marvel it was that my bag fell off its metal stand and rolled down a mountainside, but I know that somewhere in the process of retrieving it from a puddle, peeling off my sodden new leather Titleist glove, rummaging about for its redoubtable all-weather predecessor and realising that neither it, nor any form of waterproofs, was present, it became clear that a practice round was no longer top of my list of Life Priorities. What was top of my list of Life Priorities was my car heater. As I trudged back to the clubhouse, still ignorant of the delights of the Constable Course, I felt that special kind of calmness that comes from the knowledge that nothing can possibly get any worse.
At 9.09 a.m. the following day, things got quite a lot worse.
It is well known that a professional golfer has no control over his tee time or grouping. A few years ago, Sergio Garcia made some sarcastic, harrumpty noises about Tiger Woods getting preferential treatment in this area, but an uproar soon followed, and Garcia was coerced into a public apology for daring to be so facetious. 2 But while the frequency with which crowd-pulling threeballs turn up at commercial, viewer-friendly times of the day in golfâs four major championships can seem a tad suspicious, itâs all a lottery at the lower level of the sport. As tee times went, the one of 8.38 that Iâd been allocated by the Europro Tour officials seemed reasonably serviceable: not quite early enough to be stiff-limbed and unsociable, yet not late enough to be prey to the spike marks made by the shoes of the other hundred or so players in the field. Most importantly, perhaps, it would not allow me to spend half a day chewing my nails over that all-important opening shot.
The first encouraging thing I noticed, upon arriving at Stoke-by-Nayland at half past seven, was that the bad weather had passed, replaced by a light breeze and a low, hazy sun. The second was that it now looked like something approximating the venue for a proper golf tournament. Here, in the clubhouse foyer, was that leaderboard Iâd been fantasising about. OK, maybe it wasnât quite as big or as colourful as the ones on TV, but I still had to catch my breath as I saw my name a few columns down, in the first row, alongside those of Michael Freake from Australia and Grant Willard from Farnham, Surrey. One of my playing partners had come all the way from Australia to play in this? Wow. For the first time, it hit me: there was no going back; this was it. Dazed, I announced my presence to a middle-aged man sitting at a desk in a bright red car-dealerâs jacket with âPGAâ written on the back and signed in, bought two little ball tokens from the apple-cheeked blonde lady at the clubhouse reception desk, then made my way over to the practice ground. It was only when I arrived there that I realised I was clutching a small black-and-white course planner, full of scribbled lines, endless numbers and tiny esoteric symbols. I had no recollection of buying it from the man in the tournament office, nor of being charged the outrageous sum of £12 for the privilege (a full £9.50 more than the price I typically paid for the more colourful, aesthetically pleasing planners that are sold as standard in most pro shops).
The first tee shot of your first professional golf tournament is a nerve-racking experience, but I would argue that visiting the practice ground can be infinitely more so. Everyone knows youâre supposed to be nervous on the first tee. If you send the ball scuttling along ahead of you in a worm-worrying manner, or curving off into a lake eighty yards from your intended target, the chances are that those witnessing the travesty will sympathise and chalk it off to nerves. But the practice ground is supposed to be the easy bit: nobody expects you to fluff a shot there, because itâs the place where the pressureâs off, where itâs most easy to stay within your own blasé
At 9.09 a.m. the following day, things got quite a lot worse.
It is well known that a professional golfer has no control over his tee time or grouping. A few years ago, Sergio Garcia made some sarcastic, harrumpty noises about Tiger Woods getting preferential treatment in this area, but an uproar soon followed, and Garcia was coerced into a public apology for daring to be so facetious. 2 But while the frequency with which crowd-pulling threeballs turn up at commercial, viewer-friendly times of the day in golfâs four major championships can seem a tad suspicious, itâs all a lottery at the lower level of the sport. As tee times went, the one of 8.38 that Iâd been allocated by the Europro Tour officials seemed reasonably serviceable: not quite early enough to be stiff-limbed and unsociable, yet not late enough to be prey to the spike marks made by the shoes of the other hundred or so players in the field. Most importantly, perhaps, it would not allow me to spend half a day chewing my nails over that all-important opening shot.
The first encouraging thing I noticed, upon arriving at Stoke-by-Nayland at half past seven, was that the bad weather had passed, replaced by a light breeze and a low, hazy sun. The second was that it now looked like something approximating the venue for a proper golf tournament. Here, in the clubhouse foyer, was that leaderboard Iâd been fantasising about. OK, maybe it wasnât quite as big or as colourful as the ones on TV, but I still had to catch my breath as I saw my name a few columns down, in the first row, alongside those of Michael Freake from Australia and Grant Willard from Farnham, Surrey. One of my playing partners had come all the way from Australia to play in this? Wow. For the first time, it hit me: there was no going back; this was it. Dazed, I announced my presence to a middle-aged man sitting at a desk in a bright red car-dealerâs jacket with âPGAâ written on the back and signed in, bought two little ball tokens from the apple-cheeked blonde lady at the clubhouse reception desk, then made my way over to the practice ground. It was only when I arrived there that I realised I was clutching a small black-and-white course planner, full of scribbled lines, endless numbers and tiny esoteric symbols. I had no recollection of buying it from the man in the tournament office, nor of being charged the outrageous sum of £12 for the privilege (a full £9.50 more than the price I typically paid for the more colourful, aesthetically pleasing planners that are sold as standard in most pro shops).
The first tee shot of your first professional golf tournament is a nerve-racking experience, but I would argue that visiting the practice ground can be infinitely more so. Everyone knows youâre supposed to be nervous on the first tee. If you send the ball scuttling along ahead of you in a worm-worrying manner, or curving off into a lake eighty yards from your intended target, the chances are that those witnessing the travesty will sympathise and chalk it off to nerves. But the practice ground is supposed to be the easy bit: nobody expects you to fluff a shot there, because itâs the place where the pressureâs off, where itâs most easy to stay within your own blasé
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