34 AUGUST 2019 | golf australia
EXCLUSIVE BY ANDREW DADDO | GOLF AUSTRALIA COLUMNISTPHOTO:GETTY IMAGESGOLF
ISGOODSWEET DREAMS ARE MADE OF GOLF
FIRST tee fi rst shot. Second shot. Third shot.
Fourth, fi fth and sixth shots. Wedge in, chip
back to the putting surface. Two putt – wipe.
Hmmm.
It wasn’t the start I was hoping for with
the Masters Pennant Guru Tony watching on.
It didn’t help that former Masters Pennant
legend Ross was in the group, or that Ben
the pro was in the group. With a collective
handicap of two, their years in the game was
almost 100.
Nervous? Me? Maybe. You see, we all have
our dreams, while some are serious some
are silly.
I had a silly dream for ages that somehow,
I would qualify for a golf tournament and
against all odds, would win it. Amazingly,
in a streak of dumb luck, I’d have turned
professional the day before, so not only
would I win, but I’d get the booty as well.
In a staggering turn of events, that
tournament would be a feeder tournament
to The Masters. You guessed it, I’d make the
fi eld, and hover round the periphery of the
cut line for two whole days. Somehow, and
things like this are never clear in dreams,
I’d make the cut with a putt on the last and
shake hands with some blonde bloke called
Greg who just missed out.
I know, it’s mad.
And then, on moving day, I’m bloody
moving through the fi eld with purpose, but
remain off the front page of the leaderboard
and away from the prying eyes of the
cameras. That would continue for most of
Sunday, but by the back nine, they couldn’t
actually avoid me. With dream logic, I’m in
the last group. (I wasn’t at the start of the
round) and I’m in a three-ball (I know, I know)with Tiger and Monty.
Monty? As in Colin Montgomerie?
Why Monty?
No idea. I think it was to deny him victory,
once again. I’ve got a mean streak, you know.
So it’s down to me and Tiger and Monty.
Greg, in his big sun hat is now caddying for
me. He tells me if I can chip in for eagle on
the 15th like he couldn’t in ’96, I could win
this thing. And I made the
chip, but still fell to my knees
in an odd kind of fl agellation
to my hero.
The commentators went
nuts. They had no idea who
I was, where I was from or
what the hell they were going
to say – so they made stuff
up about my Pappy being a
war hero and Mumma having
polio. There’s a chance I’d had
Chinese food the night before.
Anyway, long story getting
longer – I won, going on to
win the four majors that year, becoming the
fi rst ever rookie to win the Grand Slam.
Then, in a surprise to me, the dreamer, I
quit pro golf and went back to my local club.
Cool dream, right?
Back on earth, one real dream is to play
Masters Pennants for my beloved Long
Reef. The problem is, I’m not actually good
enough. Not really. Two years ago, you had
to be off a handicap of two to make the team.
Things are slipping, great players are moving
aside, and now three will get you a spot.
A handicap of four will see you ‘on the
bubble,’ as the commentators like to say.
That’s me. On the bubble, and frothing. Andtoday, with Tony and Bocko and Ben I’ve got
a chance to stake a claim. A chance to put a
peg in the turf or a line in the sand and state,
‘I’m bloody ready’.
As we all know, to dream by night is to
escape your life, but to dream by day is to
make shit happen.
But, was I ready? Even after a redeeming
par on the second hole, things didn’t feel
quite right. Bogey on three,
errant wipes on four and fi ve:
the bubble was blowing away
and I was no longer on it.
There had to be someone
to blame. Or something. This
was not my fault. This was a
higher power fi ddling with
destiny. So, I thought about
it. Properly. While pretending
to go through my pre-shot
routine after dropping from
another hazard.
Yes, I was late to the
course.
No, I had not had a practice swing.
Or a practice putt.
Or a coffee.
Damn it! It was straight from the car
to the course! No wonder I stank. After
doming my next shot I remembered why
I was late. Before leaving the house, to
appease my Saturday golfi ng guilt, I hung
out the washing.
Over the fi nal 13 holes things were good
enough to land me back on the bubble, but
that’s about it.
Note toself.Hang out the washing AFTER
golf, not before.And dream on! Always
dream on.ONE REAL
DREAM IS TO
PLAY MASTERS
PENNANTS FOR
MY BELOVED
LONG REEF. THE
PROBLEM IS, I’M
NOT ACTUALLY
GOOD ENOUGH.