Links

Links

The wind has dropped now and I'm looking at a pretty straightforward
shot to the green. On what is supposed to be the hardest hole on the
course all of my shots have gone to plan.
"Give me an eight iron," I say to my caddy. Seconds later the club is
in my hand. Gripping it firmly I place myself behind the ball and
glance up once more in the direction of the green. According to my
yardage chart it's approximately 150 yards to the pin. On a bright,
warm and sunny day with very little wind this shot should be meat and
drink to me, so why all of a sudden do I feel nervous?
"Easy," I hear my caddy whisper behind me. The galleries are still
now.
I pull the club slowly back, keeping my eyes on the ball and whip it
down. I know instantly that the shot is a bad one. Feeling the clubface
open up slightly on impact is a sure-fire way of knowing that I'm in
trouble. I don't need to hear the groans that emanate from the crowd to
know that I have found one of the greenside bunkers. With my opponent
safely on the green in two I'm facing a tough task to stay in the lead.
My quest to become the first Scotsman to win the Open at St Andrews in
over 75 years is now looking a little shaky.
"You'll get down in two from there no problem," says my caddy grabbing
the club and cleaning it.
"How the hell did I get here?" I ask.
"Well, there was the sixty-five on Thursday, the sixty-four on Friday
and the sixty-seven yesterday&;#8230;."
But I'm not listening to him. The question isn't meant to be
answered.

* * *

I'm eleven years old and the bus is racing along the road towards
Aberdeen city centre. I'm off to meet my Mum and together we're going
to go to Simpson's Sports in Bridge Street where I'm going to get the
latest object of my desire - a skateboard. Up until now I've been
borrowing Craig Stephen's and it's just not the same as owning your
own. Of course, my mother doesn't approve of them but what can she do?
All my friends have one and she doesn't want me to appear deprived in
comparison to them. It's amazing how effective emotional blackmail is,
especially when it's practised by an eleven-year-old only child of a
single mother.

I drum my hands on the back of the seat in front, willing the bus
driver to go faster and ignore the people waiting at bus stops all the
way along Union Street. They only seem to be hindering my progress.
When the bus finally stops outside the Music Hall my mother is waiting
for me. I can see that she looks tired and after a hard day at work she
is willing to promise me anything in exchange for a quiet evening when
we get home.
"How was your day at school?" she asks.
"Okay," I tell her. "Can we go to Simpson's now?"
"Yes. Are you sure you still want a skateboard?" she asks again,
desperately hoping I've changed my mind. I nod. Nothing, absolutely
nothing, is going to change my mind. Even if skateboarding was made
illegal I would still want one. Clutching her hand we make our way
through the throngs of people returning home from work. Going against
the flow seems to hold us up and I get so impatient I'm almost dragging
her by the time we reach the door of the sports shop.

Pushing open the door we step inside. The shop is dark and cool. Long
shadows are cast on the floor by the little sunshine that penetrates
the gloom. Dust motes dance in these shafts of light. The shop
assistant approaches from behind a glass counter. "Can I help you,
madam?" Behind him are polished wooden drawers with the names of
football teams written on them in black marker pen - Man City (Home),
Coventry (Away), Aberdeen (Home). I know from previous visits that each
of these drawers contains football kits. The last time I was here I
bought the Man City (Away) strip. Not just the top, but the shorts and
socks as well.
"We'd like to look at your skateboards please," replies my mum. The
shop assistant looks down at me. He looks as old as my mum and it's
obvious that he doesn't approve of skateboards either.
"Certainly," he says. "If you would like to come this way."
He leads us down the stairs to the basement. The lights are on and
peering through the window I notice that we are below street level.
Outside I watch the feet of people walk by as if unattached to
bodies.
"Does your son have any particular model in mind?" he asks my mum. She
looks down at me.
"Well, do you?"
I shake my head. I hadn't really thought about it that much. I didn't
know you could get different kinds.
"What's the most popular?" my mum asks.
"This one's very popular," says the man handing my mum a wooden one
with what look like black rubber roller skate wheels. That's not what I
had in mind. I wanted one like Craig Stephen's I tell her.
"And what's that like?" she asks.
"It's plastic," I tell her. "Blue plastic with red wheels."
The shop assistant looks at her. "I think I know the one he means," he
tells her. He disappears into the back of the shop for what seems like
ages but in reality cannot be longer than two minutes. He returns
carrying the one item I prize more than anything.
"That's it," I tell my mum excitedly. "That's the one I want."
"What about the safety equipment?" asks the shop assistant. "Will you
be wanting the helmet and pads?"
My mum looks at me. I nod. The shop assistant disappears once more.
When he returns he's carrying a blue plastic helmet made by Jofa along
with some arm and kneepads. Knowing how my mum worries about me I'm
sure she'll buy them too.
"This is our most popular helmet," he tells her. "It's actually an ice
hockey helmet but skateboarders seem to have adopted them."
He hands me the helmet and I try it on. Now I feel the part.
"Are you sure you want this?" my mother asks me again.
"Yes," I tell her.
A glance passes between her and the shop assistant.
"Are you sure you wouldn't like some golf clubs?"
My mother knows that I've spent the whole summer holidays smashing the
golf balls I found at the local pitch around the waste ground near our
home with a set of cut down hickory shafted clubs that someone had
recovered from the local dump. I always thought she felt golf clubs
were too expensive.
"A whole set?"
She looks at the sales assistant.
"Normally less than a half set is enough," he tells her. "Usually we
recommend a three-wood, a five, seven and nine iron, a putter and a
bag. That's usually more than enough as a starter set."
"Well?" she asks me. "It's up to you."
I don't really know what to do. The skateboard is sitting in front of
me on the counter and it's exactly the one that has inhabited my dreams
for the last three weeks. A few moments later I make a decision that is
going to change my life forever.
"Let's have a look at the golf clubs," I tell my mother and she
smiles.

* * *

My caddy is right. I do get down in two from the greenside bunker -
thanks largely to a fantastic recovery shot that leaves my ball lying
only eighteen inches from the hole. That shot must have unnerved my
playing partner because he misses his birdie putt and with both of us
making par my lead is still one shot going into the last hole.

I now find myself on the tee of the eighteenth hole on the Old Course
at St Andrews staring down the barrel of history. At this moment in
time I can't even remember the last British player to win the Open
Championship over these links let alone the last Scotsman. I know that
if I hold my nerve and hit a good straight drive, then I will go on to
win the championship. The hole has been playing easy all week and I
have already made birdies on Thursday and Saturday. I know that another
is not beyond me. My American playing partner has also made birdies so
I knew that he is probably thinking the same as me.

I pull the driver from the bag, wink at my caddy (who looks
considerably more nervous than I do) and walk over to the tee markers.
I place my ball on the wooden peg and stand up. Looking down the
fairway in the late afternoon sunshine I know that this is my defining
moment. Nothing but divine intervention is going to stop me from
winning this tournament.

I know before I have made contact with the ball that the drive is
perfect. On the follow-through I look up and watch the ball sail
through the sky until it drops onto the parched earth, rolling along
the undulations of the sacred turf until it comes to a halt almost
three hundred yards out. Consulting my yardage book I figure that I'm
no more than sixty yards from the green. In conditions like these that
is nothing more than a gentle pitching wedge.
"Great shot," whispers my caddy as we watch my playing partner set up
for his drive.
"Thanks."
The American outdrives me by an easy ten yards but that is irrelevant.
I am in the driving seat now and he knows it. By hitting longer than me
off the tee he'll hit second, and if I play a good approach shot it's
going to put all the more pressure on him. It's working out like
perfectly.

* * *

I'm twenty-two years old and I'm on a telephone in southern Spain.
After a week of intense pressure at the European Tour Qualifying School
I'm relieved to be making the phone call I'm making.
"Mum? It's me. I did it. I got my card."
"That's brilliant!" she says, thousands of miles away. I know that as
soon as she stops talking to me she'll be on the phone to all her
friends to tell her about my achievement. It had been the same when I
had won my first tournament as a junior. She would always be a proud
mother.
"So what happens now?" she asks.
"I'm not sure," I tell her and it's true. I've expended so much energy
qualifying for the tour that I don't know when the tournaments start or
anything.
"Well I know I'm not exempt from qualifying so I think I'll have to
pre-qualify for some of the tour events. I think the first tournament I
can enter is in South Africa."
"When will that be?" she asks.
"I don't know. A couple of weeks' time, I think."
"Well if you need any money just ask."
"Thanks," I tell her, watching the credit run down on the phone. We
only have a few seconds left.
"I love you," I tell her as the phone starts beeping.
"I love you too," she tells me as the connection is lost.

* * *

"So what do you think?" I ask my caddy as we stand in the middle of the
fairway. The sun is warm on the back of my neck.
"I think we're going to be rich," he says. I smile to myself. Not too
long ago he was looking a little nervous, unsure that I was going to
pull it off. Now he's already spending his share of the winner's
cheque. By agreement that will be 10\% plus expenses. If I don't fold
he'll walk away with almost ?55,000. For a local caddy who normally
carries clubs for American and Japanese businessmen this will be his
biggest payday. We have worked well over the last week and I think I'll
ask him to join me on tour.
"How do you fancy doing this full-time?" I ask as he hands me the
pitching wedge.
"I am full-time," he replies.
"I mean carrying my clubs. On the tour."
"You're kidding! What about your regular caddy?"
"I don't have one. I've only been on the tour for a couple of years. I
rely on local knowledge but if I win this I'll need someone I can
depend on."
"Sure," he tells me. "I've always fancied foreign travel. Of course,
the caddy master here will be upset."
We laugh softly together. Then, without wasting another moment I
approach my ball and set myself up for the most important shot of my
life. Normally I would take an eternity over a shot of this magnitude
but today I feel invincible so I just take the briefest moment before
swinging and hitting. From the sound of the crowd I know it's a good
one. When it hits the green it takes a couple of bounces before running
up to about ten feet from the cup. The skies above St Andrews almost
rock with the explosion of noise. I take the opportunity to look over
at my playing partner who is standing about forty yards away on the
other side of the fairway. He suddenly doesn't look too well.
"Well that's that," says my caddy. We both watch in silence as our
opponent hits his ball into a greenside bunker. The Americans in the
crowd groan. For once, the Claret Jug will be staying on this side of
the Atlantic.
"Pressure got to him," says my caddy.
"Yeah," I agree.
The next moment is one that I've dreamt about ever since I started
playing the game. It's the moment when I cross the Swilcan Burn and the
police and Marshals surround me as the crowd gather around and jostle
for good greenside positions. As we walk to the green I raise my arms
to the cheers of the crowd and wave to the people who have cheered me
on all week. Above us is the familiar shape of Rusack's Hotel, its
fa?ade unchanged for decades, and one familiar to golf fans all over
the world. If I look closely I can see my room. Next time I come back,
I will be able to afford to stay at the Old Course Hotel, the luxury
establishment that overlooks the seventeenth hole.

When my opponent finally settles himself in the bunker and chips out
his ball comes to rest a foot from the pin. The crowd politely applauds
and he asks to putt out. It's a nice gesture, as he knows that will
allow me to enjoy the moment of winning all the more. He taps his ball
into the hole, retrieves it and turns to acknowledge the clapping
crowd. He takes off his cap and waves it at the watching galleries.
Like me he is a golfer of limited ability who has played beyond his
normal capabilities for the last four days. He knows that this
represented his best chance of winning a major tournament and it gives
the moment an extra poignancy. As he walks to the edge of the green the
spotlight turns to me, but I'm lost in my memories.

* * *

The chemotherapy has altered my mother's appearance and made her skin
pale and translucent, almost as though it is made of rice paper.
Fortunately she has not lost a lot of hair so she still resembles the
woman I have known my entire life. As an only child, how I will manage
without her I'm not sure. I do not know of a time when she wasn't there
for me providing love, support and money when I needed it. Our
relationship can be summed up in what she told me before I left home
for the first time to attend university: "If there's anything you need"
she had told me. "You only have to ask."
"What are you thinking about?" she asks through parched lips.
I'm a little surprised by her question. Lost in my thoughts I hadn't
been aware that she was awake.
"I'm remembering the day I left to go to university."
She smiles.
"You were upset," I remind her.
"Of course I was. My only son was leaving home. He no longer needed
me."
"I'll always need you," I say. She squeezes my hand.
"And I will always be there," she tells me. "Even after I've
gone."
It's hard for me to sit here and watch the most important person in my
life die. I am only twenty-five years old. I should be doing this in my
forties or fifties. I'm too young to be left alone. Instantly I regret
my selfish thoughts. How do I suppose my mother feels? She will never
see her friends or me again. She will never know the love of her unborn
grandchildren and never again tramp the fairways watching her beloved
son play a game that she introduced him to all those years ago.
"Are you playing the Open this year?" she asks. She always watches the
Open, ever since a gentleman friend took her to the final day at St
Andrews in 1978. From that day on she was a die-hard Jack Nicklaus
fan.
"I'm hoping to qualify," I tell her. "It's at St Andrews this
year."
"I know," she smiles as if remembering her visit all those years
ago.
"Will you come and watch?" I ask. We both know that is not going to be
possible. The Open is nearly three months away and the chances are she
won't see out the week.
"Of course I will," she says. "Wherever I am."
"If it wasn't for you I wouldn't even be playing the game."
"You would have found a way," she says modestly. I shake my head.
"No, I don't think I would have." Then I ask the question I have wanted
to ask ever since she told me of her illness. I have always put off
asking it because of its sense of finality. It's the type of question
you should only ask when it's near the end. I sense that we are nearing
that point.
"Are you proud of me?"
"Always," she says. "You have always been a source of pride for
me."
"So I've been a good son?" I ask. I know that these questions are
selfish and I suppose I already know the answers to them but I need to
hear her tell me. I need the reassurance that comes from the words
because I know that very soon I won't be able to ask her again and the
thought of going through the rest of my life with those questions lying
unanswered fills me with dread.
"The best I could have hoped for."
"I'm going to miss you," I tell her. "I don't know how I'm going to
manage without you."
"You'll be fine," she tells me smiling. I can tell she's tiring.
"Why don't you rest now," I say to her stroking her hair with my free
hand. "I'll be here when you wake up."
"Will you?" she asks.
"Of course."
"I love you," she tells me, closing her eyes and beckoning the sleep
that will relieve her temporarily from the pain she is enduring.
"I love you too."
When she drifts off I sit there once more and remember all the good
times - winning my first tournament, passing my driving test,
graduation, qualifying for the tour. Every one of those moments I
shared with my mother. They are not lost, I tell myself, rather they
are locked away like treasured items, and they can be taken out at any
time and examined.

* * *

"The borrow is left to right and I would say the putt will break just
about four inches left of the cup."
I'm crouching down reading the lie of the green. My caddy is standing
behind me. I had already worked out for myself where the putt would
break but it was reassuring to here that he agreed with me. After all,
he knows these greens far better than I do. I stand up and pace past my
ball and look at the hole from another angle. I know that even if I
miss this putt I still have a one shot advantage. It's strange but if
before the tournament had started someone had offered me the chance to
be standing on the eighteenth at six o'clock on the Sunday with a
birdie putt to tie the Open Championship I would have bitten their hand
off. Now, I can feel the luxury of a two-shot advantage.

I take one last look around the crowd then glance up towards my room in
Rusack's Hotel. I have left the window open and the net curtain is
billowing in the slight evening breeze. I can imagine how cool it must
feel even though I doubt I will see the room much before
midnight.

I walk back to my ball and stand over it. I place the blade of my
hickory-shafted Bobby Locke putter behind the ball and take a last look
at the hole. Then, with a deep breath, I pull the blade back and strike
the ball. I know from the noise the crowd is making that the ball is
going to drop, and as the roars reverberate around St Andrews I close
my eyes, raise my head to the sky and know that she will be
watching.