The Times - UK (2022-04-13)

McIlroy’s final round was a

reminder of the joy of sport

I

am guessing you have noticed

the debate thrown up by Rory

McIlroy’s sparkling final round at

Augusta. Some say it is evidence

that the Northern Irishman can

play well only when the pressure has

dissipated (he was so far off the lead

on the last day that he had little

realistic chance of victory). Others

argued that this was an insult to a fine

sportsman who has won four majors.

It was a different comment, though,

that struck me most. Writing under

one of the articles on McIlroy this

week, a reader made a comment

along the lines of: “There is

something wrong with the world if we

are arguing about the mental

fortitude of a chap who hits a

synthetic ball into a cup for a living.”

I have to say that I disagree: there

would be something wrong with the

world if we were not arguing about

such things.

I flew to Hamburg yesterday and

had a good ten-minute chat with a

total stranger about the hopelessness

of Manchester United. We really got

Sport matters... because it doesn’t matter

stuck into it. Is Ronaldo holding them

back? Was Wayne Rooney right to say

that they should ditch him? Should

Ralf Rangnick be replaced by

Mauricio Pochettino or perhaps

Antonio Conte? It was — how can I

put this? — the most wonderful

release from thinking about such

things as war, the cost of living or

office politics.

It is often said that sport is about

passion and entertainment but I

wonder if its most profound meaning

is the way in which it operates as a

safety valve.

I jumped to my feet on Sunday

night when McIlroy holed that

bunker shot at the 18th and again

when Cameron Smith went into the

water at the 12th and again when

Scottie Scheffler sank the putt to win

the Masters. And as I did so, I realised

something: it is precisely because

sport is so trivial that taking it

seriously is so therapeutic.

Consider an alien coming down to

earth. I am guessing it would take it

all of ten minutes to grasp the

algorithms that underpin AlphaGo or

the precise operations of a nuclear

submarine, but it could take forever to

grasp why Geoffrey Boycott gets so

hilariously moralistic about the

importance of a straight bat when

playing a forward defence.

Why does cricket matter so much,

they would ask? The only reply we

could give is: because it doesn’t matter

at all. I once played a game of

Monopoly with my dad and brother

and, for the hour it lasted, it was the

most important conflict since the

Normandy landings. I had Mayfair

and Park Lane, my brother had the

greens, my father the yellows. It was

epic. Then the phone rang and my

father tottered off with the

unforgettable words: “I’ll be back in a

few minutes. Can you take my goes

for me?”

Eh? Take your goes for you? What

if we deliberately sabotaged your

chances while you are away? With

that one comment, Dad destroyed the

meaning of the game. What’s the

point of playing if he didn’t care about

winning? It’s like when you find out a

football team deliberately threw a

match to make money on a side bet.

You feel like an idiot for having

cheered and cared.

Sport emerges, in this sense, from

the willing suspension of disbelief.

The fans care because the players

take it so seriously; players care

because the fans take it so seriously.

All it would need is for one side in

this unspoken consensus to fall away

and the entire house of cards would

collapse. And wouldn’t that close off

one of the greatest vehicles of

escapism known to mankind?

Harold MacMillan took time off

from the ordeals of being prime

minister by reading Trollope: he’d put

his feet up and mentally disappear for

a few minutes, perhaps an hour. Did

this make him a less serious

politician? Did it mean he didn’t care

about the important stuff, such as the

economy and war? I would suggest

the opposite. It gave him perspective,

balance and equilibrium. Denis

Healy, the Labour minister,

called this a hinterland.

And isn’t this what sport

represents for most of us? I

watched Manchester City v

Liverpool on TV with my son

and we marinaded in the

skill of the players,

notably Kevin De

Bruyne. He can

control and pass a

pig’s bladder like

nobody else in the

Premier League,

perhaps on the

planet.

Isn’t it reassuring

that we live in a

world in which such

idiosyncratic skills are

celebrated, as if football

were more important

than life itself (as Bill

Shankly wryly, but I think

ironically, observed)?

In his novel, A Burnt-Out Case,

Graham Greene writes about Querry,

a man who has lost the ability to care

about things that don’t strictly matter.

The power of the novel emerges

from the fact that this is presented —

quite rightly — as a tragedy. For isn’t

it the capacity to care too deeply

about trivial things part and parcel

of what it means to live and to

love? Querry yearns to feel what

others feel but he suffers from

“an incurable disease”.

I guess many of us hope that we

are never cured of our love of

sport. I was talking to the

deputy editor of this

section yesterday and

he said that it

sometimes felt a bit

odd to sit at morning

conference as the

other departmental

heads talk

forensically about

Ukraine, the energy

crisis and other

“serious” things.

Then he gets up and

talks about McIlroy’s

final round or

Twenty20 cricket and

it all feels “a bit

ridiculous”.

But that, I would

suggest, is precisely why

it matters.

Matthew Syedyed

Sport

T

he first

Saturday of

every month is

spent on Skye.

The second is

in Wick. The third

weekend covers Taynuilt

and Seil, the tiny island

famously reached by a

bridge across the

Atlantic. Craig Lee, a

former European Tour

professional, is going to

great lengths to help

some of the golf clubs

in Scotland’s farthest-

flung locations (Paul

Forsyth writes).

Every week during the

season ahead, he will set

off for a remote corner

of his homeland in a

Transit van that he spent

the winter converting

into a bespoke camper.

The aim is to give

something back to golf

by taking his expertise

around the country and,

for a minimal retainer,

offering clubs the

benefit of his expertise.

Pros on the Road, he

calls it, but there is only

one professional and

much of the route is

single-track. Lee started

the venture a year ago,

but the distances

travelled from his home

in Stirling and the need

for overnight stays have

led him to get creative

with the Luton low

loader that is now a tour

bus, mobile home and

stopgap headquarters

rolled into one.

As well as

accommodating all his

operational needs,

including a mini

workshop for regripping

clubs, the vehicle has a

shower, a lavatory, a gas

hob and a fridge. There

is also a boiler, a sink

and, above that, a bunk.

“The camper van

keeps the prices down,”

Lee explains. “I rock up,

pitch my van on the

practice ground or in

the car park, set up shop

and stay the night. It was

a big job to convert it,

much harder than I

thought, but we are

getting there.”

It helps that Lee has a

long history of living out

of a suitcase on a tight

budget. His playing

career included several

years on the European

Tour, where a title

always eluded him, most

agonisingly at the 2013

European Masters.

Thomas Bjorn beat him

in a play-off at Crans-

sur-Sierre.

Having lost his card,

Lee retired as a touring

professional in 2017 and

decided that his love of

the game should not go

to waste. The thinking

behind Pros on the Road

is that he can assist golf

clubs, especially those

run by volunteers, to

map out a stronger

future with everything

from lessons to

equipment repairs and

strategic guidance.

Eventually he would

like to provide a stable

of experts, from

agronomists to coaches

and financial advisers,

but first he has to

overcome teething

difficulties, such as the

wait for a plumber to

hook up his gas in the

van, which meant that

he had no cooking

facilities in Skye last

week. “I stopped for a

few supplies on the way

up,” he says. “A

sandwich, salad and a

fruit cocktail — that was

my dinner and

breakfast. Not quite the

lobster you might hope

for in these parts, but I

get by.”

Then there was the

inflatable all-weather

practice cage that he

bought for the side of his

van. “It’s like a bouncy

castle,” he says. “There

are two bays, which

means players can hit in

the rain, so it was

quite impressive. The

oversight on my behalf

was that it weighs

150kg and I can’t move

it. So it is sitting in my

driveway.”

Lee, 44, could be

doing something more

comfortable, but that, he

says, is not his style.

Another strand of his

work is the Craig Lee

Foundation, which aims

to make clubs’ junior

sections more

accessible.

Lee still has the urge

to compete. This week

he has the first event of

the season on Paul

Lawrie’s Tartan Pro

Tour, followed by a

36-hole Scottish PGA

tournament at

Dundonald, South

Ayrshire. On Friday he

will be back in the van,

heading for Wick Golf

Club, a links course just

south of John o’ Groats.

In five years he would

like to have a go at the

seniors tour, but that

isn’t the dream. If Lee

has his way, he will still

be on the road, making

a difference to the game

that gave him so much.

“I just like helping

people,” he says. “I have

found a gap in the

market. I will keep

persevering.”

Old pro hits high road

to help far-flung clubs

Lee retired as a touring

player in 2017 but still

lives out of a suitcase —

or rather, a converted

Transit van, inset

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ANDREW REDINGTON/GETTY IMAGES

the times | Wednesday April 13 2022 59