It’s 1987, I am eleven years old, and I have just joined Broome Manor Golf club. A new world has opened up to me, a golfing world full of new friends, of handicaps and monthly medals, of buckets and buckets of yellow range balls and of desire to find out every last thing about this wonderful game of golf that had somehow wormed its way into my life.
I don’t remember who I was sat with, most likely Jonni Suckling my best pal I would imagine, but something called the Masters, was on the BBC I had noticed, from the television listings in the newspaper. So it was on that Sunday evening I first saw the beauty of the Augusta National Golf Club, and the drama that this championship could inspire.
I had heard of Seve, the great Spaniard but not much more than that if I’m honest, but when I saw him in total devastation having missed a short putt to drop out of a play-off on the tenth hole I was intrigued to say the least.
Mize’s brilliance
How was this Championship bringing grown men to tears, what on earth was going on? My 11 year-old brain was flummoxed to say the least, but the rot was starting to set in, this game had something to offer me, of that I was becoming sure.
Ten minutes later one of the most famous golf shots of all time happened right in front of my eyes, not just mine of course, but in front of countless millions of golf fans across the globe.
Larry Mize, faced with an impossible chip, trying to hold on for another hole against the Great White Shark, what a nick-name Greg Norman had by the way. Peter Allis the doyen of golf commentary setting the scene for the BBC audience, Mize surveying his options, none of which seemed good. This was to be the moment when the Shark, the best player in the world finally wins a major championship, or so seemed likely.
But then it happened, the bump and run from 20 yards right of the eleventh green skipped and jumped then made its way down the putting surface, towards the water but also towards the flag, it disappeared into the hole and Larry Mize became the Masters champion. The Shark, crestfallen, had been tamed once again, in the most outrageous manner, and I had been hooked by the pure majesty and excitement of it all.
Year on year from that day forward April would arrive and Augusta National would be splashed across our TV screens, dark green fairways, bright pink azaleas and European golfers atop the leaderboard, an intoxicating mix for one so young.
I didn’t dream of playing Augusta, or winning the Masters, and I wasn’t sad that my course didn’t resemble that which I saw on screen, I just marvelled at the game in general, and at how this tournament seemed so different than anything else. I started to recognise names that seemed only to appear once a year for a two day cameo in the spotlight before fading away, Donny Hammond, an Augusta native, Dan Forsman to name just a couple.
Sandy Lyle of course won in 1988, the fairway bunker shot at the last, and the putt, oh that wonderful putt to seal victory all imprinted in my mind, then Faldo before Woosnam, or was it the other way round, who cares, Europeans were dominating, and I was falling deeper and deeper in love with the game.
‘Helped shape my life’
So I have a lot to thank the Masters for, it helped to shape my life down a golfing path of that there is no doubt in my mind.
Eighteen years after Larry Mize broke Greg Normans heart, my journey was complete, from wide eyed 11 year old boy watching his first Masters tournament on TV to 30 year old wide eyed man walking into the classic clubhouse wearing a players pass and a smile so bright that my jaw ached.
Two things struck me straight away, the patrons were just as amazed to be there as I was, and secondly Jack Nicklaus and friends seemed to be just as excited as me too, quite simply anyone who is keen on golf is keen on Augusta National and that is why once again, for the 36th year in a row, will be tuning in just as eagerly as before to see what unfolds on this oh so special golf course.
Who will win? A guy at the height of his powers, someone who has not been too distracted by the politics of the current golfing world, someone who relishes being on top of the world rankings, someone from Spain. Jon Rahm, I predict, will win the Masters, just edging out Viktor Hovland and Patrick Cantlay. Three guys who have kept their heads down more than most of late, and will reap the rewards when the azaleas bloom.
Hopefully a new generation of golfers will once again be born because of the sheer beauty of watching great players compete for glory on a course that demands nerves of steel mixed with the touch of a surgeon in front of a gallery that is just incredibly happy to be there to witness it all.
Right now golf needs the Masters to once again remind us that history plays such a powerful role in our sport, it’s what gives it substance and character, walking in the footsteps of giants that have come before is where the glory comes from, emulating your heroes is the stuff of dreams, all things that come with no price tag other than endeavour, ambition dedication and persistence. I for one cannot wait for the 2022 Masters to begin, let’s hope it’s a classic once again.
