star golfer and when I walked up to greet him on the first tee his opening words were “Hi Graham. Are you going to let me get on the scorecard this time?” And that comment, to this day, remains the highlight of my golfing life.

BARRY WARD

My Open highlight came at my first as a golf writer, the 1961  Championship at Royal Birkdale. It involved Arnold Palmer when he produced the moment and the shot of the tournament. Also nearby was Henry Cotton, who described it as “the bravest shot I’ve ever seen.”                                       

It came on the 15th, now the 16th, in the final round. Arnie was on the rampage, in the hunt for his first Open title, and level with Dai Rees at the top of the leader board when his tee shot on the demanding par four faded on the wind and came to rest in deep rough.  Disaster beckoned. Not only was his ball in wet rough it was almost touching a thumb-thick sapling.    

With the green still some 160 yards away, through a cross wind and up-hill to boot, most in the field doubtless would have opted for a sideways pitch out, hoping for a bogey at worst. Not Arnie. He took his six iron and, his huge hands a blur, he gave it everything he had, removing the sapling and a doormat-sized patch of rough in the process. The ball finished about 20 feet from the flag and a safe two putt par left the great man in the hunt. Up ahead, Rees dropped a stroke on the 17th; Arnie held fast to win by one.                              

NICK RODGER

Like many, I have always enjoyed the quirks and absurdities of this great, yet flabbergasting game. Amid the magical major moments and epic team tussles I’ve been fortunate to cover down the seasons, the more curious, low-key golfing affairs also make for cherished, cheery reflection.

One such instance took place in 2008 when, as a golf agency reporter, I popped along to cover an Open Championship regional qualifier at Musselburgh. An entrant by the name of John Spreadborough was ushered on to the first tee and, with a swing of quite terrifying violence which was broadly equivalent to a desperate, gasping swipe you’d see on a medieval battlefield, embarked on a turbulent 18-holes.

On a card strewn with chaotic debris, Spreadborough, whose “professional” credentials were swiftly put under the microscope, scribbled down halves of 52 and 47 for a grisly 99.

The 44-year-old had a 13 at the par-5 seventh and an 11 at the par-5 12th. Remarkably, however, he did finish par, par, par to break 100 with the kind of rousing late flourish that should have been accompanied by the 20th Century Fox fanfare.

Fearing they had another Maurice Flitcroft-style imposter on their hands, The R&A’s communications big wig phoned me to try to keep coverage of Spreadborough’s adventures to a minimum. It was a futile request.

The R&A’s on-site official, meanwhile, accepted that there was only one story in town. “You little b******, you’re enjoying this aren’t you?” he said with a wry smile as I sent my copy off to a raft of newspapers with ghoulish glee.

DERMOT GILLEECE

My first trip to the United States was to Cypress Point, no less, to cover the 1981 Walker Cup for “The Irish Times”.  It was an expensive assignment, but we’re talking about a time when the amateur was king. And back then, Ireland had unquestioned golfing royalty in teenagers, Ronan Rafferty and Philip Walton.

I remember the trip fondly for delivering a splendid story on the opening day, notwithstanding the eight-hour time difference.

In the top foursomes, GB&I captain, Rodney Foster, gambled on Rafferty and Walton at number one, against Jay Sigel and Hal Sutton, arguably the world’s best amateurs at that time.

It seemed a disastrous decision when the Irish lads lost the first three holes. With their prospects written off, however, Rafferty and Walton staged a remarkable recovery to be two up after 14.

That’s then they completed the most extraordinary finish imaginable.  When Rafferty missed the green at the short 15th, Walton chipped in for a winning birdie. Then, at the famous 16th, their exploits were reversed: this time Rafferty chipped in from the dreaded ice-plant for another winning birdie and a stunning, 4 and 2 victory.

All achieved in plenty of time for my first edition back in Dublin.

GEOFF SWEET

Sergio Garcia’s wonder shot at the 16th at Medinah in 1999 sent the News of the World scurrying to Denver for his next tournament in the hope we could get him to repeat his US PGA trick for a feature.

Garcia, 19, stuck behind a massive red oak tree, shut his eyes and sent an improbable slashing 6-iron banana shot on to the green, as he hopped and scissor-kicked his way up the fairway behind it.

At Castle Pines the following Wednesday photographer Dave Hooley and I met with Garcia, his manager, and father Victor. To no surprise our request was turned down… several times.

But Garcia had a new girlfriend in tow and we decided to concentrate on her instead. Again, Sergio flatly refused to talk, ignoring my suggestion that if he relived his Medinah shot we’d drop the girlfriend angle.

Dutifully, we hounded the increasingly annoyed Spaniards. Nobody knew who the girlfriend was and we couldn’t track her down via an infantile internet.

On Saturday evening we gave up – and went shopping. The first people we met in an underground tunnel were Sergio Garcia and his entourage, who promptly accused us of stalking them…

But we did get our scoop. I’d asked a Castle Pines member for his help… and the following Tuesday he came up trumps with the girl’s details.

PETER HIGGS

It was a seminal year, 1997. There was the shocking death of Princess Diana, Tony Blair leading the Labour Party back to power after 18 years and Tiger Woods winning his first major championship, the US Masters at Augusta National.

There have been plenty more thrilling tournaments than Woods’ 12-shot victory but in terms of sporting and social significance nothing can match that stunning week 23 years ago. For the 21-year-old to win by such a thumping margin in his first professional appearance in the revered ‘Cathedral in the Pines’ was extraordinary in itself. But to do so as a black golfer on a course with such a shameful history of racism made it all the more poignant.

Augusta was – and still is to some extent – a beautiful contradiction with its awesome scenery and spellbinding competition masking a dark past, dominated by white supremacy. Clifford Roberts, who ruled the club for many years before shooting himself on the course, once famously insisted that the Masters was a competition for ‘white players with black caddies.’

No black players were permitted to compete until 1975, while until 1983 every entrant was required to use a local, black caddie.  Imagine, therefore the reaction of the members, when Woods reduced their cherished tournament to a stroll in the park. As a privileged witness to this piece of history, I confess to remembering little of the great man’s actual play. All these years later it’s a bit of blur. But what I do recall are my thoughts – and fears, yes, fears – as Woods walked triumphantly up the hill of Augusta’s eighteenth hole.

The reality reaching its climax in front of me was like a film. What a story it was. And in any good film you’re never quite sure what will happen right to the end. In this one it actually crossed that they would be a sniper hiding in bushes, who, on the instructions of Augusta’s Green Jackets, would stop Woods winning. They simply wouldn’t let it happen.

Fortunately, my vivid imagination would have been better applied to fiction and Augusta dutifully saluted a new champion (while smiling through gritted teeth) Ever since (and even before) the golfing press has not stopped writing about Tiger Woods.

As a Sunday newspaper correspondent, I was tasked with finding an exclusive follow-up for the next week’s paper, an order sure to concentrate the mind. In the end, I tracked down Earl Woods, Tiger’s father, who provided me with the first picture of Earl with the Vietnamese warrior, after whom he had named Tiger. It wasn’t award-winning, but it was different and kept me in a job for another week.                        

PHILIPPE HERMANN

May 7th 2011, a day of grief, Seve Ballesteros succumbed surrounded by his family in Pedreña, Spain. The soul of European golf, the man with ninety global victories – five Majors, five Ryder Cups – the inspiring European golf to today’s stars, lost his fight with a cancer after having been haunted by continual back problems that destroyed his natural swing.

I’ll always remember his sudden appearance in a buggy at a Pro-Am few years before. I was faced with a difficult 120-foot approach on a hole with a close pin tucked behind a nasty bunker. “Easy shot Felipe”, he said looking at me intensely. “You can do it. You will!” backing off, watching me play the wedge he selected, my ball diving straight into the hole. I’ll never forget his laugh!

Later in September 2008, enjoying a dinner with him in Zürich, he was so positive. “My back gets better. I’ll soon be playing again”. But on the very next day, he collapsed after landing in Madrid and was diagnosed with a brain tumour the size of two golf balls. Four operations later, with surgeries and chemotherapies battling the disease, he resisted valiantly but missed the final cut at 54 years, far too young to play a medal with Old Tom Morris, Bobby Jones and Sam Snead.

Hasta luego campeón!

MARTIN VOUSDEN

My memory involves a photographer. I was at Today’s Golfer and he worked for a football magazine that was also part of EMAP’s stable. 

Our regular photographer – the diva that is Matthew Harris (this is a joke because, inexplicably, I always enjoy working with Matt) wasn’t available, so the football guy got saddled with the job. We went to St. Mellion, which for years hosted the Benson & Hedges.  I hung around the back of the 18th and approached players as they finished a practice round; those that couldn’t give me time there and then set up an interview for later. They included a young hotshot from South Africa called Ernie Els.

The reason I remember it so clearly is that the photographer couldn’t believe how pleasant and civilised the golfers were and spent three days regaling me with tales of being told to ‘fuck off’ by footballers.  He was right – we’ve all had to spend time with the occasional dickhead (Darren Clarke, are your ears burning?) – but in comparison to many sports, they’re a significant minority in golf. Long may it last.

And one that Bill Robertson loved to tell. In his early years, the Americans insisted on calling young Seve Ballesteros ‘Steve’. An American reporter caught up with Seve on the tiny practice putting green alongside the first hole at St Andrews and the exchange went as follows:

Reporter: Steve, could I have a few for words for…

Seve: My name is Seve.

Reporter: Okay Steve but could I just…

Seve: [before turning his back] My name is Seve. Your name is asshole.

RICHARD SIMMONS

The day Billy Bunter lost the plot….

In 1988 I was lucky enough to land my first job in the golf business as Instruction Editor at Golf World, then under the editorship of Peter Haslam. To say I’d landed squarely on my feet would be an understatement; the Golf World teaching panel at that time read like a Who’s Who of the game’s greatest players and teachers – Seve Ballesteros, Nick Faldo, Bernhard Langer and Nick Price among the regular contributing superstars, while John Stirling, Ian Connelly, John Jacobs and new kid on the block David Leadbetter provided the essential nuts and bolts to help regular players make the most of their talent. That was the idea, anyway. 

Fast-forward to the early 1990s and the editorial team had evolved with Robert Green now at the helm while I took the role of deputy editor, Steve Newell joined as Instruction Editor with Jock Howard, Peter Masters and Dominic Pedler among the talented writers enjoying the opportunity to write for what was then, at over 100,000 copies per month, Europe’s most successful golf title. And with Paul Trow and Andy Farrell leading the newly-launched Golf Weekly team in the same Docklands office space it was a truly buzzing working environment.

The incident in question occurred as a result of an editorial piece penned by Jock Howard, who had been tasked with profiling Colin Montgomerie – a lengthy ‘colour’ piece that would pull no punches. It was during a staff meeting in a corner office overlooking the dock that Jock set the agenda: “I think I’d like to portray Monty as a combustible Billy Bunter type of character,” explained Jock, “you know, throwing his toys out of the pram when he doesn’t get everything his own way, not always popular among his peers, often inviting ridicule….”.

Naturally, Jock nailed it. And so, did Dave. F. Smith, a regular illustrator on the magazine who produced a series of laugh-out-loud caricatures portraying moody Monty at his Billy Bunter best. The magazine was put to bed – and sure enough we were all delighted when the issue emerged in print.

Not so Monty’s manager at IMG, a certain Guy Kinnings, who telephoned the office with his own agenda. 

Robert [Green] was away from his desk, so I took the call.

“Look we all know what Monty can be like but I don’t think that comparing him to Billy Bunter constitutes serious journalism and I really think you should consider publishing an apology” said Kinnings. “We can all take a joke but this is taking things too far, and Colin is really unhappy about it.”

Clearly, they couldn’t take a joke. I explained that in the magazine’s view Monty’s behaviour was virtually guaranteed to extract exactly this sort of editorial and that while there was no getting away from the fact that the illustrations presented him as Billy Bunter the narrative of the story was actually quite affectionate – we all loved Monty. It was just a bit of banter…or Bunter, whichever way you look at it. 

“Well, if you’re not prepared to listen to what I have to say, perhaps I should pass you over…”

With that, Monty’s voice thundered down the line. “Are you the editor of this ****ing magazine?” 

“One of them, yes” I replied.

“Well you’re not very ****ing good at it, are you? What is this pile of ***** that you have produced. You are all a bunch of *****. F***ing Billy Bunter indeed! Who is this Jock Howard….he’s a total ******…. 

The irony. Monty was in full Bunter mode. I hung up.  Then I asked our secretary to send a fax to Guy Kinnings at IMG, explaining that as a matter of routine we record all editorial calls and that I had a very good contact at the Daily Mirror who would be particularly interested in what Monty had to say, verbatim. 

With that we repaired for an early – and extensive – lunch. And what did we find waiting for us when we returned? 

A faxed apology from Monty. 

Priceless.

DECLAN O’DONOGHUE

It’s astonishing that Ireland – a country the size of a postage stamp – has celebrated ten major victories since 2007. Padraig Harrington set the pace with his exhilarating back-to-back Open Championship triumphs in 2007 and 2008.

For sheer unbridled joy, his victory at Carnoustie in 2007 will always illuminate the memory…as will his seismic 5-wood second shot to 3-feet on the par-5 17th hole in the final round at Royal Birkdale a year later.

Great things often happen for those who work tirelessly to achieve their goals. That theme is central to another abiding memory.

On the Saturday evening of the 1976 Carroll’s Irish Open at Portmarnock, with dusk gathering and spectators heading home, curiosity led me to the practice ground.

Gary Player was alone, working intensely on his game. He was seven shots off the pace, yet still believing. It was incredible watching him rifling long iron shots into the distance with such accuracy that his caddie literally picked them out of the air with his gloved claws.

As a cub reporter, representing Pat Ruddy’s Golfer’s Companion, that brief encounter provided a fascinating insight to Player’s extraordinary dedication and served as a valuable lesson in life. There’s no substitute for hard work.

DAVID PURDIE

A few years ago, I sent a piece on golf to The Ayr Advertiser a venerable local paper of the west of Scotland. The article conveyed my warm thanks for its sole coverage of a golfing event 140 years ago. This had allowed, for the first time, the execution of an artwork depicting a milestone in the history of the game.

At noon on Wednesday 17th October 1860, a journalist from the Advertiser stood on a windy links just north of Ayr. He watched as a bearded man teed up a hand-hammered gutta-percha ball upon a small pyramid of sand. Then, lining up with a slightly open stance, he swung his play-club sending the ball northward up the fairway in the general direction of Troon. 

Having laid out the course himself, the player who was also Keeper of the Green, knew exactly what he was doing. He had, however, absolutely no idea what he was starting. For the opening drive of Tom Morris Sr on that Autumn day was literally that; the first of The Open.

Exactly a century later a child in Prestwick asked his grandfather if it were true that the Open had begun right there. I was firmly told that the first twelve Opens had been at Prestwick – and never to forget it! Asking to see a picture or photograph of the occasion I was told, correctly, that none existed.

All great sports have artworks depicting the start of their major championships. We have the first Test at Lord’s, the first Wimbledon and the first Calcutta Cup match. Surely golf was worthy of such company. The hunt was on.

The archived reportage of the man from The Advertiser was a flying start. It revealed that a crowd of several hundred spectators, ladies among them, had watched the four pairs of contestants tee off. It also gave the weather; a day of fitful sunshine, the wind being, as usual at Prestwick, a blustery sou’wester. 

Watching Morris drive was his playing partner Bob Andrew form St Andrews and the six others headed by Wille Park Sr of Musselburgh, the eventual winner. Superintending proceedings was the commanding officer of the Ayrshire Yeomanry cavalry, Col. James Ogilvie Fairlie, a local laird, former Captain of the R&A and the undoubted father of the Open.  

With the scene around the first tee now populated and the weather settled, it was time to engage an artist. This would have to be that rare bird, an artist of golfing landscapes who was also a fine portraitist. Peter Munro was that man.

Two intriguing variables, both essential to accuracy, remained to be settled: the position of the sun in the sky and of the tide on the beach.

An astronomer friend did the calculations, showing that at noon that day the sun’s azimuth angle had been 179 ˚(almost due south), its elevation being 34 ˚above the horizon. This were all shadows in the painting given the correct length and orientation.

Prestwick’s first tee lies, alarmingly, beside the Ayr – Glasgow railway line.  Not so in 1860. Then it was just above the beach. So, where was the tide? Easy, it was in The Glasgow Herald!  The paper noted the high tide at Greenock that day, a simple subtraction giving the position at Prestwick. It was two hours below high water, and ebbing.

Thus was journalism, first with the little Advertiser and finally with the mighty Herald essential to the execution of Peter Munro’s to fine Opening Drive. Do inspect on your next visit to the British Golf Museum where it lives, care of the R&A, except for its annual summer holiday in July, naturally at The Open.  

PHILIP QUINN

The shunt from behind was sudden and hefty, and the force flung me forward, hard into the seat in front.

It was a sticky Tuesday morning in Kentucky and the media bus on its way to the US PGA Championships in Valhalla had just been rear-ended. There were only two of us on board the early morning shuttle and I came off slightly the worst. My neck, upper back and shoulders were jarred but otherwise I was fine, as was my laptop, thankfully.

A few moments later, we stood on the kerb while the cops were called. The guy in the dumpster truck behind couldn’t have been more apologetic.

He said he’d been blinded by the rising sun and hadn’t seen us brake. I felt for him, as he was going to ride the rap. Soon the boys in blue arrived, and took the relevant details. Did Mr Quinn want a ride to a local hospital? No sir, thanks.

Did Mr Quinn want an ambulance? No sir, thanks. More pressingly, Mr Quinn needed a lift to the golf course, to find my seat, find an Irish angle and file copy.

The next shuttle bus came along, slowed to allow for some rubber-necking, and then kept going. Why didn’t it stop, it was half empty? I asked the driver. 

‘Cos they’re sending out a special one just for you guys,’ he said.

After a wait, the replacement bus arrived and we carried on to Valhalla. That day, I learnt a lot about good ‘ol Southern hospitality. More than once, PGA officials asked politely how was I doing and could they do anything for me. Yes, I thought, leave me alone, so I concentrate on my work.   

They provided painkillers, iced tea, sympathy and assured me I could avail of the on-site massage service, as a courtesy.

As the week went on, their visits to my desk became less regular, which was just as well, as the weather, and Wee Rory’s fireworks, were providing the Irish Daily Mail with plenty of copy.

My headache and stiffness cleared and by the weekend I felt absolutely fine. 

At one point, an American colleague asked if I was the guy who’d been involved in the accident on Tuesday. I said I was. He asked if I had a lawyer. I said ‘No, why would I need one?’

He pointed out that I’d been travelling in an official US PGA media bus when the incident occurred and that some folk might think that was worth pursuing.

I thought of the care and decency shown to me on Tuesday morning. It felt genuine and I accepted it as such. 

The week had gotten better with Rory roaring his way to victory in the dark on Sunday night, lifting the Wanamaker Trophy to purple skies. As a plus, the paper waited for him to finish too. 

I’d willingly take another shake of the shoulders if it precedes another Irish victory when the US PGA returns to Valhalla in 2024. 

BOB DAVIES

It was mid-June, 1994, and we were at Oakmont Country Club, in Pennsylvania, where Arnie “The King” Palmer was making his final appearance in the U.S. Open Championship.

On the eve of the tournament four of us – the late, greats Michael Williams and Dai Davies, Michael McDonnell and me – borrowed a limousine from the USGA and drove the 40 or so miles to Arnie’s course at Latrobe.

There we were met by Arnie’s manager, who fixed us up with clubs and off we set to play. We called into the halfway house, where we found Arnie’s wife Winnie. We chatted for a while and as she left, she told the lady who served us to put our drinks on her tab. She left and five seconds later the door burst open and Winnie shouted to the lady “Then put my tab on Arnie’s tab!”

But there was more to come. As we left the course, we were invited into Arnie’s workshop to find him rewinding a leather grip on a putter.

There followed a magical 20 minutes chatting with the great man, creating unforgettable memories for all four of us.

BRIAN CREIGHTON

At my advanced age, I cannot remember many of the most recent opens, but I have a clear memory of my first for Reuters. 

It was in 1978 at St Andrews, which was the year of the great telephone strike in Scotland, and probably elsewhere, so there were no telephones in the press centre. 

As it was long before the days of such devices as the Portabubble, the Tandy, the internet and emails, telephones were the only means of transmitting copy.

Fortunately, our faithful golf stringer at Reuters, Gordon Richardson (who is still alive and well and living in France with his new partner, for those who remember Gordon), had managed to wangle a deal with a local resident in a house beside the course, who for the payment of a reasonable fee, $50.00, if memory serves, allowed me to go into their house to phone my copy. Which I did, on a daily basis.

On the final afternoon, just as the event was coming to a climax, I wandered excitedly out to the 18th in time to find a space underneath the  grandstand from where I could see the 18th green, just as the unforgettable Jack Nicklaus was holing his final putt to win the event for the third time. 

What a thrill for a young kid and very green golf writer to see it happen at his very first open.

So which do I remember most clearly, the telephone situation or the winning putt holed by Jack Nicklaus? Hard to say, really!

BERNIE MCGUIRE 

I am very fortunate as I got into full-time golf reporting in the most bizarre of circumstances having worked on the personal staff of the Premier of New South Wales (One of six Australian States) and then two years on the staff of the Treasurer. 

My four years on the Premiers staff included shaking hands with the Queen and Prince Phillip on their mid-1980s State visit to an occasion when the NSW Police Bomb Squad came bursting into our offices ushering everyone out following a bomb threat on the Premier.

Everything changed in March 1988 when ‘our’ Labor incumbent government lost the State electron and the day after I attended the final round of the Australian PGA Championship at Riverside Oaks to the north-west of Sydney. In the course of attending the event I visited the tournament village and filled out a promotion coupon, dropped it into a box and not thinking more of it. 

The next morning, and as we were in the process of shredding documents and packing-up personal items for the Treasurer, I received a phone call from the Daily Telegraph newspaper advising I had won first prize in the promotion of an all-expenses paid ‘business class’ return trip for two to the Players Championship and being held that same week in Florida. I immediately phoned my brother Steve to ask what he was doing Wednesday.  A newspaper photographer attended the Treasurer’s office and the article appeared in the Tuesday morning edition.  Steve and I jetted out the next night via Los Angeles and finally reaching Jacksonville where they put us up for the week in the Marriott Sawgrass.  I recall, if we got one phone call in the room that week for Fuzzy Zoeller we must have received five or six. Also, I had been undertaking a bit of Australasian Tour photo-journalism work so I hastily got in touch with Australian Golf Digest and I managed to obtain accreditation to the event won by a runaway Mark McCumber.

Naturally, the emotions were very different being in attendance at this year’s (2020) Players Championship 

So, from TPC Sawgrass and now 32-years ago, I am going to single out the events of October 2012 and when I ended-up a Tiger Woods headlock in a bar in China.

I’d been in Shanghai the week prior for the BMW Masters.  The normal two-hour flight was late leaving on this Sunday night to Zhengzhou and venue the next day for the ‘Duel of Lake Jinsha’ – Woods -v- Rory McIlroy.

We got to the hotel very late and I woke-up in a city of 10 million people I’d never heard of and that was laid-out along the Yellow River, and boasting so many skyscrapers it could have easily been New York City.

The ‘Duel at Lake Jinsha’ was also unlike any other event I had been to and attended since.

The players arrived in a fleet of Bentley’s and as Tiger and Rory made their way to the range here was the sight of thousands of spectators very closely lining both sides of the practice range, so much so, there was a passageway of about 50-yards in width to land the ball. No sooner had Rory and Tiger headed to the practice putting green and the crowd swooped to pocket every new Nike golf ball.

I followed the duo to the putting green and with Tiger glancing up:  “Hey Bernie?   What the hell are you doing here?”  Thankfully, I do have the photograph!

There was a day time fireworks show before tee-off, and also the sight of these really attractive European-looking women standing on the tees dressed in evening gowns (and this was very chilly late October day) promoting … well, I still don’t know. Once the ‘The Duel’ got away, the marshals fought for control at every hole including having to crash-tackle spectators who were invading the fairways.

Rory beat Tiger by a shot and then after the official presentation ceremony and a spectacular gala dinner, we headed back into the city to find our way to the White Horse bar within the Crowne Plaza Hotel .. what a memory!

Here in the cordoned-off Presidental lounge of the hotel was the sight of Rory & Tiger ‘fighting’ over the remote control for the karaoke machine and I’m thinking what a great follow-up story as the then World No. 1 and 2 joyfully battling away in a Chinese hotel lounge for supremacy off the golf course.

As Rory headed off, Tiger found his way to where we were standing at the bar and very soon after he’s got me in a head-lock.  I’m laughing, he’s joking and I’m bent over also pleading ‘I give up, I give up’.  It’s my secret why my head found its way in a Woods headlock but we laughed and joked with Tiger for near on an hour.  

It was unique and easily one of the stand-out and more unexpected occasions I’ve ever enjoyed in the company of one the game’s best in all my reporting years since winning ‘that’ career-changing trip. 

Woods also seemed to be changing as I next observed in covering his first visit to the 2015 Wyndham Championship and that became a little more evident when he clearly endeared himself to everyone at the 2018 Valspar Championship, and later that year with all the emotion at Tour Championship, and finally what the whole world witnessed a year ago at Augusta.

We’re fortunate that those in the ‘written media’ do develop relationships with the players but being in a headlock in a bar in a central Chinese city is also one of what many in this ‘AGW Memory Series’ have described as being truly ‘priceless’.

Also, it was a lot more comfortable than the sight of a snarly-looking European-born Major champion bursting into a press room at a ‘I can’t remember’ regular Euro Tour stop and seriously looking for my scalp!

“Paul, sorry but I don’t write the headlines!”

NORMAN DABELL

Early autumn 1989. Ebel European Masters Swiss Open. Crans sur Sierre. Preview day, Wednesday. Broke, late, tired, but happy that the third of my first three events as a freelance on the European Tour had started off reasonably well. That was despite arriving up the mountain on a wing (well, bus, ferry and train actually) and a prayer.

As I trudged up the streets of Crans, an apologetic, quietly decomposing, cheese and tomato roll left over from lunch, sat in my pocket. Head in the early evening low-lying clouds, I went over my copy check calls to put my mind at rest that the day was done. My thoughts were disturbed by a tapping on the window of the restaurant I was passing.

They were all there. Several who had given me my first breaks: Renton, Mitchell, Michael Williams …and a good few more. Men who would become firm friends for many a long year. “Come in Norm, you look beat. What do you want to drink? What do you fancy on the menu? We’ll take care of it all.” My cup ranneth over.

When Seve won the tournament, a memorable and unforgettable week was complete.

Fast-forward to 2011. Almost Christmas. The gathering of the golfing fourth estate, AKA the European Tour’s end of season get-together. The day of my retirement. 

It had been some journey; a memorable, hectic, hairy, seat-of-my-pants, fulfilling, journey. Rubbing shoulders with legendary golfers, delighted at becoming friends with many of them, none more so than with Seve, my hero. Being there at golf’s epic moments: Ryder Cup; the Open; US Open; Masters; outstanding, exciting European Tour victories in myriad countries; enjoying sumptuous gala dinners.

Most of all it was the camaraderie over those years that brought a sob to my throat when Ollie and George presented me with my retirement decanter. And I looked around the room at the folk that had meant so much to me.  They were all there. Well nearly all. Some had sadly passed away. Those who had given me my breaks and to whom I was indebted for my very career. So were the lads and one or two gals, I’d journeyed with. Those who had worked alongside me, drank, dined with me, sat out endless days of rain stoppages with me, those who’d competed with me for stories. They were there. I even fancied I saw Michael Williams puff on his pipe, Dai Davies take another pull on a meaty red; Billy Bypass sneak off to file an exclusive; Hear Doddie let out one of his infectious chuckles and Frank Clough telling one of his amusing anecdotes. It was only fancy. They were no longer with us.

But there and there in spirit, a band of brothers and sisters. “Couldn’t have done it without you.”

ISABEL TRILLO

Remembering a single moment of my life in golf is like asking who you love more, mom or dad. So, if you allow me, I will remember two. The first, you can imagine: my first Augusta Masters in 1994 coinciding with the first Green Jacket by José María Olazábal. I remember that I had an old typewriter and every day (most the last) that I went up and down the stairs every minute to send faxes with news and interviews to the Colpisa agency. And when Olazábal entered the interview room, I heard over the public address system, with a strong American accent: “JoseMaría olaasdb, JoseMaría Olajafbmewbwf…. He is here! ” And it made us all laugh.

And my second favourite moment, the first interview I did with Seve Ballesteros at his house in Pedreña in 1991, for the newspaper El Mundo. It was a difficult morning, with several photoshoots and interviews scheduled, and the local photographer and I were the last of six meetings that day. It was a few months before the Kiawah Island Ryder Cup. I had read a lot about him, but did not know him in person, although I knew of his victories at British Open and Masters.

The Santander photographer, who did know him, kept telling me that he was a very unpleasant, very cold guy, and that we were privileged because he hardly gave interviews. And I was trembling, more and more every minute waiting my turn.

In front of me was a girl, a trainee, who worked in an economic magazine and she asked me if I knew how much money Seve was making in his career. I warned her that it was not a good question, especially when around that time, several businessmen had been threatened and extorted by the ETA gang of assassins. But she ignored me: his interview lasted 15 seconds. I saw her leave almost tearful and running, insulting Seve like an unpleasant persona. And from the back of the room I heard a voice, like thunder screaming: “Let’s see, next.” And that was me.

I approached, fearful. I introduced myself, the newspaper where I work. And when he shook hands with me, his touch impressed me: a hard hand, stiff, like wood, strong. And I said the first thing that occurred to me: “My God, Severiano. I am facing a true hero who has changed the world of golf, who has made historical achievements, a true legend, and I have been speechless”.

I don’t know if he smiled when he saw my scared face, or if he was funny about the way I started the interview. The fact is that the half-hour that he had granted turned into hours and hours of conversation, of golf, of life, of journalism; He invited us to lunch, gave us a tour of Pedreña and accompanied us to return home. And when I said goodbye to him, with two kisses and a hug, I had the courage to say: “Seve, he had scared me, but you’re a great guy.” (Exact word: acojonada).

Why? he asked me. “For the way the other journalist came out in front of me after 15 second with you”, I say.

And his response has marked my entire life as a journalist: “You present yourself with humility and respect, and knowing the character in front of you; and I have treated you with the same humility and respect”.

I smiled and it was undoubtedly the beginning of a great friendship.

A few months ago, I was talking to Carmen, who was his wife, and we discussed this anecdote and she told me: “Seve always had a lot of respect for you as a professional and a lot of love as a person.” Phew!!!. How can I forget this moment?

JEREMY CHAPMAN

Scrolling back 42 years to the 1978 Benson & Hedges at Fulford, I watched a young German for a while and was hypnotised by him yipping a handful of 3ft putts which never even touched the hole. His playing partners had to avert their eyes for fear the disease was contagious.

Unusually, he was pulling his own trolley. In those far-off days the only German in the field looked homesick and lonely. Somehow despite that awful affliction he managed to finish in a share of seventh. I introduced myself and gave him my card, telling him that my wife Christa was German and when the tour came south we’d be happy to feed him some good German home-cooking.

I thought no more about it and never bothered to tell Christa the story. Ten whole weeks later, in the lead-up to the European Open at Walton Heath, there was a knock on the door. I was at work at The Sporting Life in New Fetter Lane.

Christa opened it to find a young fellow-countryman in front of her saying “My name is Bernhard Langer and your husband said I could stay with you.” No phone call, no nothing. Because of the suitcase, Christa thought it was either a carpet cleaner or a guy selling brushes. Somewhat startled, she rang me at the office and I was able to put her mind at rest. I had indeed invited Bernhard but had forgotten to tell her about it.

We found the Roman Catholic Church for him in Claygate for his daily prayers and the 20-year-old finished an eye-catching 20th to Bobby Wadkins, who beat Gil Morgan and Bernard Gallacher in a play-off. It was a strong international field.

He must have felt at home because he was back two years later, surprising us again by bringing his pal Ossie Gartenmaier with him. We hastily erected a fold-up bed for the Austrian number one in Bernhard’s room. It must have been comfortable enough because Gartenmaier played above himself to earn a decent cheque for 44th place, on the same mark as Ken Brown and dual US Open champion Andy North.

Langer finished fifth to Tom Kite and was clearly heading for the big time by then. His European Tour breakthrough at the Dunlop Masters at St Pierre was less than a month away. And he just went on and on and on winning, 116 times and counting. He’s already a winner on the Champions circuit this year, at 62. A remarkable man.

ED HODGE

As many of you can probably testify to, the thrill of chasing an interview is often as satisfying as actually sitting down with the golfer in question.

On one such search, I was tasked with tracking down the great Lee Trevino, one of the most charismatic and talented players in the game. A man who likes to talk too. Lee had uttered those immortal words about The King’s Course at Gleneagles. ‘If heaven is as good as this, I sure hope they have some tee times left’.

Tasked to understand why he said it, when he said it and much more, I set in wheels the motion of speaking to US-based Trevino. I recall going through the familiar routes… agent, manager, any colleague who had spoken to him before etc.

Eventually, his manager proved helpful and a message was passed to Trevino to call me. Days and weeks went by. Nothing. Weeks and months went by. Nothing. A few chaser emails. Nothing. The hunt seemed over. A failed mission. In fact, the challenge had long gone out of my head until I was leaving my old Scottish Golf Union office at The Duke’s, St Andrews on my journey home along a back road in Fife.

Out of the blue, my mobile rings with an unknown US-based number. I have no clue regarding the call, but answer it hands-free in the car. ‘Hey, is that Ed?’ I can briefly hear, amid distant crackling. ‘I can barely hear you, but yeah, this is Ed.’ I could then hardly make out the words: ‘Nice, this is Lee Trevino.’ I do well not to crash!

With mobile reception poor between St Andrews and Cupar (as many will know), I utter some excitable words and promise to call Trevino back immediately when I pull over. I can’t let this chance pass. But still my mobile reception is playing up some 10 minutes later when I hurry into Cupar’s Tesco car park. Still a lack of signal.

I quickly head for the store and soon find myself rather bizarrely standing beside the ‘fruit and veg’ section, taking some strange glances from passing shoppers and throwing questions at one of golf’s greatest.

It seemed the only spot I could achieve a signal in the nick of time. ‘Ed, you okay, you sound a little tired?’ ‘No, fine Lee, never been better. Now, about The King’s…’

DAVE EDWARDS

Have you heard the one about the golfer, the footballer and the ‘king’ of rock ‘n’ roll?

Early in 2004 I wrote a feature on a remarkable 88-year-old, Jack Pressley, who still practiced with his home-made heavy-headed putter every day at his home town club, Fraserburgh, the 7th oldest golf club in the world.

Jack, who sadly passed away four years later aged 92, a baker to trade, not only became a highly acclaimed saxophonist in the well-known family dance-band of the day, but also ended up as one of his country’s most talented amateur golfers, although he did lose out to Hammy McInally in the final of the Scottish Amateur Championship at Western Gailes in 1947.

Earlier, in 1939, Jack had been lined up to become an assistant-professional to the legendary James Braid at Walton Heath, the outbreak of World War II put paid to that, and it was always a regret.

In his youth, Pressley held the course record at Fraserburgh, Duff House Royal, Huntly and Deeside, all at the same time

During his sparkling amateur career he not only qualified for the 1953 Open at Carnoustie, where Ben Hogan stormed to victory, but he also represented his country in the home internationals on several occasions.

However, the undoubted highlight for Jack was playing in a four-ball against Henry Cotton and his partner, Charlie Stolle, and taking them to the 19th before losing out.

A few weeks after meeting Jack I was assigned to cover my first, and to date, my only international football match, a Euro qualifier at the Millennium Stadium between Wales and Scotland. Disappointingly, the Scots were thumped 4-0, thanks to a hat-trick from diminutive West Brom striker, Robert Earnshaw.

After interviewing hat-trick hero Earnshaw, jubilant Welsh manager Mark Hughes and an understandably downcast Scots boss Berti Vogts, the assembled press corp rushed off to file their copy, while I was left on my own in the mixed-zone, tasked by my sports editor to interview one of the humbled Scottish players.

One by one they passed, without as much as a glance in my direction, when the last one was about to step onto the team coach, I shouted out in desperation – ‘Steven, Dave Edwards of the P&J, I wrote an article about your grand-dad a couple of weeks ago’.

Centre half that night, former Rangers, Coventry City, Dundee United, Rangers and Hearts defender, Steven Pressley, who went on to win 32 Scotland caps, turned around, walked towards me and literally saved my bacon. He told me that his grand-father Jack had posted him the article, that he had loved it, and that he would be delighted to speak to me.

As for the ‘king’ of rock ‘n’ roll, Jack was adamant, and it has been proved elsewhere, that somewhere along the line a letter ‘s’ was missed out on a birth-certificate ,and that in-fact the legendary Elvis Presley was a direct descendant of Jack’s forefather, John Pressley, and his son Andrew, who left the parish of Lonmay in Aberdeenshire to emigrate to America in the early 18th century.

HENRIK KNUDSEN

When you come from a country that as late as the 1980’s had but a few thousand golfers – all of whom were considered slightly Anglophile nutcases – the very thought that a Dane could win anything at tour level was simply unrealistic.

When it came to majors – well just qualifying for one was considered a victory. But a fiery young man from Silkeborg changed all that, and before leaving for the 2003 Open – at a meeting in my Editors office – I even ventured that Thomas Bjørn might be in the mix at Royal St George’s.

When the Danish journalists present in Sandwich had a chat with Thomas on the Tuesday, he was asked who he considered to be the favorites. He mentioned the usual suspects and when I asked, ‘what about yourself’? – he agreed that he was playing well but wasn’t quite sure if he was ready to contend in a major.

I had been commentating for Danish television since 1991, so imagine my excitement when he was actually leading coming down the stretch. The unthinkable was becoming possible – even looked likely.

No need for details about the bunker on the 16th, but at some point, on the 17th hole my co-commentator – who was Bjørn’s former coach – said ‘there ARE chairs in here you know’. Without knowing it I had been doing commentary for at least an hour standing. 

That evening – back in our hotel in Ramsgate – neither of us touched dinner. A couple of pints went down well – but there was no appetite and we were both very quiet.

Later my Editor told me that – on my hunch – he had placed 500 Crowns (approx. 60 Pound Sterling) on Thomas to win at odds 50-1. He still to this day likes to remind me of how much money he ‘lost’ in that bunker.

ERSKINE McCULLOUGH

The problem with being an international news agency golf writer is that you very rarely get the chance to get out on the course and actually see the action. Some client somewhere in the world is wanting copy.

While you might be ‘there’ you end up, like the majority of golf fans, watching it on television.

But every so often…..

At the Ryder Cup in Valderama, with Seve captain, I told myself I was going to watch all the groups going down the first hole.

So after the rains stopped and play got under way‎ I positioned myself 150 yards down the first fairway inside the ropes so I could see. The way the photographers were lined up on the first tee I could not actually see anyone drive off as I stood waiting for the first pair to come down the fairway. As I was standing looking towards the first tee I suddenly saw President George Bush Snr, his wife Barbara and a clutter of Secret Service guards, heading straight for me.

Twenty yards away Bush looked at me and smiled. I wondered who might be standing behind me. But Bush came straight up to me and shook my hand.

“Good to see you again” he said.

“You’re looking very good Mr President,” I offered, my hea‎d spinning as I wondered who the hell he thought I was.

As soon as he arrived, he was away and settled himself down by the green. Twenty minutes later I walked past him as he sat by the green. We both gave a small hand wave to each other.

Where are photographers when you want one?

I have met and talked with many great golfers but not to U.S. Presidents, even ex ones.

JED SCOTT

I wasn’t to know it when I took my first steps in sports journalism in 1990 that the playing career of my all-time hero Seve Ballesteros was all but over.

As an 18th-green admirer, I’d witnessed the last two of his five Majors, his glorious Open wins at St Andrews in 1984 and on that Lytham Monday in 1988 – and saw him help inspire the 1985 Ryder Cup victory at The Belfry.

But I’d not had the chance to meet or write in depth about him until his brother Vicente’s golf school opened at San Roque in Spain, Seve was asked to officially open it and, having written a previous Birmingham Post travel piece on them, I cheekily asked for an invite – and a full feature-length interview.

As it turned out, John Hopkins and Martin Johnson had the same idea, so it was to be a shared interview. But a two-hour lunch with two great characters like them – and Seve too –  on a sun-kissed terrace with Andalucian mountains as a backdrop was hardly a burden.

They say never meet your hero. In this instance, they’re wrong. Seve was thankfully everything I’d expected him to be: Charm personified and, even in his foreign tongue, a marvellous raconteur.

He grinned as I finally got to tell him how I’d won him the 1988 Open (I found his ball In the base of a gnarled old tree root on the long sixth on day two, which he then got out left handed second go – and still only dropped one shot!). And he gave us a good story in return, sadly a prophetic one, about just how bad the back injury was which ended his career. All the more remarkable given that we’d watched him conduct an hour’s golf clinic earlier that morning during which he’d fired off three awesome drives, all of them gun barrel straight and off the end of the range. Only after the third of him did he wince!

 Just one regret remains. My wife, who I’d smuggled on the trip, arrived to sit at an adjoining table to sip a Sangria and soak up some rays but never once thought about capturing this magic moment on film.

She, on the other hand, had something more tangible to remember the Spanish maestro by – an impromptu farewell kiss (“both cheeks, but one missed slightly,” she recalls now with a cheeky smile) as Seve happened to stroll past while we stood on the hotel steps waiting for a taxi to return to Malaga Airport the following night.

“Adios again then Seve”.

We might have lost the man but not the memories!

DICK TURNER

I was often dubbed The Baddest Man in Golf for my barbed comments.

But when I became the target of death threats that began appearing on YouTube from a Tiger Woods fan, things really began getting a bit hairy.

Tiger had turned up at Celtic Manor for the 2010 Ryder Cup supported by an army of fans from both sides of the pond and some had resented my perfectly reasonable question – or so I thought.

There was no doubt that Tiger’s career was on the slide and I suggested that as he didn’t win majors or regular PGA events any more he was likely to lose his World No1 ranking and had no interest in the Ryder Cup.

Woods replied in his trademark manner, saying: “I hope you have a good week.”

But that wasn’t the end of the matter because a clip appeared on YouTube minutes later and began receiving thousands of hits.

Tiger’s fans showed their outrage with some venomous comments but one stood out above all the others.

It said: “I’m going to put a couple of bullets into the back of Dick Turner’s head.”

I did not have any objection to this rash expression of violence but YouTube summarily removed the clip.

And Tiger let his clubs do the talking by winning three points from a possible four.

SCOTT MacCALLUM

It was July 1986 and three months before I’d started my golf writing career at Golf Monthly. I was one of three people sitting in the Golf Rules Illustrated caravan and I was listening to Karsten Solheim explain to Henry Cotton how he’d come up with the first Ping putter! What a start to a career. I was only sorry that it was another 25 years before I could have asked for a selfie.

That was the highlight of my first Open. The lowlight came on Sunday evening outside the Press Centre waiting to catch a plane to fly down to our printers to win a completely pointless race with Golf World to be the first mag on the news shelves. A CBS cameraman came over said how much he liked my faux leather Open folder, issued to us all at the beginning of the week. Would I like to swap for a CBS umbrella? I was seduced by the offer and the exchange was made.

It was only as I sat on our private plane heading down to Gatwick that it dawned on me that my collection of Open Snippets, my one job during my first Open, had been in that folder. Fortunately, having spent so much time going over and over them I had most of them consigned to memory and by working through the night I could present them as complete in the morning. The umbrella? It fell apart before the first Scottish shower. A lesson learned. Not once since then have I swapped anything valuable for a dodgy CBS umbrella.

My second memory was 1999. Working for BIGGA at the time, we were stationed alongside the 18th green waiting to greet the new Champion and have his picture taken with the Greenkeeping Support Team. Tuned into the Radio Five Live (Tony A I believe, not Ian C) I was able to report that Jean van de Velde had struck his approach to the green.

“Crack!” The ball struck a strap on the front of the stand no more than two feet behind me at head height and bounced back over the burn. Had it struck me, it would have dropped, a bit like myself no doubt, no more than a few feet away and Jean would have had a pretty simple shot from the Drop Zone. The title would have been his, I would have been awarded the Legion D’Honour, possibly posthumously, and we would have missed out on our last Scottish winner.

LIAM KELLY 

Greg Norman has played gazillions of pro-ams in his long career and seen some brutal golf played by the hackers in his company, but he is an expert in disguising the pain that amateur golfers must inflict on his golfing psyche.

I know. I was one of those soldiers.

The opportunity arose as part of the opening celebrations of Doonbeg – now owned by The Donald – in July, 2002.  Norman had designed the course, which has, of course, since been massively overhauled at the behest of The Trumpmeister, but on that glorious day almost 18 years ago, Greg stood proud as the creator of the brand new links in County Clare.

On this occasion, the great unwashed of the media were being given a preview of Doonbeg. Each fourball would get four holes in the company of the great man.

Me, the Little Pale Minnow, then off 15 handicap, got ready to take on the Great White Shark, and did so with my usual top class mental and physical preparation. That meant I sallied forth from the locker room of Doonbeg in a lather of sweat, with the muck of three months soggy parkland golf cemented onto the club heads, the shoes creased and worn, and me fumbling for balls and tees and with the mind racing forward anticipating disaster. 

And I made sure to use ‘old’ golf balls. Couldn’t bear the thought of losing shiny new ProVs, even in the company of a two-time Major champion.

Our group was to play holes nine through 12 with Greg. After introductions came the tee shot on the ninth, then a par-3 measuring 110 yards. Palms sweaty, heart beating, legs slightly rubbery, and the swing thought was highly professional, i.e “Swing fast, get it over with.”

I sliced the ball well short, and glanced around to see the reaction, but Greg was lost in thought, looking out to sea. Just as well. Still, I got a bogey on the hole.  The 10th, dog-leg left, par-5. Greg’s tee was 150 yards behind ours.

He smashed a beautiful drive into the middle of the fairway, then came up and gave us the line.

“There’s loads of fairway out the right hand side, you don’t want to be left.” “Okay,” sez I, and promptly pull-hook the ball out to the left. 

It’s heading for red stakes and might be in trouble. There’s a low wall up there too, but as we get closer, the ball is playable.  Then my caddie – bless him! – whispers: “You outdrove him.”

Yeah, right, bar the slight advantage of teeing off 150 yards ahead of our Greg, but still….and then comes reality.

“You got a nice bounce off that wall, Liam,” says the Shark. 

Harsh, but true. Thanks Greg. Rain on my parade why don’t ya! Hey, I went on to get a par-5 there. Look up from holing par putt. Applause? No. Greg is already marching to the par-3, 11th hole.

His tee is way behind ours. Again, his ball flies long and true, and it ends up at the back of the green.  Me? Typical hacker, I play the shot I never practice and rarely hit – the classic links punched shot under the wind with a seven iron.

Much to my amazement, the ball flies off the clubface beautifully, and lands about 12 feet from the hole.

“Nice shot, Liam.” My chest swells. The seal of approval from Greg. Then, aarrgh, the pressure level soars when we’re on the green and he says: “Come on, Liam, roll it in now.”

Jeez, Greg.  Sweaty palms, heart racing, I know in that instant, that my  left-to-right slider birdie putt is never going to fall in the hole. 

But I somehow jabbed it to a foot, and holed for a ‘mere’ par, despite the knees knocking like castanets. I finished out the 12th with a par-4, which was something of a minor miracle, and, before we parted company, I had the temerity to ask Greg for a putting tip. 

At first, the seemed to think I was taking the pee-pee, but realising I was serious, he graciously obliged. 

The tip? “Most people quit on the putt and don’t follow through, so get the club head going all the way to the hole.”

It has proved its worth to me many times since then. 

Thanks, Greg, and thanks for great memories. 

ROBERT GREEN

Two stories about the late, great Peter Dobereiner, who was so helpful to me and generous with his time when I started writing about golf in the late 1970s.

The first is from a Spanish Open in the 1980s. One Saturday afternoon in Madrid, Peter’s attempts to get through to his copytaker (remember: no computers in those days) were taking longer than he had hoped. Eventually he was shown to a phone cubicle by the press officer and he began to dictate his 800 words. About halfway through, relieved the line was still working, he was interrupted by a strong cockney accent on the other end.

“Hey, guv, don’t you think that word’s a bit strong?”

“What do you mean?” “I mean ‘mellifluous’.” “I’m perfectly sure that readers of The Observer know what mellifluous means.” 

“I dare say, mate, but this isn’t The Observer. It’s The People.”

The awful truth dawned that the press officer had directed him to the wrong phone. But Peter’s apologies, tinged with dismay at having to suffer the whole rigmarole again, were broken by the voice saying; “It doesn’t matter. This is better than the crap I normally get here. You finish it off and I’ll send it on to your paper.”

The second anecdote will already be known to several members. In days gone by, the Masters used to host a party on the Saturday evening for the club members and British golf writers. 

In order to freshen up and put on a clean shirt and tie after a hard day in the press centre, we were permitted to use the locker room which was on the ground floor of the clubhouse, next to the grill room where the function was held. 

As Peter was getting himself ready for the 1996 event, who should walk in but Greg Norman, no doubt confident this would be the last time he would be using this changing room because next year he’d be in the champions’ locker room. He did, after all, lead Nick Faldo by six shots with a round to play. 

“Congratulations, Greg,” said Peter cheerily. “I don’t think even you can fuck it up from here.”

Of course, Peter wasn’t infallible…

One other thing. On the final hole of his singles match against Fuzzy Zoeller at the 1983 Ryder Cup, Seve Ballesteros hit what Jack Nicklaus, the American captain, called “the best shot I ever saw”. It was a 3-wood from a bunker which carried over 250 yards and put him on the green. I am presuming that Jack saw it because he was walking with that match; it was the first singles out. Phil Sheldon saw it, because there is his famous shot of Seve watching the flight of the ball after he’d hit it. Bernhard Langer told me he’d seen it, presumably on television highlights given that he was in the third match out. I’m sure I’ve seen it on TV, too. But it seems that my memory, and Bernhard’s, are playing tricks.

After exhaustive research, a friend of mine says that footage simply does not exist. Before the US broadcast began that day, the cameras were being prepared, as usual. There is footage of Seve and Zoeller on the final green – footage which was not shown on TV – but nothing before that. In my mind, I’m sure I have seen that 3-wood shot, but the available evidence would suggest I haven’t. Or is there someone out there in the AGW who know otherwise – and, I guess, knows from where to produce the proof?

DAN MURPHY

It was the summer of 2002 and I was on my way to Muirfield as a newly minted journalism postgraduate to cover my first Open Championship for National Club Golfer.

I say cover – watch and drink in would be more accurate. We had no website in those days and the next magazine deadline was weeks away.

We were renting a cottage in North Berwick that was available from the Saturday evening and I took full advantage, driving up that afternoon, ready for the final qualifying events running on Sunday and Monday at North Berwick, Gullane, Luffness and Dunbar.

I spent Sunday morning chasing around after the likes of NCG columnist Gary Wolstenholme, local hero Andrew Coltart and Ryder Cup captain Sam Torrance. On my way through Gullane, I thought I would call in at Muirfield, having never previously been further than those famous wrought-iron HCEG gates.

I was thrilled to find that I could gain access to the course and duly collected my press credentials. I was the first journalist on site that week and still have the pass to prove it: numbered 0001.

I wandered out to walk the course and followed American Tim Petrovic, of all people, for a few holes.

Then I caught a glimpse of an unmistakable silhouette in the distance – it was Tiger Woods putting on the par-5 5th green.  There were no ropes and no marshalls – just Tiger, Fluff and Mark O’Meara plus Tiger’s entourage chatting and playing away. It turns out his helicopter had landed an hour before from Ireland and, like me, he’d headed straight out for his first look at Muirfield.

Tiger arrived in Scotland having won the the first two majors of the year and eyeing up a Grand Slam to go alongside the Tiger Slam he had completed the previous year.

I walked the next four holes down the fairways with him in awe at his ball-striking, from as close up as if I were his playing partner. Looking back towards the clubhouse, I could see more and more fans heading our way, first a couple and then in their dozens, as word got round.

Eventually, as we approached the 9th green, the marshalls arrived in horror with their ropes and ushered us off the pristine turf. The exhibition was over.

Six days later, I watched Tiger’s Grand Slam hopes get wrecked by the infamous Muirfield Storm and was part of a throng of journalists who went to interview him greenside, drenched and shivering, immediately following his 81.

Ernie Els would eventually lift the Claret Jug and I was there for his champion’s Monday press conference but my memories of that week – sorry 10 days – in East Lothian will always be dominated by Tiger.

GORDON RICHARDSON

As, at 82 and a half, I’m embracing veteran status myself, it is perhaps appropriate my most memorable moment in over 54 years in the AGW involves two of golf’s “golden oldies”.

On October 10 1994 I drove my late wife, Anne, to Knightshayes Court near Tiverton, Devon to meet its resident, Lady Heathcoat-Amery……Joyce Wethered, 92, four times British Amateur Champion and English Champion in five successive seasons in the 20s. Wow!

Anne, a sculptor, had created a bronze statuette of Joyce, resplendent in her belted woolly cardigan, calf-length skirt and broad brimmed hat, which would become the Daily Telegraph Joyce Wethered Trophy, awarded annually to the outstanding woman amateur under 25.

AGW colleague Lewine Mair, who sold the idea to the DT, penned a delightful half page piece the next day and my wife, a good enough golfer to have partnered the likes of Howard Clark and Robert Lee in pro-ams and a team player for the New Forest Club, Bramshaw, loved meeting her hero over tea and cakes. So did I.

She asked Joyce how she managed to hang on to her sizeable hat on windy golfing links. “Fortnum and Mason made them specially tight fitting for me.”

Given a replica trophy by Anne, Joyce enjoyed chatting about the good old days, admitting she had just one regret: “Not sending a telegram of congratulations to my dear friend Gene Sarazen when he holed in one at the Postage Stamp in the 1973 Open at Troon”.

I met my second “golden oldie” a few weeks later at the Sarazen World Open in Atlanta, passing on Joyce’s sincere regrets to the 91-year-old seven-times major champion. He asked me for her phone number and promised to call that very day.  

PATRICIA DAVIES

Everyone’s stories have brought back so many happy memories, thank you all.  Great how the moments of despair and blind panic fade and the laughs remain.  

No Tiger headlock stories from me – though sister Maureen and I did find ourselves in the room next to his at the Memorial one year and failed to wonder why he was loaded down with so many takeaway bags; we were barking up the wrong appetite.  Duh.

Anyway, this is about my most memorable tournament and there were a lot of contenders.  GB and I’s stunning Curtis Cup victory in 1986 at Prairie Dunes (play there if you can but not in 100 degrees); Laura Davies winning the US Women’s Open in 1987;  Liselotte Neumann winning that title the following year; Europe’s unforgettable, unexpected hammering of the Americans in the Solheim Cup at Dalmahoy in 1992 (Tony Jacklin followed the action on Ceefax because no one thought it would be worth televising such a one-sided encounter); any number of other Solheim’s, Opens, Masters and Ryder Cups – particularly Valderrama where Europe won because of (and in spite of) the intensity and passion of a peripatetic captain Seve and the K Club, awash with tears for Heather Clarke and rain, rain, rain.  I put my waterproofs on in the morning and took them off when we got home at night – Dai and I stayed with Helen and Colm Smith which made it all the more special; I still miss them all. 

Annika’s 59 at Moon Valley in Phoenix, Arizona, was another contender, not least because I managed to persuade The Times, despite the ghastly time difference, to switch my space with the men’s European Tour event;  that gave me a whole 400-odd words instead of 250, what a triumph!

“Is there much more of this?”  I hear you ask. Well, I’ve plumped for what I still think is one of the best performances ever by a European golfer in America, up there with the best of Seve, Faldo, Sandy, Woosie, Langer, Chema, Annika, Rory, whoever.  Yes, THAT good.

It was Alison Nicholas winning the US Women’s Open and a trophy nearly as big as she was at Pumpkin Ridge in Oregon in 1997.  

It was another occasion awash with emotion because Nicholas, three shots ahead, was paired with Nancy Lopez in the final round.   I haven’t enough words to explain Nancy to those who’ve never heard of her but she was the darling of American golf, a superstar if ever there was one, who had never won her national title despite coming close several times.  This would surely be her moment. The fire-hydrant-sized Englishwoman would surely crumble and Nancy would have the title she craved above all others.

This was a proper championship, with proper crowds and the place was packed, the atmosphere electric, with nearly every one of the tens of thousands there rooting for Lopez.  As were most of the media. After all, why not? It was a wonderful tale waiting to be told and none of them anticipated Nicholas having the nerve or the game to hold up and spoiling it all.

As I remember it, Lopez started with two birdies and had another at the long 4th – and was still three behind.  Nicholas, who holed a knee-trembler for a par at the 1st, then had a birdie and holed her pitch for an eagle three at the 4th.  Game on.

I had a poxy edition with a half six deadline (British time) and the copy was usually a bit of mish-mash because, essentially, with an 8-hour time difference bugger all had happened.  Not this time. The first four holes were so sensational that the story wrote itself. I remember that there was a power cut but even it was well-timed, so I filed ok and I turned to Elspeth Burnside and said, “You know, Elspeth, whatever happens from now on, we can’t lose.”

Nancy was a wonderful story and a wonderful person, so no problem there and I thought I didn’t really mind who won…..but as the day wore on, I realised that was nonsense; I really, really, really wanted Big Al to win.

And win she did – though a double bogey near the end set the nerves on edge and an alternative intro in the works.  Nicholas, aided and abetted by Mark Fulcher, who was calmness personified and went on to more great things caddying for Justin Rose, shrugged off the setback and carried off the biggest prize of all.

And I think it all made the main edition.      

PETER DIXON

In those long-forgotten days when newspapers had money to spare, I found myself covering the Royal Trophy (remember that?) in Bangkok. The great Seve was the captain of the Europe team against Asia and had just returned from an ill-fated attempt to play on the seniors tour in the US. He was a saddened man at the time because his back had given up on him and he was just not up to playing golf any more. The assembled journos had been specifically asked not to mention this back in the press conference, so it fell to the indefatigable Karl MacGinty, that most wonderful of travelling companions, to ask the question: “So Seve, what’s with the back?”

To say that Seve was furious would be an understatement. We didn’t find out about his back, but we were left in little doubt about how he felt about us (Karl, actually).

The following day Karl and I were in a lift together in our  hotel when it stopped at a floor. As the doors opened, standing there was Seve. He looked at us, came into the confined space and pushed the button for his floor. The silence was awkward to say the least until Seve turned towards Karl, his eyes twinkling, and asked: “So, how’s the back?”

Priceless.

CARLY FROST

One of my first assignments for Golf Weekly magazine was to cover the 2002 Ryder Cup at The Belfry. As a recent graduate journalist and golf nut in her early twenties, it was a dream come true. 

Although I had attended several tour events previously, the whole Ryder Cup protocol was an eye-opening experience for me. Entering the enormous press centre I excitedly headed to the media desk to check-in and pick up my credentials. 

As a weekly news magazine, we were entitled to an ‘inside the ropes’ bib, which as I would later discover, was a much-coveted clothing accessory that as we all know gives an uninterrupted vantage point of the action. I’d arrived on the last practice day and didn’t waste a minute to don my new bib and head straight to the range to observe the players warming up and check-out any last-minute changes to the likely pairings. As Team Europe started to exit the range my day got a little strange. Some smiled at me, others had a little chuckle, one cheeky young Spaniard even gave me a wink! I naturally felt slightly self-conscious, nevertheless shrugged it off and headed out onto the course. 

A few hours passed by and I had positioned myself on the back of the 14th green with our photography Angus Murray. The first group through were Westwood and Garcia. To my surprise as they exited the green Sergio pointed at me to share a joke with Lee and both started to laugh their heads off. I turned to Gus, with a face as red as the bib I was wearing and asked “what on earth are they laughing at? Gus looked at me as if I was as naively blonde as the colour of my hair and said: “I think it may be your bib.” I looked down and the number “69” looked straight back up at me. 

To this day I swear I hadn’t even glanced at the number on the bib until that moment and I’ll always wonder whether it was an embarrassing coincidence or some funny prank played on me by a comical press officer intent on giving me an amusing initiation into the world of golf journalism. 

JERRY TARDE 

My one golf moment that stands above the others occurred on Sunday’s back nine predictably in the 1986 Masters. I used to watch the action from a bird’s nest constructed for “working press only” by the 12th tee, and when the leaders came through, jump ahead to the giant grandstand to the left of the 15th green. On this day, I watched Jack Nicklaus miss his tiddler for par on 12, which he later said spurred him to bear down even more, and dash down the 15th. I was a lad in my 20s then and could still dash. Shortly after getting to my perch on the back row, Nicklaus and his caddie-son wavered back in the fairway before hitting a long iron—“a 3 will go a long way here,” Jack said to Jackie, we’d later learn in the quonset hut—to about 20 feet and then hole it for an eagle. This set up the aforementioned “moment.”

As everybody knows, Jack’s tee shot finished about four feet from the hole on 16. Tom Watson playing behind Nicklaus left himself about a 25-foot eagle putt on 15, and Seve Ballesteros walked up to his prodigious drive in the fairway at 15. At that moment, as I saw it from the grandstand, you could draw a straight line from Nicklaus’s birdie putt, through Watson’s eagle putt, to Ballesteros’ pending approach shot. In my mind, I thought: “the past, present and future of golf.” Within a couple of minutes, Nicklaus holed, Watson missed, and Seve dunked his ball. But that still wasn’t the moment.

As I dashed once again down the grandstand’s back staircase and headed to 17, I brushed past some patrons in the crosswalk and distinctly heard one Southern accent say to another: “Ahh don’t care what Jack does, there’ll nevah be another Ahhnold Palmahh.”

VISWANTHAN KRISHNASWAMY aka SWAMMY

It was only from 2012, that I became a ‘regular’ at the Masters and the Indian papers would carry the reports nicely and display it superbly.

Arjun Atwal won the Wyndham Championship on the PGA Tour in 2010 and earned a start at the 2011 Masters. In the subsequent years I would see Anirban Lahiri play in 2015 and 2016 and then Shubhankar Sharma in 2018.

In recent years, I have been fortunate to stay with my great friends from the Asian Tour, including Cho Min Thant, the CEO and Commissioner of the Asian Tour.

One day during the Masters week is reserved for the special party thrown by Dr. Pawan Munjal, CEO and Managing Director of Hero MotoCorp, sponsors of tournaments on multiple Tours.

It is an ‘Indian evening’ and Munjal takes great pride in showcasing India – the food and ambience is superb. And yes, late into the evening he also shows his love for jazz.

Going back in time, Jeev Milkha Singh turned corners late in 2006 after years in the wilderness. I saw him end a seven-year title-drought drought at the 2006 Volvo China Open in Beijing – I was the sole Indian golf writer at the event.

Jeev achieved a Volvo double by winning the season-ending Volvo Masters at Valderrama to break into the world’s top 50 by the end of the year. He called me up during the Christmas week. I was out shopping with my wife, who was irked at my taking a call even in the market.

“Guess what I got as an advance Christmas and New Year gift,” said Jeev from the other end. I couldn’t and impatiently said, “Don’t tease, just tell me.”

He replied: “The official invite from the Masters.” A stunned silence.

So, an Indian would finally set foot on the haloed turf at Augusta National. And then Jeev said, “You know where you are going to be that week, right. No ifs and buts. Just be there.”

TONY GARNETT

Apart from playing in a pro-am with Hugh Baiocchi, whose shots went as straight as an arrow, I have no tales of encounters with world famous golfers. When I was press officer for PGA East Region I played in pro-ams and sometimes caddied. That was OK until one professional wanted me to line-up his putts. The only answer was to find out what he thought and then agree to give him confidence other than when he clearly had the line all wrong.

My most difficult moment came when refereeing the East Anglian Daily Times final of the Sunshine Challenge knock-out for amateurs. The winner qualified for a free week’s golf in The Algarve.

It was on the par-3 seventh hole at Woodbridge. The match was level. One player was just taking a three-foot putt for a half when there was a shrill scream. The girlfriend of his opponent had a wasp down the front of her loose-fitting dress.

The putt was missed.  I was hoping that his opponent would suggest taking the putt again but that did not happen.

As the scream was in no way designed to have any influence on the match, I felt there was no option but to let the missed putt stand. The R&A rules did not seem to cover ladies and wasps, but the Suffolk Golf Union rules official told me that I made the correct decision. 

ANDY FARRELL

No apologies for further Seve memories (I write on his birthday). He was the golfer who reached out from a television screen and captured a young, impressionable mind, even one obsessed with cricket. Fortunately, that screen, of a tiny black-and-white portable on a narrow boat, did not go fuzzy at the crucial stage of the final round of the 1984 Open at St Andrews as we navigated the many tunnels of the Birmingham Canal. Penance for skipping a gruelling set of locks that afternoon was a subsequent long stint alone at the tiller.

So, Seve was the reason I ended up on what was then Golf Illustrated Weekly, rather than, say, The Cricketer. (Also, they had a job going at the pertinent moment.) A write of passage for a new reporter in 1991: the Presidents Putter at Rye — one snowy January some years later when all the football, rugby and racing was off, I offered the sports desk of the Independent on Sunday “live copy” from the Putter, only to be told: “That’s alright, old boy, we’re not that desperate.” Then the Apollo Week at Penina, where Denis Pugh nobly gave me a first-ever lesson ahead of my first-ever round of golf; he’s had greater triumphs. The Ford Ladies Classic on the Duchess course at Woburn and Michael Williams’ hair-raising piloting of the media buggy through the pines. 

And then, a first men’s European Tour event, the PGA at Wentworth in front of a Bank Holiday crowd. Won by Seve in the way only he could. Two ahead with three to play he finished bogey-bogey-birdie. On the 17th, after backing off a shot when disturbed by the crowd, he told them: “I know you are nervous. I am nervous, too.” He beat Monty in the playoff with a five-iron to three feet down the first.

Even more remarkable was his shot two years later in Crans, which I witnessed in person — as with the 1983 Ryder Cup shot referenced by Robert Green, it was not caught on television. He was six feet from a six-foot wall and played over the wall, under the branches of several trees, over the swimming pool, the media centre and a couple of bunkers to just in front of the green. The shot was that bit harder because Billy Foster, his caddie, was still holding on to his club on the backswing. Then Seve chipped in for birdie to finish one back. The 1,800-word magazine report wrote itself, except for having to add in the words “Barry Lane” (the winner). Seve said: “If I play back to the fairway it is not news. This is news. This is a story.”

But back to Wentworth and the winner’s press conference. An awestruck novice reporter lost in wonder under the spell of a hero. Then, looking around the packed room of the hardened hacks, many of whom had covered Seve’s whole career, it dawned — everyone was exactly the same: awestruck, lost in wonder, under the spell of a hero, utterly enthralled by the great man. EVERYONE.

PETRA HIMMEL

I was at my second Masters in 2001, when I went for lunch at the restaurant in front of the clubhouse on Friday. As Bernhard Langer was finishing his round and the waiter never came by to pay, I told the two ladies on my table, I had to leave for his post round comments and then went to the bar, and paid there. 

Returning to the media centre half an hour later there was a large message for me on the message board to see the media officer who said I had to give back my credentials as I hadn’t paid my bill on the terrace.  

I had to go to the bar (with the media officer), find the guy, who I paid (luckily he remembered me, because I had told him, I couldn’t pay at my table), and that made the media officer very happy and I kept my credentials. 

About 100 excuses from the media officer followed – and I found my name in the lottery to play Augusta on Monday.

ELSPETH BURNSIDE

My first Open – and experience of the Media Centre – was when I was a teenager and still at school. It was 1975 and as a golf mad teenager I took it upon myself to write to the R & A and ask if there were any jobs at Carnoustie. To my absolute delight I received a letter saying they used school kids for the scoreboards – and to add to my delight they got paid (I think it was £35 for the week).

So, I commandeered my golfing pal – Jennifer – to apply with me and we duly went up to Carnoustie, stayed in Arbroath and had a whale of a time. There are still so many memories. Getting all the autographs – I still have the dog-eared programme – speaking to Brian Huggett while he was doing a sweater promotion behind the merchandise tent (he was absolutely charming), David Huish leading at halfway….just lapping up the whole experience.

As to the Media Centre, we managed to gate crash almost every day. There was a chubby and slightly gruff Group 4 security man on the door but we always seemed to manage to get past him and I remember watching Bobby Cole and David Huish being quizzed by the Press. Unfortunately, we had to watch the climax on TV – my Dad picked us up on the Saturday evening and we went home to watch the Tom Watson v Jack Newton play-off the following day.

Little did I know that I would be back at Carnoustie in 1999 as a member of the Press Corps. A genuine dream come true. I was working as a member of the Scotsman team and so witnessed Paul Lawrie’s magnificent (if bizarre) victory. Carnoustie – a place of so many happy memories.

BEN WRIGHT

I was a cub reporter on the Manchester Daily Dispatch in 1954, when the Open was played at Royal Birkdale. My sports editor, a great guy, Archie Ledbrooke, let me tag along to do a sidebar on the local and regional golfers.

Not surprisingly, none made the cut. Archie, a fanatical bridge player, left as soon as he got off his Friday wrap up, telling me I would do myself no harm if I did an in depth piece on the winner, Peter Thomson – his first of five – and I saw them all, while he played in a bridge tournament in Stockport.

I timidly approached the great Australian with my request. “What are you doing for dinner”, he asked. I replied that cub reporters don’t have dinner plans. “Well you do now. Meet me in the dining room of the Prince of Wales hotel at eight o’clock”.
Of course, the Claret Jug was between us on a table for two, and I rushed downstairs to the bar to find a photographer. The photo of us and my 1,500-word story appeared in our Monday edition. On Tuesday I was appointed deputy sports editor! No raise, but so what!

Alas, Archie was killed in the 1958 Manchester United air disaster at Munich, but that is another story……

PAUL TROW

My arrival in golf writing resulted from an appalling display of ignorance 39 years ago this month.

At the time, I was a youthful sub-editor and occasional reporter on the (long-defunct) Extel sports news agency. My beats were football (more Fulham and QPR than Spurs and Arsenal), rugby (Rosslyn Park Schools’ Sevens and John Player Cup), the Boat Race (my first was John Snagg’s last), Frank Warren press conferences, Court 17 upsets at Wimbledon, and filtering London Marathon quotes.

I also happened to be a five-handicap golfer, having taken up the game in my teens. But golf was strictly out of bounds for me at Extel because the sport was more than ably covered at the time by those two late greats – Bill Blighton and Mike Britten.
The 1981 Halford Hewitt, however, led to a most unexpected opening. I’d played on my old school’s team for a few years by then (10 golfers, five foursomes per round, always the same four days as the Masters). We rarely survived the first round and so were always home for the weekend – in my case, either subbing in the office or scuffling at Griffin Park or Brisbane Road.

All my previous Halford Hewitt skirmishes had been at Royal Cinque Ports so imagine my delight when our draw for the first round of 1981 took us at long last to Royal St. George’s where, luck would have it, the Open beckoned three months hence. Not only would I be experiencing a revered layout for the first time but it would be in tip-top, Major-championship condition.

Our opponents were a Scottish school, Loretto. My partner, a buyer for Marks & Spencer who worked in Hong Kong, and I found ourselves up against a pair who were considerably older… John Salvesen who ran a food transportation business and the poetically named though undeniably prosaic Robert Burns who I think said he was an accountant.

We had great fun, making light of the chill, dank weather and the bleakness of the course. Salvesen and Burns were good-humoured and courteous despite my partner being on fire and me doing the necessary to keep him in play. We won 4&3 and, glowing with smugness, repaired to the bar to celebrate and await the results from the other matches.

As I was tucking into my second pint of Shepherd Neame, the hitherto-jovial Salvesen came over all serious. “I’m so sorry Paul but I have to leave you now,” he said. “I’m going out on a buggy with the greenkeeper to sort out the pin positions for the Open.”
“Really,” I responded, somewhat nonplussed. “What it’s got to do with you?” Upon that gauche blurt, my partner doubled in hysterics and, I swear, a hush came over the rest of the bar. Salvesen, charming and forgiving to his fingertips, smiled benignly and said: “Well, I have to. You see, I’m chairman of the R&A’s Championship Committee.”

Still the penny hadn’t really dropped. “Oh well, don’t let me hold you up. I’ll hang on and keep Robert company while you’re gone.” Again Salvesen smiled, not quite so benignly this time. “I’m afraid Robert’s got to come with me because he’s also on the Championship Committee.” By now, my partner had changed colour and all I could do was shrug at him apologetically. “Don’t be sorry,” he spluttered, once he’d transitioned from puce to pink. “You weren’t to know who they were and I didn’t tell you in case it put you off. We beat them and that’s all that matters.”

Ruthless, as befitted an M&S third-world buyer from that era… but fruitless, as it turned out. The rest of our team capitulated and it was back home up the M2 that evening. The following Monday, I regaled Mike Britten with this tale in the office. Ever the iconoclast, I swear he came near to a seizure. As a self-styled scourge of anyone wearing a blazer in golf, this was pure gold as far as he was concerned. Upon recovery, he barked at Extel sports editor Geoff Wheeler: “Right, Geoff. Trow’s got to come with us to the Open – he knows the top brass.”
Paddy Mearing, Extel’s managing editor at the time and an AGW member to this day (aged 93), nodded approval. Done deal! Except, as I diffidently pointed out, “I’ve never covered a golf tournament before; do you think this is wise?”

Geoff took note and duly dispatched me to St Andrews in June – a month before the Open – to cover the Amateur Championship. There, I was generously mentored and nursed through a week of pratfalls by Gordon Simpson, who was working for the PA at the time.
Also in attendance, and more than willing to offer help, guidance and advice (a marked contrast to what I was used to as an agency man at football matches) was a cast list worthy of Cecil B. DeMille… Jock McVicar, Michael Williams, Mike McDonnell, John Campbell, Jackie Robertson, Renton Laidlaw, Raymond Jacobs, Dai Davies, Donald Steel, Peter Ryde, Richard Dodds, Pat Ward-Thomas, Alastair Nicol, Ron Skelton and John Hennessy.

One member of the media corps, Mark Wilson of the Express, had even managed to swing a suite in the Old Course Hotel, as I recall. On expenses! What style and elegance, compared to what I was used to. I also met up with Salvesen and Burns, who invited me into the clubhouse for a drink – where I met the irascible old R&A secretary Keith MacKenzie for the first time. We became firm friends, and I still feel aggrieved at how he was cut adrift like a pauper after retirement – no justice for the man who talked the top Americans into playing the Open, from Palmer onwards.

The week was a crash course on who was who in golf and golf writing! It was bewildering, beguiling, and permanent. I was hooked and remain so to this day. As for the Open at Sandwich, where Bill Rogers tip-toed through damp, foot-high fescue with supreme daintiness, I never saw Salvesen or Burns once. Fortunately, Mike Britten didn’t seem to mind! For me, it was just the start – from ignorance to bliss, you might say.

SILVIA AUDISIO 

A year and a half before, a week too late for a press accreditation, the last day to apply as a volunteer. Rio 2016. I wanted to be there, the Olympics are the inspiration of a lifetime, golf at the Games is a dream. 

Five pages to fill of personal details, experience, education, sports skills, work, knowledge of languages. At midnight, the very last moment to apply, I turn off my computer and when I turn it on again the next morning, I get the first message: “You’ll make this Olympics great!”.

Immediately after, three language tests arrive, English, French and Spanish. Thus my “volunteer journey” begins, no time is wasted, a long and intense trip is ahead of me. It’s a direct line with Rio that keeps me updated on everything happening, the state of the art of a work in progress.

From the actual construction of the Olympic venues, to the athletes who gradually qualify for the Games, the test events, the focus on various sports, the air you breathe in Rio; to enter the atmosphere, even the greatest Olympic achievements and the stories of athletes who have left their mark, are shared with me.

It’s also a direct line with the volunteers, 50 thousand, and with all those working for the Games: 200 thousand people in the backstage of 28 sports, 42 disciplines, 10.500 athletes representing 206 countries. Wonderful! My journey is full of ideas, information, contacts, it is openness and involvement in the world I love most, the world of sport. But there is work to be done and online trainings keep coming. #TimeToTrain #WeAreCountingOnYou.

I learn Portuguese, I deal with the Declaration of Human Rights and with the Manifesto of Diversity, I prepare myself for a global relationship, to manage emergencies, to solve problems, to offer passion and excellence in the service, to deliver the best Games ever to the world and a legacy for the future generations to Brazil. What else? I can’t wait to leave. #SouRio2016 #WeAreATeam.

At the end, it has been one of the greatest experiences of my life. On the tee for the first Olympic golf shot of the modern era, with the Italian Matteo Manassero in the flight. On the 18th green for the medal ceremony, after marshaling Justin Rose and Henrik Stenson fighting for gold. 

Sharing emotions with thousands of people outside the ropes supporting their countries. Sharing duties on the course with hundreds of volunteers coming from all over the world, driven by the same enthusiasm and passion for golf. We met not one mosquito in Rio. A pity for some great players who decided to withdraw, they don’t know what they have misses.

TIM GLOVER

The 1987 Ryder Cup was one of the greatest and not just because it was Europe’s first victory on American soil. It wasn’t any old soil. This was Muirfield Village in Columbus, Ohio, the course that Jack built. Nicklaus was also captain America but he was up against an inspired Tony Jacklin and his team of many talents. 

As an aperitif to the main course, the sponsors Johnnie Walker organised a “mini Ryder Cup”, a media match between the US and Europe. I was partnered with the incomparable Ian Wooldridge and as neither of us were much cop at the game we were not expected to bother the scorers. 

The sponsors provided a bottle of their finest on the players ‘ buggies. As it happened Wooldridge had drunk a bottle of blue label on the flight over and so, in a way, he was rehearsed for this particular contest. The Americans weren’t. They were ill prepared for a round of whisky galore.

Our opponents could not understand why anybody would drink neat scotch at 9.30am but we encouraged them to enter into the spirit of the competition. At every hole a nip was taken and the result was extraordinary. First their driving went to pot and over the back nine their game unravelled to an alarming degree. Wooldridge, on other hand, got better and better. After our victory he insisted on retiring to the bar for a celebratory drink. The Americans declined.

On a tumultuous final day in the Ryder Cup Eamonn Darcy, like Wooldridge and I, benefitted from an opponent’s self-inflicted wound. He was up against Ben Crenshaw and Nicklaus was not alone in thinking this was a home banker. Darcy, after all, was playing in his fourth Ryder Cup and hadn’t won a single match. 

However, Crenshaw missed a short putt on the sixth, lost his temper, and smashed his putter into the ground. From then, he putted with a 1 or 3-iron. The match, like many others, went to the cauldron that was the 18th hole. Darcy made a four-footer downhill that was faster than a peregrine falcon for a crucial point in Europe’s 15-13 triumph.

Crenshaw, who had been one up with two to play, sat by the green, his head in his hands. I thought I’d get a quote. ‘how do you think I feel, c…’ Gentle Ben replied. Crenshaw, like his putter, was broken. 

COLIN CALLANDER

I have been lucky enough to enjoy many memorable moments during my 37 years working as a golf writer but there is one which stands out simply because it was so different from the others.

It happened as I was sitting down to write my report on Ian Woosnam winning the 2008 Russian Senior Open at Pestovo Golf & Yacht Club on the outskirts of Moscow and was almost as surreal as the situation we are finding ourselves in at this difficult time.

European Senior Tour media facilities tended to be fairly rudimentary at that time but at Pestova I was fortunate enough to be housed in the club’s spacious Golf Academy where I could hit balls out onto the range in between writing about the exploits of Welshman and the other players in the field.

I had the room pretty much to myself for most of the week but that was to change when two elderly Russian ladies appeared through the door each pushing a rail with assorted women’s clothing hanging from it. My interest was piqued as they repeated this feat about ten times over and I admit I then lost the thread of my story altogether when 12 Russian models appeared and proceeded to spend the next 40 minutes dressing and undressing in front of me.

What had happened was that the Academy had been commandeered as the changing room for a fashion show taking place in another part of the clubhouse. It is perhaps best not to go into too much detail about what I watched that afternoon, but I can confirm that at no time, either before or since, have I ever witnessed such a large group of topless women repeatedly stripping down to their white thongs right in front of me.

That evening I phoned my wife, Jill, and after the usual pleasantries remember saying: “You’ll never guess what happened to me today.”

Not surprisingly, she didn’t.      

DAVID FACEY

Many of you will know that I flew to the WRONG Augusta for the 2001 Masters.

But only a few know HOW I ended up in Augusta, Maine instead of the slightly more famous one in Georgia.

Well now, for the very last time, I will give the details of the trip I have spent almost 20 years trying to live down. You can blame my wife, the travel agent working for News International, the idiots who decided the United States needed 27 towns called Augusta. Anyone but me.

Regardless of who was at fault, it was certainly a shock to the system when, instead of flying to the sun-kissed Deep South I ended up freezing my socks off in snowbound Maine – a little matter of 1,500 miles from where the first Major of the year was due to take place. The reality of the situation only dawned on me after I had decided to change into a pair of shorts during a brief stopover in Boston, to get ready for the 80-odd degrees forecast for the start of Masters week.

I got a few funny looks as I took my place on the tiny 12-seater heading for Augusta, and as we started flying deeper into the snow-covered countryside I realised something was horribly wrong.

I approached the only flight attendant, and he confirmed our destination was pretty much the northernmost tip of the United States – not exactly a one-horse town, but with a population of under 20,000, hardly a hub for connecting flights.

By the time we landed my predicament had been explained to the pilot and co-pilot – much to their obvious amusement – and the co-pilot offered to drive me 55 miles to Portland, his home and the biggest city in Maine.

He told me I could get a flight from there to Atlanta the next day, and either drive or catch a connecting flight to the correct Augusta. And as I phoned our travel company’s 24-hour line it seemed nothing else could possibly go wrong.

As things turned out, that was tempting fate, I asked them to book me into the Portland Holiday Inn, on the co-pilot’s recommendation, and went through the flight details for the following morning, before gratefully accepting his offer of a lift.

But when he dropped me off, I found there was no reservation at the hotel – and quickly discovered that was because they had booked me into the Holiday Inn in Portland, Oregon, on the other side of the country!

You couldn’t make it up. And I should point out here the reason for the original mix-up was that for the first time I was flying to the Masters from Manchester, having moved up north from Surrey after getting married.

That is why my wife has to accept at least some of the responsibility for the resulting disaster. Our in-house travel company – thankfully, since replaced by a far more efficient outfit – came up with what seemed a perfect new route, via Boston. Who checks to see which Augusta is listed on their travel tickets?

Having eventually changed the hotel, I was able to complete my journey the following day – only to encounter a welcoming committee when I arrived at the Masters media centre. I had explained to a few colleagues why I would be turning up a day late, and the story swept through the building like wildfire.

The Golf Channel and the reporter from the Boston Globe were both waiting to interview me. But it was the women who worked behind the reception deck who had most fun with my misfortune.

They ‘helpfully’ informed me that there were actually Augusta’s dotted all over the USA – stretching from Montana to New Jersey – as well as a Fort Augusta and a Mount Augusta in Alaska. I suppose I should be happy I didn’t end up there instead.

I also learned I could have driven from my stop off point in Maine to the right Augusta in a little over 17 hours, although it would have meant crossing through 14 States.

And for the next week, I arrived at my seat each day to find travel instructions on how to get to different Augusta’s – you know the sort of thing, ‘turn left at Albuquerque, and straight on until…’ Nineteen years on I am still being pointed out as “the guy who went to Augusta, Maine by mistake”.

Honestly, you have one slight travel mishap in a long career…..

And I can always reflect on the fact that – thankfully – the 2001 Masters was also memorable for the golf that was played.

It was the year that Tiger Woods beat off the challenges of David Duval and Phil Mickelson in a classic back nine battle, winning by two shots to complete the Tiger Slam, the only time any player has ever held all four Major titles at the same time.

Come on, how could anyone forget something like that?

LIZ KAHN

It was at the 1990 Open Championship at St. Andrews.  I was writing for The Mail on Sunday and prior to the Open I ‘phoned the Deputy Secretary to ask whether women journalists were now allowed in the men’s locker room where their colleagues went.  “You’re only doing your job aren’t you?” I agreed and that was fine.

I approached the stairs down to the locker room one morning, where I was stopped and told I could not go down. I relayed what I had been told and was allowed to pass.  At the bottom of the stairs, the locker room attendant looked at me in astonishment and told me I could not come in. 

When I protested, an R&A member stepped forward and said: “You certainly cannot come in here.” With that, the locker room attendant took hold of my elbows from behind and frog-marched me up the stairs and out of the clubhouse.  

Somewhat upset, I returned to the Press Tent and told my colleague, Peter Higgs, my story. Shortly after, Peter said that our Sports Editor, Roger Kelly wanted me on the ‘phone.  Roger told me I was a star, after I had moaned a bit, and he said I was to talk to Michael Bonallack, R&A Secretary, and I was to take a photographer with me. Help, I was setting him up.  

Somehow, I managed to find Michael, to warble on about nothing to him as the photographer at some distance, snapped pictures. The following day, the Mail on Sunday ran a full page spread with my story and a picture of Michael and me. 

To round this off: The NUJ took me to a Barrister later, who told me that if I brought a case of discrimination I would win it. It would go to appeal and I would win again.  

I then had a two year discourse with Michael Bonallack, at the end of which in 1992 at the Open at Muirfield, Michael escorted me into the players’ locker room. 

I wrote another page for the Mail on Sunday, captioned: “I’ve Seen More Bare Flesh on the M25 Roadworks”

ART SPANDER

You couldn’t do it now, with the security and photo badges, but in 1968, on holiday in the UK, I asked for a credential to The Open – and got one.

I wasn’t a fraud. I had been writing golf and other sports for the San Francisco Chronicle for the years (after a few at United Press International and the Santa Monica Evening outlook) but I hardly was one of the big boys – and I didn’t even have my typewriter (yes, that’s what we used until the late 1960s).

The tent was full of greatness, Henry Longhurst, Pat Ward-Thomas to name just two of many, and I, a figurative kid, at age 30, felt a bit out of place. Yet everyone was inordinately friendly. That was at Carnoustie, Gary Player winning in weather so chill and windy Jack Nicklaus couldn’t reach the green of the par-3 16th. The writers each had a little phone cocoon at their desks to reduce the noise when dictating, which of course was how copy was sent to the desk in that pre-internet era.

I may have been one of the only two American journalists. The New York Times used stories from an executive of Pan American Airways, the late Fred Tupper, who covered sports as an adjunct.

That all changed in the 1980s with Arnie and Jack – and cheaper air fares. The explosion – there were maybe 30 writers from America – came with Tiger. I’ve now been to 40 Opens, the last 32 in succession and have been an AGW member since 1983. The world was different and so was golf writing. Ward-Thomas was a major part of a magazine, “Country Life,” and produced analytical and self-involved prose, much like his US counterpart, Herbert Warren Wind, did for “The New Yorker.”

“So then I left Weiskopf,” Ward-Thomas wrote of one Open round, “and went to watch Nicklaus.” Yes, different from anything in the US.

He knew his golf and British weather.  The 1970 Open was at St. Andrews, and the third round, I think it was, the run shining, I walked out to the turn, spiffy in my new Harris Tweed jacket I had purchased a week earlier in London.

“Better take an umbrella,” Ward-Thomas told me. What? On a beautiful day? The downpour arrived around the eighth hole. Drenched. And well-informed.

The recent death of Doug Sanders is a reminder of that ’70 Open and Ward-Thomas. One ahead of Nicklaus after 71 holes, Sanders, a chip-and-run expert from Texas, instead hit a lob for his second shot, and the ball ended up 30 feet short.

His first putt halted three feet from the cup. Sanders missed, the bogey dropped him into a tie with Jack, and the next day Nicklaus would win the 18-hole playoff, uncharacteristically flinging his putter in joy (and nearly sculling Sanders) because Jack was ending three years without a major. After the fourth-round miss, Ward-Thomas persuaded me to walk on the green with him – an impossibility these days – and proceeded to kneel and point out a slight ridge that Sanders had not seen which caused the miss.

What should have been the return this July to Royal St. George’s also brings back unfortunate memories of Bev Norwood of IMG and those enormous ditches near the clubhouse.

It was the 2003 Open and – as one of those leads to a bad novel – it was a stormy night, if not dark, then getting close.  Visibility was limited, and as we walked from the car park across bridges to the AGW dinner I worried one of us might tumble into the ditches, which were full of oil, dirt, water and everything else.

Bev did fall. Climbed out a meut relatively unhurt. Left his dress suit at a cleaner’s in London, and a year later picked it up. Expensive, he said, but worth it. He wore the suit for the 2004 dinner at Royal Troon. 

ALISON ROOT

It was 2003, Tiger was World No 1 and I was at Royal St George’s during Open week to interview Steve Williams for a golf supplement published in The Times to support the World Corporate Golf Challenge. Steve had been a member of the team representing New Zealand during the early days of the amateur event.

The arrangement was very much up in the air and in my naivety I had underestimated how problematic it would be to organise such a meeting on the day with the caddie of the world’s most famous golfer.

Eventually we met in a very public area of the course before Steve spied a small greenkeepers’ shed and said, “Let’s go in here.” Of course, I obliged, although felt slightly odd about the whole situation as with the door closed, we sat on a bench in the cramped and dark space, surrounded by paint pots and loads of other mucky greenkeeping equipment.

Much has been written about Steve Williams since – good and bad, but he gave me his time and was happy to share his golfing experiences as a player and caddie. For me, the memory is not about what he said but where he said it. I will never forget opening the door of the shed and walking outside to be greeted with eyes staring at us from every direction and facial expressions asking the question, “What were they doing in there?” I half expected to see us in a tabloid newspaper the following day, but instead it was Tiger’s 7 that made headline news after he lost a ball with his opening drive!

JAMES MOSSOP

Walking along outside the Masters ropes at the 7th with the late Bob Cass, we stopped to watch the group of Lee Westwood, Mike Weir and young Matteo Manassero. Westwood was testing the strength of the breeze and looking around at the trees. Bob and I came into his vision. He stopped, tapped his watch and called to us: “What’s up, lads, isn’t the bar open yet?”

One of many happy moments, often in the company of the world’s best golfers anywhere from Augusta to St Andrews, Melbourne to New Delhi and rare visits to places such as Mission Hills, China. 

Of all the different sports I covered, the golfers almost without exception were courteous and accommodating.

BRETT AVERY 

Thursday afternoon, the phone rings, it’s Helen Ross. I was a contributor to pgatour.com (or, per Ponte Vedra Beach style, PGATOUR.com), where Helen was editing and writing. The gig was a rotisserie column in third person, and The Fantasy Insider’s goofiness and occasionally stellar prognostications brought a few hours of happy freelancing to Monday nights.

Helen’s pitch was simple: Michelle Wie, who had become the first woman to win a local qualifying medal, was in the 2006 US Open sectional qualifying Monday at Canoe Brook, about 15 minutes from my home. We would like a preview story and another on how she does.

No sweat.

And we’d like you to blog it.

Helen did not think anyone had blogged a round, which made sense as most of us used flip phones. The qualifier’s controlling entity was the Metropolitan (NY) Golf Association, even though this was the USGA’s backyard. The MGA had no problem with using a phone on the course.

This would not be the first time observing Wie, having covered the 2005 US Amateur Public Links for Golf World and seeing every shot through her quarter-finals loss to the eventual champion. (Trivia answer: Clay Ogden, 5 and 4.) Wie had become at age 15 the first woman qualifier for a USGA championship typically played by men, but this was a 153-for-18 shoot-out with plenty of players from the nearby Barclays Invitational. Even greater fame and a spot at Winged Foot was on the line.

Saturday morning brought a FedEx envelope containing a Blackberry and charger loaned by Helen’s boss. This technology was monumental: The wondrous side scroll! Such a tiny keyboard! Thumbing a few test emails was enough of a dry-run, the intended address committed to memory with a cc to mine. Early Monday, after a quick visit to the hastily prepared (and mostly empty) media center to grab a credential, it was off to the practice area. 

7:36 a.m. — Wie arrives about 7:20 a.m. and the car is immediately surrounded by photographers. Already hundreds of spectators mill around the practice tee, awaiting her arrival. A few minutes later Billy Andrade pulls into a nearby parking spot and he is approached by only one person.

After two more preliminary items, including one noting a 20-minute backup on the South Course’s first tee, it was time for Wie to begin her 36-hole day alongside David Gossett and local club pro Rick Hartmann.

While accustomed to juggling a shooting stick, notebook, pen, scorecard and hole-location sheet, also composing 50-100 coherent words on the Blackberry for each hole proved challenging. With about 500 spectators at the first tee and growing—and no gallery roping—half the deal for the first few holes was simply not colliding with anyone while head down and typing, then finding an unobstructed view. Once into a rhythm, though, the day became routine.

Typos? Sure, but maintaining a narrative was demanding enough. I figured line editing and misspelled words defaulted to the editor.

Wie played to the drama, determined to become the first woman in a men’s major. She agonized over seven missed putts inside 12 feet on the easier South Course. She holed a pitch for birdie at the 18th to reach the lunch break two under par.

Entering the press room to give the Blackberry a supplemental charge, I was stunned to receive a round of applause from a collection of writers that would make then-commissioner Tim Finchem envious. Seemingly every major newspaper plus the magazines were represented by the beat writers and columnists gabbing through a leisurely lunch. Why go out and sweat through 36 holes, more than one crowed, when we have a pool reporter’s blow-by-blow?

Wie remained two under through 30 holes, with “[t]he post-work crowd … coming out in force: postal uniforms, shirts and ties, moms and dads who grabbed the kids to go out and watch a piece of history.” Desperate for a birdie or two, she three-putted the 31st from 30 feet and then from 32 feet at the next.

This clearly was a landmark step in her development. Beating a good number of tour Tour TOUR professionals was small consolation. Journalism’s coverage of the game also would go through its own development: blogging, digital duties heaped upon print stories and then social media.

That night at home I called up the blog and was horrified to find all the misspellings and clunky phrasing. New medium, old lesson: Don’t expect the desk to save you.

When the check for the assignment arrived, I bought a Blackberry.

ADRIAN MILLEDGE

Covering football, cricket and, to a lesser extent, boxing was my remit during my early days on The Birmingham Post. The glamour gig of golf correspondent was Derek Lawrenson’s domain, however.

Seems unthinkable now, doesn’t it? A golf correspondent on a regional daily when these days they are a rare species on the nationals.

Happily, Derek remains one of them and that was where he was bound when the Ryder Cup was staged at The Belfry in 1993. He had been succeeded by Michael Blair and it was my good fortune and a privilege to assist him for two of the three days.

Day one involved chronicling local hero and Ryder Cup rookie Peter Baker and Ian Woosnam defeat Lee Janzen and Jim Gallagher Jnr in the afternoon fourballs. By contrast, I spent day two covering a mind-numbing football skirmish at The Hawthorns, all the while wondering what was happening back at The Belfry.

In the event, Europe ended it a point ahead and Mike’s instructions for day three were to ‘go out and enjoy yourself’.

I opted to follow Nick Faldo and Paul Azinger – for several reasons: It was the penultimate pairing and could determine the match’s outcome; Azinger’s antics two years earlier during the War on the Shore suggested the encounter could be feisty; and Faldo was the World number one – a status he endorsed with an ace at the 14^th.

By then, however, the USA had effectively retained the trophy after Europe suffered a cricket-style middle-order collapse.

Fifteen years later, I was back at The Belfry – as editor of The PGA’s members’ magazine.

My first day in the job was uneventful. That is until mid-afternoon when the phone rang. An agitated and irate Ian Poulter was on the line. He had taken exception to the use of a picture accompanying an article in the latest issue of the magazine that advised pro shop owners how to avoid downturns in trade during the recession.

The article was headlined ‘Keep Your Eye On The Ball’ and the image showed the aforementioned Poulter peering at a golf ball.

As far as he was concerned, using an image of him alongside an article of this nature suggested his business was in financial strife and no amount of reasoning that it related to the message the piece conveyed would convince him otherwise.

It got to the stage that he threatened the involvement of PGA suits I’d not heard of until I had a brainwave.

Like me, Poults is an Arsenal supporter. A Gooner. So what did he think of two recent signings – Cardiff City starlet Aaron Ramsey and French midfielder Samir Nasri – I wondered.

By way of a diversionary tactic, it worked a treat and while we did not part as new best mates he never referred to the ‘offending’ picture again. A case perhaps of not keeping his eye on the ball!

TREVOR PEAKE

My Open Championship memories go way back to Hoylake 1967 when Argentinian Roberto de Vincenzo won his only major.

A callow youth I was working for Golf World, then based at Golf House, Golf Road in Brighton, where I had moved in September ’66 after a season as the Press Officer at Butlin’s Holiday Camp in Pwllheli, North Wales.

A gentleman called Charles Brett was the publisher/owner of Golf World and the late Keith Mackie the editor.

It was a different golf world then with little or no pro activity over the winter and the Sunningdale and Wentworth Foursomes kick-starting things the following spring.

I did a couple of early tournaments, the Agfa Gaevert at Stoke Poges, now Stoke Park, won by Peter Allis and a couple of others I have long since forgotten, before the long awaited Open at Royal Liverpool in July.

Ben Wright and Keith were the main writers for Golf World at the Open while I was tasked to do sort of chatty snippets page and a shot-by-shot of the eventual winner’s four rounds.

Difficult for the first couple of rounds not knowing who was going to be in the shake-up on the final day.

I was wet behind the ears as to how knowledgeable golf caddies were, but on day three spoke to caddies of the contenders, including de Vincenzo’s bagman Willie Aitchison who, in his thick Glaswegian accent, gave me chapter and verse of the clubs, distances and putts over the previous three rounds by de Vincenzo.

To say I was impressed was putting it mildly.

Willie was as helpful again after the final round, when I finally got to him in the locker-room after all the excitement of de Vincenzo’s famous had died down. The 44-year-old shot rounds of 72-71-67-70 to win by two strokes from Jack Nicklaus with Gary Player and Clive Clark tied third a further four shots back.

Later that year I left Golf World for the giddy heights of the Acton Gazette in West London.

Although always interested in golf I didn’t actually cover The Open again until Royal Birkdale 1983 when, by now working for The Daily Post in Liverpool, Tom Watson won the Claret Jug for the fifth and final time.

Still today, almost 53 years later I can remember how helpful Willie Aitchison was. One of the great early caddies he later helped Lee Trevino to his two Open Championship victories

Sadly, though our efforts back in ’67 came to nought as the magazine didn’t even use the shot-by-shot in the end.   

MARK TOWNSEND

My favourite golfing memory, and one that I didn’t write about until at least 15 years later, came about on a drizzly Monday evening at the end of September in 1987. There was no golf played but it had more of a lasting effect on me than anything else in any sport.

The first part of the evening involved doubting whether we were even in the right place as a school friend and I watched a variety of cleaners go about their business in one of Heathrow’s terminals. We were the first and only ones there and the sole reason we were there was a throwaway comment from Howard Clark, having just dusted off Dan Pohl in the singles, that they would be flying back the following day. 

The Yorkshireman was part of the 1987 Ryder Cup team who had just put on the most spectacular of performances in Ohio and the two of us had spent every waking hour since Friday watching every shot, either live or on reruns to fill time before the matches got going again. Some of you will have been lucky enough to cover it.

The second part of our evening involved comfortably the greatest hour of my life. Within too long maybe 300 middle-aged males were all reassuringly in the same spot as us to welcome back a trophy that had never returned from an overseas match.

Being the first ones there we were in prime position to meet and greet our 12 heroes. Much like the singles order the previous day Ian Woosnam was first out and, from there, a wave of players arrived to deafening cheers and rounds and rounds of ‘Ee aye addio, we won the cup’. Stand-out moments included Sandy Lyle’s badge on his blazer getting ripped, something that didn’t seem to bother him, the place going even more nuts when Eamonn Darcy arrived and then bear hugging Sam Torrance.

Even at the age of 49, I still well up at the sight of the last two men to come through; Tony Jacklin and Seve and, between them, the Ryder Cup. One had had to persuade the other to even play in the matches, now they had led the way in Europe claiming victory for the first time in the States. Seve had holed the winning putt and the grin, 24 hours later, was even wider stood in this little corner of West London.

I’ve been lucky enough, now 33 years on, to have spoken to the majority of that team and I’ll always bring up the matches and then that Monday night. I’ll wonder if I’ve over-egged things in my mind as to quite how incredible that hour was but, to a man, they will all put my mind at rest.

As captain Jacklin recalls: “I remember that reception very well, nothing had happened in golf that would create that sort of emotion in the UK. The Americans had bigger tournaments, more money, bigger everything. It was David and Goliath. It was a joyous time, for us it was everything.”

JOHN REDMOND 

Although now long retired from golf writing, I am still haunted by one heart-breaking experience I endured in April 1989. In Augusta to cover the Masters, my name was pulled out of the hat for the privilege of playing the famous course on the day after Nick Faldo won the first of three Green Jackets.

My bittersweet experience and follow-up description in the Evening Press of what then ensued elicited the biggest response to anything I wrote covering a multitude of sports during my thirty years in the Press.

The hearts of most reached out in shared sympathy – but how impending glory changed to utter grief also evoked its own sense of dry, but well-meaning, humour. I bear the scars of it still.

To be drawn to play Augusta, I wrote, from an expectant media entry of hundreds, was the golfing equivalent of winning the lottery. The anticipation was heart-stopping. During a restless night I fretted over what I would do if I hit the ball into those magnificent magnolias, azaleas and dogwoods? To thrash about would be to commit sacrilege. Reverently, I would just take a penalty drop. After all, you are playing Augusta, revered as the Cathedral of Golf, the game’s Sistine Chapel.

But would I have enough balls to get around, I agonised. Should I buy more to be on the safe side? After all, how the hell could I get through Amen Corner where Rae’s Creek provides a watery grave for the world’s best players? What club would I select at the notorious short twelfth? Best take not one but two extra clubs, just to be sure of clearing the water. Would I dare try for the carry over the creek at the infamous thirteenth and fifteenth and live to boast of the feat for ever more? The appointed tee time was 7.30 a.m. sharp on Monday morning. Alarm clock call for 6 a.m. – no, make it 5.30 to be safe. Call a cab for 7 a.m. – no, make that 6.30 just to be sure. Order an early breakfast – no, probably wouldn’t be able to eat because of nerves. Lay out my clothing before going to bed.

I must respectfully wear my Sunday best. Hop back out of bed and put my slacks in the trouser press, not once, but twice. After all, I’m playing Augusta tomorrow. Razor gash under the chin shows the emotions. Cup rattles off saucer during effort to force-feed breakfast. Knife and fork beat a nervous rhythm. No, it’s no good – abandon breakfast. Cab driver, can you go any faster? Cab driver, do you know a better way to beat the traffic? Understand I’m in a hurry – I’m going to play Augusta.

Finally, we arrive on Magnolia Lane – the venerated driveway to the most exclusive golf club in the world. A security guard steps from the sentry box and flags us down. ‘What’s your business, mister?’ he snaps in a stern tone of unwelcome. ‘My man’s in a hurry. He’s coming to play golf,’ drawled the cab driver, mocking my impatience.

‘Well sir, he ain’t playin’ no golf here today. The course is closed ‘cos of the rain. Now if you’d back up your cab and get your ass out of here, I’d be mighty pleased. Y’all have a nice day!’

And I never got the chance to come out of the hat again!

TONY RUSHMER

Augusta – for me it has always been the best sports ticket.

I’ll always consider myself fortunate to have had the opportunity to cover two Masters, 2001 and 2004, for the dormant (hopefully!) Golf Weekly title.

In 2001, a certain Mr Woods completed his Tiger Slam – three Majors from the previous season followed by triumph in Georgia the following spring.

But, when I reflect, it’s my 2004 visit that shines brightest as a memory…Mickelson’s Masters, the first time Phil came good on all that Augusta promise.

I’d always backed Lefty in the year’s opening Major and had racked up a few near misses. God loves a trier, they tell me, so I stuck with him and took a price of 16/1 before flying out to report on proceedings. I also had an each-way punt on Chris Di Marco at around 33s. I liked my chances, especially when I saw for myself how hungry Phil was before the event. He came into his pre-tournament press conference and was introduced by an Augusta official as having ‘a beautiful record’ at the course including seven top-10 finishes.

Phil responded by pointing out the only statistic that really mattered…’No wins, no wins.’ He flashed us that dazzling smile and then added: ‘I want what you have – those are nice,’ pointing at the official’s Green Jacket.

By the time he teed up it on Sunday Mickelson was a lock for another top-10. In fact, he was right there, tied for the lead at six-under with Di Marco. My betting slip looked in great shape.

Suffice to say, Di Marco faded away on Sunday and Phil was a couple over for his front nine and another Augusta near-miss looked likely. But this time Mickelson refused to accept second best. From three shots back he produced an exhilarating back nine to sit tied at the top with one hole to go.

I’d been sat at my desk in the Press Centre for much of the afternoon but knew I had to be at that 72nd green. In those days the media had a few benches of reserved seating overlooking the green and I got there in time to watch Phil fizz an 8-iron into around 20 feet. Before his birdie attempt, he closely studied Di Marco’s putt on a near-identical line – as good a break as Mickelson could have wished for.

Anyway, we all know what transpired. Phil rolls in the glory putt and kisses the ball. Meanwhile at the same time, 20 odd yards away a member of the British press corps was wishing he could kiss the American.

An unforgettable moment in Masters history and the most enjoyable day of my journalism career. So, 16 years later I’d just like to say thank you Phil and, more importantly, thank you Augusta…surely, the most dramatic of all golfing stages.

JOHN INGHAM

One of my happy memories was when I asked Bobby Jones for an interview. He said certainly but could we do it in his Rusacks room 19. We looked through his windows. The grass was brown and dusty dry, little rain that year. (no automatic watering then)  

“When I holed the winning putt, the Press claimed I dried my eyes from emotion. Not so. I was wiping the grass dust out of my eyes, so I didn’t look too dusty at the prize-giving!”

FERGUS BISSET

One of my most enjoyable experiences as a golf writer came away from a golf course, spending a day with Colin Montgomerie as he was introduced to a few journalists as an ambassador for Loch Lomond whiskies.

We all know Monty can either be terribly tricky or completely charming. On this occasion, he was very much on best behaviour.

We toured the distillery, ate fresh fish in a super restaurant in Luss and then, incredibly, went out on the loch on a power yacht for a whisky tasting.

Cruising up Loch Lomond, sipping on a single malt as Monty regaled us with tales of his derring-do was rather surreal. Monty was on fine form, answering any question you put to him in his usual fashion and I particularly remember one exchange that made me laugh out loud at the time.

It was before the Carnoustie Open of 2018 and Tiger was on the prowl again.

Question to Monty, “Can Tiger win?”

Answer: “He doesn’t hit it straight enough to win at Carnoustie. No, I don’t think so. Will he win another Major? I’m not sure. Another tournament yes, but a Major… I don’t think so.”

Follow up: “But it is Tiger!”

Answer: “Well yes, and if anyone can it’s him.”

ROBIN BARWICK 

In September 2007, Golf Monthly sent me to the British Masters at The Belfry for two days to carry out a player survey. I had five questions along the lines of: who has contributed most to the game? Greatest course designer? It was right on the edge.

I spent Wednesday on the range and Thursday outside the scorers’ hut. I can’t remember what Monthly published but I know there wasn’t room for any of the added comments from players.

For greatest European player, most golfers picked Seve or Faldo with Peter Baker admitting: “Woosie will kill me for saying this but it’s got to be Faldo.”

The most unpopular question was: who is the best TV commentator? A frequent response was: “Do I have to pick one?” It dragged on a bit as well because I had to read out 10 multiple-choice options for each question. Mark Roe was there, in his first season as player-turned-commentator, but I wasn’t picky so asked him anyway. Once I had listed the 10 commentators, Roe demanded: “You’ve not got my f**king name down there have you?” and stormed off (he did return saying he was joking but I wasn’t convinced).

Worse was Johan Edfors’ caddie. I don’t know his name and I wasn’t asking him anyway, but after I had run through the 10 options for “greatest shot of all time”, he was very defensive and reeled off a series of great shots Edfors had played over recent seasons. (Edfors chose Sandy Lyle’s seven-iron from the bunker on 18 to win the 1988 Masters.)

Late on the Wednesday, I was about to call it a day when I saw Lee Westwood and his caddie make for the practice ground. He was the leading English player and I didn’t want to miss him. Light was fading and they were the only people there. I stood at the back and watched him strike a series of just immaculate seven irons into the twilight. The shots looked effortless and identical but that is what you expected from Westwood.

Afterwards we walked back to the clubhouse together and our conversation ended in the locker room, with Jean Van de Velde and Westwood debating if Arnold Palmer or Gary Player had done more for the game (Westwood went for Palmer, Van de Velde for Player), and if Faldo or Seve were the greatest European (Westwood chose Faldo; Van de Velde chose Seve). Other players got involved and it got lively – all off the record – and I couldn’t keep up with the quick-fire comments anyway. I wrote, “Comments unsuitable for publication” and I can’t remember them but I was very grateful to Westwood for sparking the debate.

Charl Schwartzel was 23 and already a tour winner but after his first round I thought he could have shown more interest in this critical project, although he did answer all the questions. Only afterwards did I see he had just signed for a 79, seven over par. Thanks Charl.  

I’m a terrible gambler so didn’t back Westwood that week. He won by five.

BEN EVANS

I grew up in Lytham, Lancashire: the ‘Royal’ course was almost on my doorstep so when I was 11, I went to The Open of ’79, of Seve Ballesteros, Graham Marsh, Hale Irwin, great putting from Ken Brown, Mark James & Co. I was immediately in the Seve fan club, as was the whole of Lytham St Annes seemingly, when in 1988 I was back from college, with Seve ready for action on his stamping ground. 

He and his family were even staying two doors along from us, and one evening I saw his silhouette in the window, explaining something with a lot of arm movement. I was now a stalker! 

On the Royal Lytham course, first day, I am at the ropes along the sixth hole and Seve’s ball lands near my feet. When he played his shot I was so close I was the first to nervously call “Good shot!”. At first I thought he swore at me, but quickly realised it was a gruff “Thank you”, and so the love affair continued. 

The Open that year finished on the Monday because of weather – it made it far easier to chase round with the leaders Ballesteros and Nick Price. Price played brilliantly, but was so unlucky to meet Seve at his long-putting best that day. When Seve holed another beauty on the 11th, his body language must have been frightening as he strode along, on his way to a winning 65. 

On the later BBC recording you can hear a couple of friends and I bellowing from the back of the 16th stand (more like squealing tbh) when Seve put his second shot with a 9 iron to an inch, to pull clear from the valiant Price, and then I was in the huge throng on the 18th fairway.

I watched Seve’s nervous 7-iron second shot from the light rough after he narrowly avoided a nasty bunker, only for his approach shot to just roll off the green into a little hollow on the left, needing a par. I was now swamped by the crowd, blinded, and there was total silence at the green as he prepared to play; then the crisp click, and a gathering hum before pandemonium from the gallery.

“Is it close enough?” I yelled to my taller friend who just caught a glimpse. “I think so!” 

The putt on the final green in 1984 at St Andrews, and then 1988 at Lytham. We were so spoiled weren’t we? These above words were meant to be a short ‘intro’ to a work story about how Seve, years later in Tenerife, corrected my English at a press conference. I now realise my career highlight took place before it actually started…

ANDREW BOTH

It’s no secret that Colin Montgomerie is one of the best interviews in the sport on his good days, but also that he sometimes has to be treated with kid gloves.

Those who cover the Monty beat regularly know more or less how to avoid poking the bear, but local reporters who attend only one tournament a year are not as familiar with the drill.

One year at the Players Championship, don’t remember exactly when but back in the late 90s or early 2000s, I’m guessing, a few of us scribes were gently prodding Monty for a few comments after a mediocre first round.

We had asked a couple of soft ball questions when a local TV reporter arrived on the scene, waltzed up and stuck his big microphone into the scrum, before fearlessly asking a priceless question.

“How do you plan to buck up for tomorrow?” he said in a booming voice, clearly taking Monty by surprise.

Monty turned to the guy and, his voice rising to a high pitch, repeated the question back at the reporter.

“Buck up? How do I plan to buck up?” he said, as some of us did our best to suppress a smile.

The reporter was not to be intimidated and kept grilling Monty, who never really answered the question. Nonetheless, it must have made for some entertaining footage for that night’s programming.

Another amusing Monty story happened at the 2005 Dunlop Phoenix tournament in Japan, where Monty was one of the star attractions, no doubt being well compensated for his attendance.

He had a poor week, however, and finished 46th, which left me with a task I hardly relished of trying to track him down for a comment for British paper I was stringing for at the time.

ROB PERKINS

The greatest golfing memory I have unfortunately doesn’t involve reporting on golf as such but involves one of the great golfing characters of our time.

In March 2008, a friend of mine rang the office and invited me to come out to play and review a course in Murcia, Spain where he had just taken over as director of golf.

The venue was the newly-opened Hacienda del Alamo resort and together with five other journalists we were shown to the villa on the side of the course where we would be staying.

But then our host told us that the following morning he had a surprise for us on the golf course – and left it at that.

The following morning as we warmed up for our round, the surprise was revealed when a squeal of tyres from a bright red Ferrari heralded the arrival of the “mechanic” himself, Miguel Angel Jimenez. One of our group had only been playing golf for a couple of years and was consumed with nerves at the thought of teeing it up in front of a European Tour professional.

Back then, Miguel’s mastery of English wasn’t perfect but he was able to make himself understood to the three of us who were due to be his playing partners – including the rookie golfer.

On the first tee, our by now very nervous golfer prepared to drive off, and after a couple of deep breaths made an almighty swing at the ball resulting in an air shot. He crumpled with embarrassment.

The barrel-chested Miguel removed the Cuban Cohiba cigar from his lips, breathed deeply and in his best English uttered just one word: “Rrrrelax”. – it was a hilarious moment and the start of a memorable round of golf.

Miguel’s opening tee shot was sliced out to the right and we all had the same thought, perhaps he needed to relax also. But what happened over the next three hours or so will live in the memories of those who played alongside Miguel.

His second shot on the opening hole, landed just short of the green and he chipped in for birdie. It was to be the start of a birdie blitz in which he went on to post what was then the course record of 64. It was a masterclass in more ways than one. Of course, the golf he played was immaculate but he showed what a true gentleman he was after the round also.

In the clubhouse, he ordered the wine for all the guests, Rioja of course, and then took the knife from the chef as he carved the thinnest slices of Serrano ham you could imagine.

And for the next two hours he regaled us with tales from his days growing up as a young golfer in Malaga.

It was a truly memorable experience and ever since I’ve enjoyed watching the “mechanic” even though every time he appears on TV my wife and kids are bored silly when I tell them – again – how I played with Miguel.

JESUS RUIZ OTEGA

Golf did not finish to stand out in Spain, afflicted by the discredit with which it was surrounded by elite sport, despite the enormous work that the Spanish Federation was developing to eradicate it, chaired by a vitalist and captivating man such as Juan Antonio Andreu. He led an enthusiastic proselytizing work with journalists, whom he started in the sport, but did not finish getting the mainstream media to lavish on golf information.

Although we had a short, but formidable, representation of players who were almost world-wide amazement, with victories in numerous amateur and professional competitions. We had even grazed the great individual feat with the appearance of Severiano Ballesteros in The Open, in 1976, finishing second after a formidable Johnny Miller. Seve led the test, he seemed to sink before Miller’s assault but, far from drowning at the push of another blond, the Golden Bear, Jack Nicklaus, brought out his courage, his winning genius, to recover in the final holes under cover of Royal Birkdale’s par 5s (15 and 17), and with a memorable chip rolled between two bunkers in 18, he would end up sharing second place with Nicklaus.

But golf continued to languish in the mass media in Spain.

Shortly before embarking to go to Royal Lytham & St. Annes, where I would attend the British Open for the Golf Magazine he directed, I was in Barcelona to follow the Spanish Children’s Championship. In San Cugat golf course, more than 260 children exhibited the golf of the future, with abundant cards below 80 strokes and a name that stands out with his game around and on the green: José María Olazábal. José María finished the winner with eight strokes ahead, making a real demonstration with the short game and the putt.

I was going with those thoughts, of the majesty with which a 13-year-old boy moving around the hole, when I leave all that behind, everything inside me, to life passionately experience:  the greatest victory of Spanish golf in his history: Another 22-year-old, Severiano Ballesteros. He showed that he worked wonderfully from any position (think about the hit of the parking lot, on the 16th hole!) and ended up exploding on the 18th green in a hug with his brothers Baldomero and Vicente. He achieved the first “major” of his career and Spanish golf with three strokes ahead of Ben Crenshaw and Jack Nicklaus.

In addition, with this victory of Severiano Ballesteros we gained momentum to popularize golf in Spain, in whose fight the longed-for champion was always the standard bearer.

And I, who had professionally enjoyed important previous events that occurred in Spain, set my great experience counter to zero, because Severiano’s success fulfilled the dream of all Spaniards.

BRIAN McLAUCHLIN

My first Open Championship as a reporter was back in 1997 at Royal Troon. Although having previously attended “The Open” at various venues as a golf fan being part of the media pack was believe me an extra thrill.

At the time I was working as a sports reporter for a local radio station called ScotFM, sadly no longer available on the airwaves.
On the Saturday morning I arrived at the course ready to go live at 2.00pm. My producer on the day was a chap called Iain Mercer. Many of my Scottish colleagues will certainly know of Iain’s father Wallace who was the Chairman of Heart of Midlothian FC.
Iain told me “I have an interview set up for 1.00pm.”

“Who with I asked? “Jack Nicklaus” was his reply. After picking me up from the floor I asked about how serious he was. “100%!”

So my first job that day was interviewing the great man himself! At exactly 1.00pm Jack arrived in our little radio booth inside the media centre and although he was disappointed with his third round score of 71 he was as gracious and generous a figure we all know him to be.

Later that same Saturday afternoon I was able to see at first hand the media circus surrounding a certain Tiger Woods.

This was Tiger’s first Open Championship as a professional with journalists from around the globe gathered around him after he shot a third round of 64 scribbling away every word and syllable as if it were to be his last.

Little did we know at that point the endless hours of copy he was to afford us over the next 23 years!

KEVIN GARSIDE

My time as the Daily Telegraph’s golf correspondent was brief. Maybe it was never meant to be. Or, perhaps, incompetence was a factor. During a period of chaotic political shifts and regime change at Telegraph Sport I assumed the golf role shortly before the 2010 Ryder Cup at Celtic Manor. My appointment was not widely broadcast and many of my colleagues in the golf media were unaware of my new circumstances.

Off I went to Paris where Europe’s captain Colin Montgomerie was addressing the media at the French Open. I arrived at the course on Wednesday afternoon just as the media were beginning to disperse. “Hello Shaky, what are you doing here?” asked James Corrigan of the Independent. “I have come for the Monty address tomorrow,” I said. “Good luck with that,” James said. “He’s f*****d off. The Press conference was today.” 

This, as you might imagine, was the source of much amusement. Less funny was the immediate departure of all my new colleagues, who, having far greater experience in the role, followed the story out of the door. Let us just say that in those pre-Rolex Series days, the French Open did not draw a British journalistic crowd, or much of a French one either.

Most of Europe’s heavy lifters, including the likes of Luke Donald, Justin Rose and Paul Casey were contesting the PGA Tour’s Fed-Ex Play-Offs. From memory Padraig Harrington was the only Ryder Cup player in the field who might be remotely of interest to Telegraph readers. So, for the next four days I followed poor Padraig around Le Golf National. I knew his inside leg measurement by the end of it. He must have thought me a stalker. Corrigan is still laughing.  

SHANE O’DONOGHUE

 Golf has been in my life since I can remember. It gives me joy. I was lucky, really, to be the first-born of sporting parents, who turned to golf early in their marriage. Saturday lunchtimes were dominated with discussions of pars and bogeys as my Dad, Denis, recounted his round to my enquiring Mother, Helen. It became the norm. My wonderful Mom, had an instant love affair with the sport; winning the Captain’s and President’s Prizes in her first season. 

As a kid, Waterford Glass became common-place, as my Mother would bring home something or other from her outings at our beautiful course, Clonmel Golf Club; set amidst an almost Tyrolean back-drop in the Comeragh Mountains, overlooking the town and at times, it would appear, the whole County of Tipperary.

My Mom holds three course records; has recorded 18 holes-in-one and has been Club Matchplay Champion, I think, 16 times over the last 5 decades. January 1st ushered in a new goal of claiming the title, once more in this new decade; to give her a bit of focus! She has been my golfing inspiration.

My parents went for a three-week holiday in the USA in June of 1982; leaving us in the care of my Grandmother; a stern but impressive lady, who must’ve brought us to at least 10 different churches during that spell. She enjoyed her religion, did my father’s Mother! 

My Mom and Dad returned from their holiday, laden with lovely gifts, and some wonderful, trendy sports gear for me and my sisters. However, there was one item which sparked a curious interest in me, and that was a Souvenir Programme from the US Open, at Pebble Beach, I was 11.  I loved to read, and that programme became an almost obsession with me that summer. It had dog ears by the time I returned to school.

Within those pages, I learned of David Graham’s peerless final round the previous summer at magnificent Merion; an article pondered over Tom Watson And his chances to finally claim his National Open (he did!) and might Jack Nicklaus manage to repeat his win of 1972, where he had also won the US Amateur of 1961, I learned later that Joe Carr had been a semi-finalist. It was enthralling.

My mother sensed my curiosity and encouraged me to get stuck into Dermot Gilleece’s wonderful ‘Golfing Log’ every Saturday in the Irish Times. That was like glue to me, if I’m honest. It truly struck a chord, and genuinely laid the foundations for my eternal love of our game’s history, and of Ireland’s importance in golf’s place in the world game. Thank you, Dermot!

Within weeks of my parent’s return from the USA and their two-day visit to the US Open; Tom Watson followed up his win at Pebble Beach with victory over Nick Price and our very special Irish ambassador of golf, Des Smyth in the Open Championship, at Royal Troon. For me though, crucially, a man named John O’Leary won the Irish Open that summer at Portmarnock Golf Club.

My mother’s maiden name was O’Leary. Her Dad, my Grandad, was a man named John O’Leary. No relation. My Uncle is John O’Leary. I was christened John! But to avoid confusion, my parents called me Shane within hours after the christening. It’s an Irish thing!

The summer of 1982 is burned in my mind, and will be, forever. Watching the Carroll’s Irish Open with such intent that summer is something that I’ll never forget. We had ‘skin in the game’ as we watched, enthralled, as a curly-haired Adonis with a magical smile and unbelievably blue eyes, left a galaxy of European Tour stars in his wake to lift the Waterford Crystal trophy and claim the biggest win of his career.

It was such a pleasure to meet him, many years later, as he became such a buddha-like figure on the European Tour’s Board. His death in recent weeks has left a huge void.

John O’Leary embodied the spirit of the European Tour; from its foundations in the early 70’s, as a Player’s Tour, for the Players, and administered by men and women with deep-rooted love for our wonderful game.

I am proud to say that my full name is John O’Leary O’Donoghue. Known to some, as just, Shane.

I haven’t seen my parents in a couple of months now, as a result of Covid-19. We are all suffering similar fates. My parents marked their 50th wedding anniversary on March 30th with their three children and 8 grandchildren, quaffing reasonably-priced sparkling wine on ZOOM! I can’t thank them enough for what they have given me and my sisters, but hope to, very soon. It’ll be emotional, after much rumination over what’s truly important in our lives.

JERRY TARDE 

My one golf moment that stands above the others occurred on Sunday’s back nine predictably in the 1986 Masters. I used to watch the action from a bird’s nest constructed for “working press only” by the 12th tee, and when the leaders came through, jump ahead to the giant grandstand to the left of the 15th green.

On this day, I watched Jack Nicklaus miss his tiddler for par on 12, which he later said spurred him to bear down even more, and dash down the 15th. I was a lad in my 20s then and could still dash. Shortly after getting to my perch on the back row, Nicklaus and his caddie-son wavered back in the fairway before hitting a long iron—“a 3 will go a long way here,” Jack said to Jackie, we’d later learn in the quonset hut—to about 20 feet and then hole it for an eagle. This set up the aforementioned “moment.”

As everybody knows, Jack’s tee shot finished about four feet from the hole on 16. Tom Watson playing behind Nicklaus left himself about a 25-foot eagle putt on 15, and Seve Ballesteros walked up to his prodigious drive in the fairway at 15. At that moment, as I saw it from the grandstand, you could draw a straight line from Nicklaus’s birdie putt, through Watson’s eagle putt, to Ballesteros’ pending approach shot. In my mind, I thought: “the past, present and future of golf.” Within a couple of minutes, Nicklaus holed, Watson missed, and Seve dunked his ball. But that still wasn’t the moment.

As I dashed once again down the grandstand’s back staircase and headed to 17, I brushed past some patrons in the crosswalk and distinctly heard one Southern accent say to another: “Ahh don’t care what Jack does, there’ll nevah be another Ahhnold Palmahh.”

SCOTT MICHAUX

In 1997, I took over the golf beat in Greensboro, NC, from Helen Ross when she left to join PGATour.com. In typical newspaper fashion, the editors were looking for places to save costs and the Masters looked like a good place to start. My sports editor, Allen Johnson, called me into his office in January when it was time to apply for credentials and I’ll admit I was nervous knowing what was coming. “Why do you think we need to cover the Masters?” he asked.

“Because Tiger Woods is going to win it and it will be the biggest story in the world and we’ll look like idiots for not covering it for the first time in more than 50 years,” I said, bluntly.

“You really think that?” my editor pressed. I reached into my pocket and pulled out a $20 Vegas betting slip — which I’d gotten that fall during a college friend’s bachelor party weekend — picking Tiger to win at 20/1 and slammed it on his desk. “Yeah, I really do.”

Allen Johnson picked up the slip and studied it before handing it back. He knew how much money I made and that $20 was not a frivolous prop. “Well,” he said, “you better be right.” He approved the travel.
The 1997 Masters was the first golf tournament I ever covered. I did not call into the office to check in with my editor after Tiger went out in 40 strokes Thursday.

My original seat in the press building was on the left bank where most of the European writers sat. I was about 4 rows up and directly next to Dai Davies. Quite frankly, Dai intimidated the hell out of me and was always suspicious that I was using his phone line after he left for the day. (I’ll admit one or two 800 calls to the office, but I always filed from the phone room at the top of the stairs.) Anyway, we didn’t communicate much at all.

A few years later, Dai and I still stared that part of the press building and nothing had changed. Except one afternoon when Dai was leaving, he was stopped in the doorway by a woman I did not know and was having what appeared to be an animated conversation that included several gestures toward my perch where I was typing away. He bowed, Dai turned around and trudged up the steps and back to his seat. At which point he directed the first words in 3 or 4 years to me.

“My wife is appalled that I’ve been sitting next to you for three years and I don’t know your name,” he said. Patricia was watching from the scoreboard below. We introduced each other and shared all the details that would be necessary for Dai to gain exit permission from his wife.

We became dear friends, to the point in 2006 when I covered the Open at Hoylake and Dai arranged for me to meet him at Llanymynech Golf Club in Wales to work on a story about pending Ryder Cup captain Ian Woosnam’s home turf. My overseas flight was delayed and I arrived at Llanymynech 3 hours late only to find Dai and Patricia patiently waiting for me on a bench outside the clubhouse. Patricia and I played the course while a convalescing Dai and club pro Andy Griffiths followed us around in a buggy regaling us with tales all afternoon.

I miss my old seatmate.

GEOFF SWEET

Like him or loathe him (and most US Ryder Cup captains favoured the latter), it could never be denied that Dick Turner ‘s presence in the media tent provoked more than a few epic ‘what’s he going to ask next?’ intakes of breath.

Dick certainly used to rub Tiger Woods up the wrong way, mostly with references to the great man’s on course etiquette. And, when push came to shove, he was never afraid to go for the jugular – whatever the reputation of his prey.

And so, I vividly recall Oakland Hills in 2004, scene of Europe’s runaway, almost merciless, 18.5-9.5 Ryder Cup victory. I can see US skipper Hal Sutton, hailed by the late, great James Lawton as “a tragi-comic figure beneath his big black Stetson”.

Lawton also observed that “almost every Sutton pronouncement brought a round of half-stifled titter”, so off the pace was the Texan’s “wild, down-home theorising.”

The scene was set for a virtuoso Dick Turner performance as early as close of play on day one when the Americans a massive 6.5-1-5 down, a record deficit on the first day. Only Chris Di Marco and Jay Haas registered a win over Miguel Angel Jimenez and Thomas Levet… and Sutton was the rabbit in the headlights trying to explain his team’s performance away.

And then up popped Dick, sat right under Sutton’s nose in the front row of the packed media interview tent. “If you lose this by tomorrow evening,” he asked, “will you bother about playing the singles or do we all go home?”

Needless to say this unorthodox, blunt and unwelcome question was greeted with laughter and derision, and a possible kickback from US master of ceremonies Julius Mason, whose instant response was: “Do you really want to ask that question?”

Dick obviously did and a bemused Sutton’s forced answer was an attempted put down when he said: “You know what, you wonder why there’s bad will here sometimes” – a comment also greeted with laughter as the assembled world’s press warmed to the jousting.

Twenty-four hours later the US had fared slightly better but were still lagging 11-5 behind with their top players, Woods and Phil Mickelson, having only won a point each in separate pairings after losing their opening two games together.

The situation left the struggling Sutton seeking a miracle in the singles and, with little or nothing to hang is Stetson on, he decided to top load his running order with Woods out first followed by Mickelson.

All of which led Dick to query: “Can you explain your thinking of putting Woods and Mickelson out first? Wouldn’t it have been better to invert the order; these are two of your weakest players this week.”

Sutton wasn’t up for this one, either, quickly retorting: “You’re full of great questions, aren’t you? Aren’t you the same guy that asked me would we concede? You know what, when you ask such stupid questions, you remember a face. So, no comment.”

For the record Woods beat Paul Casey and Mickelson lost to Sergio Garcia as Europe triumphed 7.5-4.5 to finish with that mega 18.5-9.5 victory. 

A bewildered Sutton did his best to shrug off the ignominy of his loss and poor planning. “I’m going to live with it.,” he said. “I’m going to move on. I’m going to hug my kid tomorrow and everything will be great.”

Just as well then that Dick, due to play the course 24 hours later, resisted the temptation to ask the beaten American if he fancied caddying for him! 

MIKE BLAIR

When you are into galloping decrepitude as I am one of the most painful manifestations is loss of memory. Thus I have forgotten many of the notable events of my golf writing career.

But I do very vaguely recall my first Masters when a gang of my more experienced colleagues (four of them are no longer with us) persuaded me, after golf, to join them on an outing to a club in downtown Augusta. And what a club! I think it was called the Snake Pit.

It was all about nearly naked ladies doing obscene things with pet reptiles and, coming from a Welsh chapel background as I do, I was horrified. I ran out of the place, not knowing where the heck I was going and my dear filthy-minded friends later told me i had been alone and undefended in one of the most dangerous districts in the whole of America.

They were amazed that I had made it back to base in one piece.

ALAN FRASER

Memories are especially precious when remembering becomes elusive. I beg your indulgence to offer two.

Michael McDonnell’s eternal gratitude for a piece of typically classy help from Bernhard Langer prompted a recollection of a similar action by Ernie Els from what gives the impression of a time gone by.

I can’t remember the year. It matters not. I had arranged with Ernie prior to an Open Championship an interview which was planned as a double page spread in the Daily Mail because of the access that would be given to photograph him with his lovely family in and around his house on the Wentworth Estate. The only time available was on the morning of the first Monday of Wimbledon, an important day in the sporting calendar at which both the photographer and reporter was due to attend.

So, we did the job and beetled along to the All England Club in time for the start of the tennis. The pics in and around the Els swimming pool promised to be sensational.

Later that afternoon, as I chipped away at the lap-top, a somewhat sheepish looking photographer _ a master of his craft by the way _ approached the desk. ‘Can I have a word in private?’ the snapper who shall remain nameless to spare his blushes asked.

‘I pressed the wrong button on my camera and have wiped out the Els pictures. They can’t be retrieved.’

There may have been some swear words in the minutes that followed.  Basically, though, I said I would see what I could do. Few agents would have entertained any request for a second session. I happened to have Ernie’s private mobile number. I rang him. He picked up. I told him the problem.

Without so much as a moment’s hesitation Ernie said: ‘Tell him to be at my house at 10am tomorrow morning.’ No that’s what you call classy.

Another AGW friend is Sam Torrance.

Back to 1993 and the Saturday of the old Dunhill Cup. My day off. A walk round the Old Course to clear the head after a heavy night. Scotland v Sweden in the semi-final. I was standing beside the 12^th tee as Sam walked towards me from the 11^th green.

‘What’s happening up ahead,’ he asked

‘(Joakim) Haegmann has just taken 9 at this hole,’ I replied.

‘How the hell can anyone make a 9 at the 12^th,’ Sam countered.

Whereupon he proceeded to hook his tee shot into a huge patch of impenetrable gorse.  The 12^th, at 316 yards in those days, is the shortest par 4 on the famous links. That day, with a stiff breeze behind, many players were driving the green.

Torrance reloaded, again firing the ball left. The first ball was lost, the second found in an unplayable lie. The Scot took a penalty stroke, landed short of the green with his fifth, chipped clumsily and, almost inevitably, three putted for a 9. I was standing at the side of the green wanting the earth to swallow me up and thinking I should not have said a word. But I dare not slink away.

‘Don’t say a fucking word,’ Sam said to me as he passed.

I like to think there was the suggestion of a smile on his face. But memory can be a tricky companion.

TONY ADAMSON

Make no mistake, or as they say in Pedrena, “sin lugar a dudas.”

Seve was the most exciting golfer I ever saw in my 35 years working for BBC Radio. 

Save from my sister who doesn’t know the difference between a two iron and a steam iron, I was probably his most devoted follower. It was his passion for the game,   his artistry, his imagination that made him top sporting box office. Sometimes he performed with apparent reckless abandon. His galleries loved it.

He remains an indelible memory. Indeed, step through my front door at home and there, dominating the hallway, is a large, colour picture   of Seve, taken by one of the game’s leading photographers and a very good friend, the late Phil Sheldon.  It captures Seve’s explosive reaction, joyously pumping the air repeatedly and acknowledging his vociferous fans, after holing the putt on the 72^nd green at St Andrews that virtually sealed his victory in the 1984 Open championship. 

Not before or since have I been so emotionally moved as I was then. Ok, I blubbed, standing only feet from the green armed with my tape recorder and microphone. To win the Open at the home of golf was, he told me afterwards, the deepest emotional moment of his life and the pinnacle of his career.

Seve could be both charming and controversial, suspicious and manipulative. Every member of the Association of Golf Writers will be able to bring such evidence to bear, but he was always forgiven. Spool on 12 years from his life changing moment at St Andrews to his appearance at the Volvo Masters at Valderrama where, in a year’s time, he would captain Europe in the Ryder Cup. In an interview for BBC Radio I asked him how he was settling into one of golf’s most prestigious roles?

”I tell you, it’s been a nightmare,” he said, and he meant it.  

I could see our listeners stretching to turn up the volume.

Seve’s verbal outbursts against the authority of the European Tour had become commonplace. His requests to be a playing captain, to have 4 wild cards and to play the match on his personally built course at Novo Sancti Petri had all been rebuffed.

“I am captain, ok?” he continued.  “But my decisions are questioned. It is no good for me. I can’t do my job. It’s a nightmare.”

The following morning Seve summoned me from the Media Centre at Valderrama.  News of his comments had clearly reached the news desks and he’d been approached for further reaction, and he was breathing fire as only he could. He fixed me with that familiar, penetrating stare, so familiar to opposing US Ryder Cup players.

“When we talk,” he said. “It is private, ok, always private? Don’t forget that. It is not for others.”

“It was a radio interview, Seve, for the BBC, for broadcasting, “I protested. “You saw the microphone. It was like the many other chats we have had over the years.  Millions of people heard it.”

“In future, private,” he insisted.  “You have let me down. No respect. I am disappointed.”

As Robert Green wrote in his book, “Seve Golf’s Flawed Genius” Seve fought countless perceived adversaries, some real and some imaginary. He fought his own technical shortcomings to make himself one of the finest golfers ever, arguably the most charismatically entertaining in the history of the game.”

Ten years after leading Europe to victory at Valderrama, Seve retired from the game. There wasn’t a dry eye in the house at the Open championship at Carnoustie when he explained his decision. He left the scene by slowly walking through a packed guard of honour of international golfing people, and it seemed my intrusion into his private grief at Valderrama all those years ago had been forgotten when he shook my hand warmly and said thank you.

The regularity with which his name has appeared among the countless memories of AGW members in recent days is a lasting testimony to Seve’s popularity and the lofty place he will always hold in our hearts.     

NICK DYE

My “full time” stint on the golf circuit must’ve lasted 13 years, and at its peak I was at 38 tournaments in a year.  It began with a surprise phone call offering 30 European Tour events for radio coverage.  It morphed into working primarily for tv with radio a bonus.  And ended as abruptly as it began.

I haven’t recovered from that ending.  I carried on in golf for a bit, working for the Sunshine Tour for two years without touching down in South Africa.  But golf appears to have turned its back on me, and I’ve questioned whether I should even be a member of the AGW anymore.  I try not to be bitter, but I’m still beyond understanding how my knowledge and contacts could just be discarded after so long.

I’ve been turned down for jobs at the European Tour and the R&A with the reasoning that the roles were below my pay-grade.  Until the virus hit, I was driving a white van, delivering cakes (fittingly) just to make ends meet; so what’s my pay-grade now?

Anyway, too late I’m sure, but for what’s it worth…. 

Countless tournaments have meant some golden moments.  My recollections aren’t about how tournaments played out; it’s the places, the people, the camaraderie I miss.

Sitting on the terraces in Hong Kong and Crans-sur-Sierre; bombing around in a buggy at Bro Hof, Turnberry, Sun City, Leopard Creek, Sheshan, Killarney.

Drinking… with Alex Noren and Pelle Edberg on the most expensive pub crawl of my life, trawling around Crans with Alex only drinking champagne, and Pelle having a Swedish spirit wherever he could find it; with Mike Lorenzo-Vera in a Beijing nightclub after he’d finished second at the China Open; with Ernie Els at an out-of-season ski resort in Korea; on the shots with Pablos Larrazabal and Martin in Jeju; through a back gate and over a rooftop into a speakeasy in Limerick; with Karl McGinty and a sweet hooker from Madagascar in Abu Dhabi; singing with John Daly and Robert Rock in Moscow; dancing on the table with Shane Lowry in Vilamoura.

Gambling… winning some extra dosh courtesy of long odds wins for Graeme McDowell and Michael Campbell at the US Open, Jin Jeong in Perth, Scott Drummond at Wentworth; and courtesy of a bookmaker’s error in Qatar when Otters and I cleaned up, because the starting prices were still in place when play was almost completed.

More tournament related… chatting to Mark Wiebe after his final round at the Senior Open at Royal Birkdale, and advising him to hang around.  He felt he’d lost out to Bernhard Langer, but even the best had struggled on the 18th that day.  Mark got over his disappointing end, stayed chatting, putted a bit, and saw Bernhard falter.  Mark won the resultant play-off (eventually).  I found out the following year that he told all his family and friends that I helped him win the Open!

West Ham… sharing our allegiance and chatting football with Francesco Molinari, Robert Coles, Richard McEvoy and Paul McGinley.

Quiet moments… being with Simon Khan as he struggled in Hong Kong (only to triumph at Wentworth some months later); with Lee Slattery in Ostrava, Justin Walters in Perth, Michael Hoey at an airport somewhere, Thomas Aiken on a plane somewhere, Lee Westwood when he was on an incredible low, Thomas Bjorn when winning in Portugal after so many struggles.  So many friendships formed by being the smiling face, taking an interest at the end of a round or end of a day, treating the little known just the same as the superstars.

When I’m at a low ebb – and there’ve been plenty of those times in the last three-plus years – I remember that Tiger knew my name, that Henrik and Francesco stay in touch, and that Rory McIlroy massaged my professional pride, ready for a “proper interview” in Dubai (video evidence is too large to attach).

TONY STENSON

A former colleague of mine on the Daily Mirror started to write a book and gave it a working title of ‘Forgive Us Our Press Pass’. Sadly, he never finished it. He died a case of one case too many.

But that’s usually the way red-top reporters go. Hair of the dog today, doggoned tomorrow.

I mentioned this once to my great friend Michael McDonnell as we drained another glass. I wouldn’t have missed it for the world, particularly tales from the 19th hole, although it does mean now my liver is taking a rest. Just.

But, hey. Red top, red nose. Goes with the territory.

I started covering golf following the death of another friend, Ron Willis and quickly realised the respect he had from players, officials and fellow writers.

I was also aware Red Tops carried little weight with the R & A, giving us three seats between 10 of us at Opens. There we were, the Mirror, Sun, Star. All roped together in a row some colleagues called Slime Alley. I wonder why?

I always looked enviously at the six chairs given to the likes of The Sunday Times etc., They could house an orchestra in their row. We just about managed the ice-cream lady’s tray.

Working six days a week on golf cut no ice with the R & A until I complained for more seats. Next year, the Mirror team were put with….the Swedes. Something lost in translation there.

Yanks loved the red tops, often chasing up our yarns. They called us Whispering Death and Tom Watson remains a favourite when he described us as ‘I love you guys…you just get out the pick axe and stab, stab, stab’.  

I pride myself I can get on with most people, but Nick Faldo was always one step too far.

 The year after he won his third Masters, Ben Bacon of The Sun and I waited for him outside the Champions Locker room. It was Sunday and usually everyone is relaxed. After 15 minutes The Great One emerged and we asked for a few minutes of his time, and he replied, or stormed as they say: “For you two, never ever”. Then he walked four paces, stopped and added: “You two should get married!”

Nice thought, but Ben already had a wife. So, did I. Much later I bumped into his then manager John Simpson and asked why Faldo was so rude. He said Nick would have talked to me but not anyone from The Sun. I replied, I pick my friends, not Nick.

I once thought Jamie Spence was going to brain me with a putter when he walked into the Dunhill Press tent at St. Andrews holding one. That day my paper had written a story about England having the worst football team, and now they had the worst golf team, if you went by rankings. The office put my name on the story. Ever tried to explain this quaint Fleet Street tradition to an irate golfer? You don’t. I just let Jaime take me down a few pegs and ensured I stayed a ‘gimme’ distance from his putter. We thankfully, made up later.

Roger Chapman was also part of that team and a few months later I sat with him and others watching England’s football team pay on telly. England we playing badly and he asked me: Do you reckon this is the worst team ever?”

I thought that was a bit harsh. Then I looked up and saw the wicked smile on his face and remembered.

So many wonderful, often bizarre moments, particularly when Seve Ballesteros spotted Mike McDonnell and I having an evening meal at an outside café in Crans-sur-Sierre.

He came over and asked Mr President  – Mike then being the AGW President – if he could sit down. He did so with waiting for a reply and said nothing for two minutes, simply twisting to golf balls in his hand.

Then he started talking about the pressure of being a Ryder Cup captain, his row with Miguel Angel Martin, who had been controversially left out of the squad,  how his life mirrored that of Princess Diana, who when he was courting his future wife, Spanish journalists regularly car-chase them. We never got to eat our ordered spaghetti. He did leave two golf balls, however.

Lost  a lot of friends along the way. Michael Williams, Frank Clough, Richard Dodd, Dai Davies. Colm Smith, more recently Bill Robertson and one who was very close, Bill Blighton. We were born in the same Woolwich hospital and also lived in the same street.

We called him ‘Billy By-pass’ following his heart op. Like Cloughie, he could always been seen hiding his fag in curled hands.

His life is a book in itself. He died far too young. Against all laws and warnings, his widow Margaret, Martin Hardy, James Mossop, Peter Higgs and myself said a little prayer and then scattered his ashes over bushes near Augusta’s eleventh fairway. We thought fitting. He loved the place, although he wasn’t keen on the local jail. Again another story.

The ceremony took ages. The ashes seemed to go on forever. We were scared of being caught by the Green Jackets. We knew Bill was big, but this was like delivering coal.

With a drink in our hands, we later laughed long and hard. Gallows humour. That’s the way it’s been with red tops. We never took life seriously. We always knew only the undertaker, ex-wives and the taxman win.

MIKE AITKEN

Of course, a lifetime of golfing memories swell the scene.

My first Open Championship for The Scotsman at Royal St George’s in 1981, speaking to Jack Nicklaus in the locker room after he’d posted 83 in poor weather and sneaking a peak at the sheer majesty of the game when he roared back on Friday with 66.

Paul Lawrie, the first Scottish champion on home turf since Tommy Armour in 1931, winning The Open at Carnoustie in 1999 after my sports desk colleagues, understandably expecting me to cope alone with polite applause for Jean Van De Velde, had long since left the press tent.

Watching Tiger Woods win The Masters in 1997 and three years later at Pebble Beach witnessing the greatest golfing performance of my lifetime when he lapped the field to secure the 100th US Open by 15 strokes.

Interviewing Sam Snead at 11am in the clubhouse at Turnberry and asking if he’d like something to drink. Coca Cola, came the reply. “And put a little rum in it…”

Nowadays, it goes without saying, it’s the friendships I made with so many in the golfing world that spring first to mind.

Renton Laidlaw, who sat in front of me in the old Augusta media building, putting his arm around my shoulder at The Masters after I took a call from the office to tell me my father had died. He told me to go home and I did.

Travelling with the late Raymond Jacobs of the Herald to Long Island to cover the US Open won at Shinnecock by Corey Pavin in 1995, I’d blagged us upgrades on a direct BA flight from Glasgow to New York where we spent the journey over a Bloody Mary or two deep in animated conversation with Baroness Shirley Williams.

By way of payback, Raymond arranged a blether in New York with one of my heroes, his friend Sir Alistair Cooke. The conversation was all hackers golf and I was suitably awed when the broadcaster recalled playing a round with Hollywood icon Rita Hayworth at Riviera in the Sixties when neither broke 100.

Listening to my friend Bill Elliott tell a story against himself about breakfast in the clubhouse at Augusta. You sit there sometimes with people you don’t know and an American, already seated, was blessed to hear the details of Bill’s illustrious career, particularly his friendships with Seve Ballesteros and Greg Norman, over eggs, toast and coffee. When the meal was over, Bill politely asked his confidant what he did for a living. “I’m a drummer.”  “Oh, who with, anyone I’d know?”  “The Eagles,” replied Don Henley.

In 2007, when The Open returned to Carnoustie, I was fortunate to be asked by an equipment company to partner Paul in a comfortable win over a pair of golf correspondents representing English titles. A wee bit of a fiddle?  Perhaps.

As our match drew to an end, Lawrie tossed down a ball on the 18th fairway close to the spot where he struck one of the best 4-irons in Carnoustie’s history, a telling blow over the Barry Burn which ran with such gentle momentum towards the cup. Older and wiser, another shot soared into the grey Angus sky. After the clubhead met the ball, you could still hear the echo of glory.

LEN SHAPIRO

When people ask me to name the all-time favorite events I’ve covered up close and personal, the Sunday of the 1997 Masters ranks right up there with The Miracle on Ice 17 years earlier when the U.S. hockey team defeated the Russians in the 1980 Winter Olympics.

There would be no such nail-biting drama that April afternoon in Augusta, on a day when a 21-year-old phenom named Tiger Woods went into the final round with a nine-shot lead and was never even remotely threatened from the rear. He won by 12 shots over runner-up Tom Kite and ended the week at 18-under par, both still tournament records. He also became the youngest Masters winner, and the event’s first black champion.

Anyone watching on TV that day surely will recall the emotional bear hug Woods’ father, the late Earl Woods, gave his son as young Tiger walked off the 18th green at the 72nd hole and headed to the scorer’s booth to make it all official.

I was back in the press center watching that scene on a television monitor myself to make certain I’d make my first edition Washington Post deadline that would hit about the same time Woods was being interviewed on CBS.

But five hours earlier, I was on the course walking, about to tag along in Woods’ massive mob of a gallery over the first dozen holes. And the scene at the very first hole is one that will forever be burned into my memory bank.

Up a slight incline from the first tee, the back side of Augusta National’s iconic two-story wooden clubhouse serves as a majestic backdrop. I had walked over there from the press room about a half-hour before Woods was scheduled to start his final round, the better to get a decent view of his opening shot.

And then I got a little lucky.

Thousands were starting to gather in the same area, but as soon as I arrived, I spotted a familiar face in the crowd and walked over to say hello. It was Lee Elder, the first black golfer to play in the Masters on another historic week in 1975.  A native of Dallas, Elder had moved to Washington, D.C., in the 1960s and for many years, was the area’s only local player on the PGA Tour.  As the Washington Post’s golf writer, I knew him well. We’d even spoken about doing a book.

We began talking, and Elder said he’d driven up to Augusta by himself from his winter home in South Florida the day before to witness Woods’ historic final round. He also told me he’d gotten a speeding ticket from a Georgia state trooper, who had no idea who he’d stopped and why he was so eager to get to the golf course.

As we stood there waiting for Woods to make the short walk from the nearby practice putting green to the first tee, I turned around and looked back toward the clubhouse. Up on the second-floor balcony, which wrapped all around the building, the railing was lined by dozens of club employees—waiters, bartenders, the janitorial staff, the locker room shoe shine attendant—most of them men and women of color. They wanted to witness history, as well.

 As Woods made his way from the putting green through a funnel of fans up to the first tee, I happened to look over at Elder. Tears were streaming down his face, and he couldn’t speak. He didn’t have to. I still get goosebumps just thinking about those precious moments before Tiger Woods hit his first shot that remarkable day.

ALAN HEDLEY

I kind of sleepwalked into covering golf but when I was eventually welcomed into the AGW in 1985 it was very much a dream come true.

When I joined the Shields Gazette and Weekly News as a sports reporter in 1967 it wasn’t to cover golf. It was all football, more football with the occasional cricket match and a bit of rugby as well.

I was very much a rugby player then and hadn’t even touched a golf club, but watching Tony Jacklin winning the 1969 Open on TV changed everything and I decided to give it a go. It was one of my better decisions and when my editor Jim Sinton – a keen golfer himself – suggested I might want to write a golf column, as well jumped at the chance. Of course, there was no extra cash in the pay packet for doing it, but actually getting out on the golf course and watching people who could really play the game was a revelation.

Saturdays were a hectic joy – I’d shoot off to a golf tournament, usually a county event, rush away at lunch time to cover South Shields, Sunderland or Newcastle for the Shields Gazette Green’un sports edition and then leg it back to the golf for the end of play and knock out a report for the Monday paper and pick up stuff for the weekly column. I was as happy as a pig in truffles.

My first taste of big-time professional golf came in the 1970 Whitley Bay Classic, won by Maurice Bembridge who outshone a field including Lee Trevino and Peter Oosterhuis. It was fantastic and for the first time I seriously considered becoming a golf writer full time, but the best I could do was a weekly column for the Sunderland Echo by new employers and then I jumped at the chance to move to the Newcastle Evening Chronicle  as their golf and rugby writer.

I’d been to the Open a few times in the mid-1970s and the 1977 Callers of Newcastle tournament at Whitley Bay whetted my appetite for more and my first Open as a journalist was the 1979 at Lytham. I was sold on it and gradually started covering bigger amateur tournaments and occasional pro event, especially when I succeeded John Pargeter, who was sports editor and golf correspondent with the Chronicle’s sister paper, The Journal.

JNP as he was universally known, took me under his wing, taught me a hell of lot about covering golf and rugby and it was he who introduced me to the delights of the AGW dinner as his guest and he introduced me to any number of good guys including Bill Johnson, Ron Moseley, David Birtill, Mike Blair, Peter Godsiff, Bob Davies, David Hamilton, Dai Davies, Jock MacVicar and Bill Robertson.

I was generously welcomed me into their midst, and especially Ron and both the Bills started putting work my way and I’m pretty sure it was Bill Johnson and Ron Moseley who proposed me for membership of the AGW in 1985 for which I’m eternally grateful.
It opened so many doors, opportunities and made for memorable days on the golf course.

I remember a trip to the USA with Bill Robertson and David J Whyte to play Ryder Cup course Oakland Hills and a tour of Michigan where we nearly got nicked for speeding in the biggest damn car I’d ever driven. There were many other such trips, games of golf, including the hilarious Home Internationals.

Speaking of hilarious – the AGW dinners were often wonderfully humorous affairs – people falling into ditches…was that St Georges? Forgetting where cars were parked, forgetting where they were staying (Peter Godsiff, St Andrews).
Then there was the time I had a hole in one at the 17th Haddington on the Tuesday afternoon before the dinner at Muirfield.

Naturally, I bought playing partners JNP, David Beardall and Duncan Madsen and the barman a drink, but the clubhouse was deserted and I congratulated myself on getting off lightly.

Then at the dinner, Bob Cass got to his feet to announce the running order for the evening and casually mentioned I’d had a hole in one that day and would be in the bar afterwards…it was one of the most expensive nights of my life. But well worth it. Happy days.

GORDON SIMPSON

Monday, April 8, 1996. The date is printed indelibly in my mind, and not necessarily for all the right reasons.

Since entering sports journalism at the age of 17, I had carried around two over-arching objectives – to attend a FIFA World Cup and the Masters at Augusta. The Press Association allowed me to fulfil the first goal but, having reached 40, I was resigned to the fact that the dream of witnessing the rite of passage in the Georgia springtime was a forlorn hope.

Then I became golf correspondent for the Daily Record and my press accreditation was submitted and approved. Happy days.

So here I was at 8am on that Monday in question, doubled up with stomach cramps on the doorstep of the medical unit, desperately in need of a doctor. My excitement had long since evaporated, replaced by the overwhelming nausea of a severe case of food poisoning. I was the medics first patient of the week!

The previous night, I dined with Mike Aitken and his family (in Aiken on all places) but the prawn cocktail wasn’t a wise choice. I was in the bathroom all night and barely found the strength to drive myself to the course.

It wasn’t how I envisaged my first sighting of Augusta National. Worse, the doctors decided that an injection in the posterior was the only way to halt the flow of waste from both ends. Having administered the ‘jag’, they informed I would be sedated for several hours.

“No!”, I yelled in horror. “I’ve got a deadline to meet.” I feared I would be unable to file my first report from Augusta.

Thankfully, I revived myself in time to register in the Media Centre, grab a telephone and file my first story which – fortuitously –  I had tucked away in the notebook. The sense of relief was palpable.

Hardly an auspicious start to my love affair with Augusta, but things improved. By Thursday I had recovered sufficiently to enjoy the unique contours of Augusta National and watch Greg Norman shoot 63. By Sunday evening, I had also seen the ‘Shark’ implode and witnessed a British winner at my first attempt as Norman’s nemesis, Nick Faldo, shot a closing 67 to the Australian’s 78. Great copy and a thrilling climax.

Oh, and for good measure, my name was hauled out of the media ballot at the very first attempt and at 7.35am on Monday morning – almost exactly a week after my miserable arrival at the Club – I stood on the tenth tee with three colleagues from the USA and Canada to experience the course for myself.

A decent finish to a calamitous start, I reckon.

Another favourite memory:

You can always rely on your own office to trigger unnecessary personal grief while sparking considerable merriment among your colleagues.

It happened to me at the Scottish Open in 1997, on the banks of Loch Lomond. It was only a couple of months since the young Tiger Woods had captured his first Green Jacket at Augusta, and the week prior to The Open at Royal Troon.

The Daily Record, in their wisdom, took a double page advert in the A4 official tournament programme. On the left-hand page was a triumphant Tiger, fist pumping, in all his glory, with the caption: “I’m Tiger Woods”.

On the right-hand page was a somewhat overweight, red-faced, bleary-eyed golf writer, staring earnestly at his computer screen alongside a caption which screamed: “I’m Gordon Simpson”!

It was embarrassing, to say the least. I couldn’t live it down. Here I was on home territory and feeling as if I had been clamped into the stocks and pelted with rotten tomatoes. All I could do was grin and bear it as the snide comments came thick and fast.

A few days later we decamped to Troon and the double-page spread inexorably linking Woods with Simpson was forgotten. Or so I thought.

On the Wednesday afternoon, someone tapped me on the shoulder as I was tapping away furiously. “Look up,” he said. I did and the spontaneous comment is unprintable in a family publication, as they say.

Lined up in front of the scoreboard and looking distinctly shifty, in the time-honoured manner of a police identity parade, were around a dozen of my AGW colleagues, all sporting freshly printed Tee-shirts featuring the aforementioned page of yours truly with “I’m Gordon Simpson” emblazoned across the front. Patricia Davies had gone further with a natty special edition stating: “I also know Gordon Simpson”.

It was both funny and humbling that some colleagues had taken the time to source the Tee shirts for a bit of amusing sport. At my expense of course.  To this day, I am unsure if it was Derek Lawrenson, Dai Davies or Alister Nicol behind the machinations. Maybe someone else will confess. To be honest, I was secretly pleased to be the butt of the joke and it showed the spirit of the AGW was alive and well.

NB: Remarkably, I managed to dig out the last surviving Tee-shirt, in a crumpled heap at the bottom of a drawer. I was sure I had a photo somewhere of the motley crew lined up in front of me, grinning inanely, but, sadly, had no luck in finding it.

KARL MACGINTY

I was at the 2005 US Open at Pinehurst and was coming back from the golf course on the Wednesday afternoon and determined to find a shortcut on my way to the hotel at Fayettville and the other side of the Fort Bragg military installation.

I found this entrance to the Fort Bragg reservation and it was a paved road so I thought to myself I am going to follow it.  Well about two to three miles it became a sandy track but I thought ‘yeah, it’s going to get better’. It didn’t get better!

I got a little further down the road.  It narrowed.  There were banks on either side with red flags in the banks and these yellow signs with skulls and crossbones saying: ‘Danger! Unexploded Mines’. So, I drove on for a few more miles but up the track comes this big military truck with aerials on top of the enclosed back part of the truck and with these two soldiers armed and everything in the front part.

So, I thought to myself I better stop rather than them stop me. I said: “I’m a bit lost here.  I’m from Ireland and any chance you could help me out?”.

They were obviously getting radio messages in their helmets but they said: “Okay sir.  Follow us and we will show you the way out.”  I followed them and we got to the bottom and they then said to me: “Right sir.  You follow that way to get out.”  And one of them said to me: “By the way sir did you hear the rockets?” I said: “What rockets?  I thought I did hear planes taking off from the air base nearby”.  “No, no, no sir.  They were rockets being fired there.  The range is there to your right, over your head there.” I said: “Oh, really!”

Next day I was telling Dermot Gilleece about what happened when back in the Media Centre.  He began laughing and he heads to the toilet and he’s still laughing at the urinal and a fellow says to Dermot: “Do you mind telling me what you are laughing about?”.  So, Dermot tells him my story.  The fellow was from the Fayettville Observer and he comes in to interview me.

The next day there’s this big back page story. There’s this headline: “Irishman Comes Under Rocket Fire.”

It turned out too it was biggest heading made by an Irishman that US Open.

GREG ALLEN

At the 2019 US Open at Pebble Beach the Media Centre and the practice range were right beside each other but a good 15-minute walk from the golf course itself so there was a shuttle bus that took both players and the media in the same shuttle bus. It was quite a unique scenario and players, of course, got precedence over media by a long way.

It did mean I did get to travel in the shuttle with a few prominent players.  So, there was one day and coming off the practice ground, and with a lot of kerfuffle over this player getting on the shuttle as he was signing a lot of autographs, and laughing and joking before he got onto the shuttle.

But as soon as he got onto the shuttle, he just took out his phone, looked into it and didn’t interact with anybody.  There were a few questions asked but he didn’t say anything and that was the end of that. It was about a six to seven minutes journey and he just got out at the other end and that was Phil Mickelson for you. So, you can take from that what you will.

At the other end, and after doing a bit of work and as the shuttle bus door was then opened again so I got in to be followed by another player and there was again, a bit of kerfuffle around him as he had managers, hangers-on and whoever they were.

So, the shuttle door closed and this player starts talking straight away saying: “Oh, I had a terrible day out there today.  I missed every f-ing green, every f-ing putt.” He actually had a pretty good round where he could have made a good inroad in winning the US Open and it just didn’t happen for him.

So, he was full of chat and he just kind of took questions from everybody. He held court.  He was charming.  Articulate even.  We were all wondering this guy is like who we thought he was.

He got off the shuffle and wished us all good bye, all a good day.  The door of the shuttle closed and myself and a media colleague beside just looked at each other said: “Was that really Dustin Johnson?”

There you go!  A reputation shattered.  So, never judge a book by its cover.

MARTIN HARDY

Just like many of Tony ‘Old Chum’ Stenson’s stories, his AGW memories bear but a brief nod to the truth, but here are a couple which might make even his face redder.

On my last visit to Augusta as Working Press in 2001, I was lucky enough to be drawn out of the hat to play the morning after although I have a feeling Mitchell Platts may have had a word in the right ears.

The Gun has borrowed my clubs on the Saturday so that he could shoot another 100+ round at Aiken, but returned them a few seconds before I was due to take on Augusta National.   Despite a serious case of first tee nerves, I somehow managed to make it halfway up the hill and even more miraculously was pin-high with my approach shot, but bunkered left.  That’s when Old Chum

Tony became Ex-Old Chum.

Despite searching the bag several times, it did not reveal a sand iron, but then there were two four-irons in there, one of which was definitely not mine.  Risking a life ban, I phone ex-Old Chum and asking him to get the sand-iron to me before we made the turn or I would wrap the rogue four-iron around his neck.

I didn’t see Ex-Old Chum again to long after the steam stopped erupting from my ears after visiting every other bunker on the course.

When we did exchange unpleasantries, he tried to sooth my frustrations by reminding me of the day he helped me out during in the middle of a messy divorce.  I had been forced to take my two sons with me to the Irish Open, so instead of flying to Dublin, I had to take the ferry which didn’t dock until after Colin Montgomerie’s Press Conference.

Ex-Old Chum was more than happy to pass on Monty’s quotes although I didn’t realise, he hadn’t been in the Press Conference either but he’d got them from a third party.  By the time they’d got to me they had grown legs, arms and a moustache and beard.

I got a back page lead while the Daily Mail’s Alan Fraser and The Sun’s Jim Black, who’d actually been at the Press Conference, got four pars inside and bollickings from their respective editors for not having the quotes I had.

Later that day, Monty shot a respectable a very good score, but, as Press Officer Gordon Simpson announced to the gathered media, that Colin Montgomerie would not be going to the Media Centre for interview because ‘of something Martin Hardy had written in the Daily Express’.  It was the first and only time I had received a standing ovation from the assembled hacks.

Then there was the day Tony and I joined forces to take on the late and still missed Ian Wooldridge and A. N. Other during another Masters Saturday. Going down the last all-square, I walked up to my ball while Tony took the cart having driven out-of-bounds.  Ready to pull the trigger, I asked Tony for an eight-iron, but turned around and he wasn’t there and neither were my clubs. Ten minutes later he still couldn’t be found and our opponents were claiming the match.

Suddenly there was a chug chug of an engine re-booting and out of the woods came Tony in the buggy which had on it about 200 pine cones he’d been gathering.

Then there was … Second thoughts I’ll save it for the memories of countless laughs and adventures my Old Chum Tony, The Gun who shoots from The Lip.

DEREK LAWRENSON

It was the hardest piece that I’ve ever had to write — and the lively aftermath was far, far worse.

Picture the scene in the elegant clubhouse lobby at the Oxfordshire, where an irate Seve Ballesteros was not just tearing a strip off me in front of his peers, he was leaving nothing left.

‘How dare you call me a cheat,’ he screamed. ‘I thought you were my friend!’

Now I knew how all those American Ryder Cup players felt. It was three years before we shared another word. What was Seve like? I wish I had a pound to donate to this paper’s brilliant Covid-19 charity Mail Force for every time I’ve been asked that question.

On Thursday, it’s the ninth anniversary (May 7^th, 2011) since he passed away, and, as ever, the day will be filled with largely special memories capturing the laughter, the insight and, of course, the genius. But I have to admit, there will always be a small part of me that will look back on that wretched period in 1999 and the toes will curl once more.

What could possibly have caused the great man, frankly, to go bonkers? Rewind three weeks to the Spanish Open, where Seve was the promoter, Jose Maria Olazabal had just won the Masters and Sergio Garcia was making his pro debut. A fiesta-filled occasion, in other words.

Only trouble was that Seve could barely play by then, owing to his chronic back trouble. Even on Thursday, he was looking like missing the cut. After losing his ball on the 12th hole, he trundled back and played a provisional.

Television pictures showed that, while a tree had clearly been impeding him on the original shot, now the way was clear.

Cue uproar in the clubhouse. When the tour’s chief referee gave Seve the benefit of the doubt, saying his approximation of where the original shot had been played had fallen within the rules, the players went nuts.

The press room, a corps of golf writers who had grown up idolising Seve didn’t want to touch the story with a bargepole. On Saturday morning, it had still not been written. So, the bloke working for the Sunday Telegraph at the time decided, with the heaviest of hearts, that it needed writing.

Here’s my second paragraph: ‘Ballesteros was at the centre of a storm of controversy yesterday when he was accused of something of which golfers should never be accused.’

Wow. I don’t think the time had reached 8am that Sunday before the sports desk started fielding complaints. One pro I had quoted said he’d already lost one of his sponsors. On and on it went. Not a word, though, from Seve. That came three weeks later at the Benson and Hedges International at the Oxfordshire.

Walking to lunch, I can still hear his words as he marched furiously across the lobby: ‘Derek! Derek! I want a word with you!’ Fingers jabbing, eyes blazing, the almighty rollicking felt like it went on for hours. The pros who gathered for the show were struggling to stop laughing. Lunch was not great that day.

So began the three years of exile. Every so often I’d test the water and try a ‘Hello, Seve’ as he walked by, only to be repeatedly blanked. Then, from out of nowhere, a friend of mine who runs a PR agency rang to say he’d arranged an interview with Seve. ‘Yeah, right, you realise we don’t talk?’ I replied. He assured me that he had cleared it with Seve’s manager.

It took place in the back of a limousine from Druids Glen in Wicklow to Dublin airport, lasting about an hour. As you can imagine, I was as nervous as hell. But it was as if the previous three years had never happened. It was the Seve I’d always known, he was fabulous company once more.

As I got out of the car, he grabbed my arm. What now? ‘I just want you to know that I think you’re a good person really, and that I’ve forgiven you,’ he said.

You can decide for yourself if I needed forgiving but I do know this: it sure felt good to be forgiven by Seve. We got on well again after that.

Rest in peace, maestro. 

PHILIP REID

There is a photo around which was taken in the media centre of the Irish Open at Adare Manor. The year is 2007 and, for the motley crew of golfing hacks gathered around Pádraig Harrington with the trophy, the moment was worth capturing: he had just ended a 25-year drought of an Irish winner dating back to 1982 when John O’Leary last won the title.

For many of us who had been many years on the golfing beat, Harrington’s win – a play-off over Bradley Dredge, the nicest of men but who must have felt like a villain that May day in Co Limerick as the huge crowd cheered for one man only – was a high point then, not just of his career, but of our own.

Little did we know what was to follow?

For, barely two months later, Harrington would outduel Sergio Garcia in the Open championship at Carnoustie, the first Irish golfer since Fred Daly in 1947 to win the most coveted of the Major championships. For those of us reporting from Carnoustie, it was a seismic event in Irish sport, with word filtering through from back home that the whole country had literally come to a standstill to watch an unfolding drama which stretched on into the evening before Harrington did his duty and the pubs of Ireland did a roaring trade.

At the presentation, Harrington nodded to the younger, curly-haired Irish youth beside him who had also shown his golfing pedigree by claiming the silver medal as leading amateur. “I’m glad I got in before he gets one, I think he will win a few Open championships in the future,” predicted Harrington of Rory McIlroy standing close by.

Harrington, of course, would go on to defend his title at Royal Birkdale the following year and also add the US PGA in Detroit to become a three-time Major champion. Other Irish golfers would follow him in claiming Major titles in a golden generation for Irish golf, most notably McIlroy (with four career Majors), but also Graeme McDowell, Darren Clarke and most recently of all Shane Lowry in that never-to-be-forgotten return of the Open to Royal Portrush in 2019.

Anyway, back to that evening in Carnoustie in 2007 when the Harrington’s win not only dominated the sports pages of Irish newspapers but also dominated the main front page news coverage; and so it was that our small group of Irish golfing hacks were the last to leave the huge media centre, having each compiled enough words to fill books.

And how did we celebrate? Unfortunately, no party into the wee hours. Not for us, anyway.

As Charlie Mulqueen of the Irish Examiner and myself finally ventured out into the empty streets of Carnoustie, all of the restaurants and bars were closed. As we made our way back to the rented house, we – luckily – came across a takeaway. So it was that a dinner of fish and chips provided our sustenance that night, accompanied by a glass or two of white wine from the bottle Charlie had so sensibly kept chilled in the fridge. Never had a dinner tasted so good, as we quietly raised a glass to salute Harrington’s success.

JAIME DIAZ

The day I played golf with a 14-year old Tiger Woods.  I had heard about this kid named Tiger Woods and managed to get the phone number of the house, and called with Earl answering the phone.  So, it was pretty easy to arrange.  We played a Coto de Caza (California). I was then living in Connecticut, so I flew out there.  Earl was the sort of emissary for Tiger.  We met in the parking lot and Tiger hung back from Earl no doubt thinking he’d already had a lot of media experience, so Tiger let Earl pave the way.  Tiger might have been trepidations meeting another media guy asking a lot of questions and taking a big chunk of his day when he probably would have preferred practicing or something like that.

It actually turned out to be a wonderful day as I wasn’t terrible and we related as golfers.  Tiger was so good and I wasn’t a complete burden to him.  He was interested in a lot of the things he had observed on the tour, and he wanted to learn more about players who were out on the tour.  He wanted to know about Nicklaus and Fred Couples.  He wanted to know about everything.  That was just fascinating to see him have that curiosity and interest, and also to have that sophistication for someone who was just 14.  He didn’t just want to know about the history of the game but the techniques of the tour players, and what kind of attitudes they had when they played and their practice procedures.  Not that I was the best source but then I was someone who could give him who could give him a perspective he had not heard of lot of yet.

At that time Tiger was just a fresh sponge of desire for information and we had a nice day, a nice round.  He said ‘let’s play for something’ and I said ‘what do you want to play for?’.  He said ‘we’ll play for some ABC gum’.  It some corny thing that I didn’t know what it was’.  I lost obviously and then I said ‘so what do I owe you?’ and he said ‘some ABC gum’. I said ‘well, what is that’ and he goes ‘it’s already been chewed’. It was not that funny but it was a young guy’s joke.  He was an innocent kid and really, really loved golf.

He was skinny and no more than 135 pounds and I am going to guess five foot 11 inches but he had tremendous speed.  He hit the ball a long way but didn’t really jump-up in distance for another year.  When he and I played, he was hitting it about 250, 260 yards.  He hit a 1-iron a lot because in his mind, he was wild and wanted to get it in the fairway.  He was also a little nervous also of me doing a story because I don’t think he had been in a national publication yet.  It would have been 1990.  He had missed short putts of three feet and four feet on the first two holes and he and his dad went off and talked for a second, and with Earl just calming him down a bit. He kept his poise and it was not like he was showing any emotion but I could tell he was felling ‘Woh! somethings off’. It just so relaxed he and I talking that it calmed him down a lot, as you could see he was soon very comfortable just playing his game. It was just really nice to feel there was a comfort level there between the three of us. 

Then we went to an ‘all you can’ place called ‘The Sizzler’ with an all you can eat salad bar and that was Tiger’s choice.  He put away which seemed like five or six Coke’s and a lot of food but, and as he said at the time, the weight did not stay on him in those days.

I felt like Earl really had a golf buddy and Tiger also had a golf buddy.  I felt that Earl was also very conscious of Tiger not having over-bearing parents.  Earl realised he has a son with a tremendous gift and he had spoken of it being a divine gift that had been passed onto his son and he had to be very careful how to manage it, and make sure his son retained the fun and kept the priorities on school.  I don’t know how accurate that was in terms of Tiger’s interest.  I am sure he was obsessed with golf.  He did like school and he was a pretty high achiever as a student and he obviously was intelligent.  He was definitely going to college as that was in the plan and there was this idea ‘my parents have definitely given me a great opportunity and I am going to fulfil their requirement for me, as well.

The thing was Earl knew about pushy parents and the sterotype was already out there in the little league dad, and he did not want to be that.  I thought also that Earl not having the greatest relationship with his kids that he wished he had in his first marriage and now he was semi-retired and doing a job that was contract work McDonnell Douglas and I don’t think it was real demanding.  He was retired navy so he had a lot of time to spend with Tiger and I think he just did not want to make the same mistakes, in terms of being absentee or not being connected to his kid. 

So, there was a real awareness of what a good father/son relationship should be. Of course, it got complicated as Tiger got famous and the demands, and the pressure and the scrutiny were great coming from the public but between he and Tiger it was always pretty solid especially on the golf course.  They truly had fun”. 

MARTIN DEMPSTER

One of my better ideas, for sure, and what a joy it has been over the past few weeks to pull together AGW Members’ Memories before sending them off to our hard-working secretary, Bernie McGuire, to share with everyone.

I had already come to the conclusion long before dreaming up this idea to generate some interaction with members that I regard the Association of Golf Writers as my second family.

From the day I covered my first golf event, I felt a real warmth from the likes of Ian Wood, Jock MacVicar, Ian MacNiven, Alister Nicol, Raymond Jacobs, Jack Robertson, Peter Donald, Colin Farquharson, Norman Mair, Lewine Mair, Jim Black, Mike Aitken, Percy Huggins, Bob Jenkins, John Campbell, Malcolm Campbell and, of course, Renton Laidlaw. 

A few years later, I was then fortunate to come across Michael Williams, Michael McDonnell, Peter Corrigan, Colm Smith, Pat Ruddy, John Hopkins, Dai Davies, Bob Davies, Jim Mossop, Charlie Mulqueen, Dermot Gileece, Richard Dodd, Mark Garrod, Dave Hamilton, Derek Lawrenson and many others for the first time through the AGW Home Internationals.

I have continued to make friends for life through the AGW, the likes of Iain Carter, Philip Reid, Nick Rodger, Steve Scott, Euan McLean, David Facey, Phil Casey, Alistair Tait, Peter Dixon, Peter Higgs, Ewan Murray, Philippe Hermann, Joy Chakravarty, ‘Swammy’, Denis Kirwan, Alex Miceli, Bob Harig, the aforementioned Bernie McGuire and several others being added to that list in recent years. 

It is an honour to be your chairman and my memory has been sharing all your wonderful memories in what has turned into a great series of tales. Thanks for sharing them. 

To everyone in my AGW family, stay safe and well and I look forward to catching up with you once the world returns to whatever normal is going to be.

JOHN HOPKINS

Sam Snead is one of the last links to golf in the 1930s and 1940s. He knew Bobby Jones, was never beaten by Gene Sarazen, competed against Ben Hogan. Snead’s first Open was in 1937 at Carnoustie, which Sir Henry Cotton won. Talking to him is like turning the pages of golf’s history, a task made all the more pleasant because Snead is plus four at talking.

Snead’s left shoulder was dislocated in a car accident a few years ago but it has not stopped him from hitting balls every day, drawing crowds of spectators who marvel at his crisp striking and the repetitiveness of his swing. And when he is not playing or practising, he tells stories as long as one of his drives and as slow-moving as a goods train through the Virginia hills. As he tells them he stops frequently and smiles lopsidedly and winks, particularly if pretty ladies are among the listeners.

Last Thursday, Snead was eating lunch and talking shop when suddenly he took his arms back, brought them down in a graceful swoop over his bowl of asparagus soup and followed through past his left shoulder. “Golf is a game of rhythm and timing,” he said. “That’s all. Some say you’ve got to thrash it but you ain’t. It’s a simple game but people make it so hard.”

Snead, the story goes, has buried his money in tin cans in the soil of his native Virginia. The man himself gives the impression that he likes these stories by referring to money constantly. “I charged $600 for a lesson and $2,000 if it is followed by dinner.” Snead extended our hour-long appointment to nearer two, followed by lunch in which he scarcely drew breath. He asked whether I played golf. I nodded. “I am a hooker” I said. He had a surprise up his sleeve. “We’d better get a look at this hook.”
“You’re not going to charge me $600?”
“Probably not but don’t tell on me.”
Unprepared as I was, I needed golf shoes. “What size are you?” Sam asked.
“Eight and a half.”
He paused for a moment before asking: “You got smelly feet?”
“No.”

Moments later I slipped my feet into a pair of his white golf shoes. Not fit to lace his shoes, I was suddenly wearing them. Now all I needed were some clubs. “Don’t worry,” Snead said to the assistant who was trying to help us. “He’ll use mine.” In my brief lesson, Snead checked the position of the club handle in my left hand. He told me to pick up the clubhead more quickly on my backswing, to grip more firmly with the last two fingers of my left hand, to turn my body more and to make sure I pulled the clubhead down with my left hand. “Don’t forget, you can pull a golf club but you can’t push it.”Finally he said: “Boy, I don’t see no hook.”

The next morning, Snead was signing more autographs in the hotel. Two matronly ladies perched on the arms of his chair, one on either side of him, to have their pictures taken with him. “Now girls, you look after yourselves” he said, grinning. It made their day – and it made mine too.”
(A longer version of this article appeared in The Times, June 14, 1999_.