Bad shots make pros look dumb and dumber

By Martin Johnson

Now that they’ve found water on Mars, it can only be a matter of time before the Americans build a golf course on it. Designed, it almost goes without saying, by Jack Nicklaus. When it comes to one of Jack’s designs, you’re not entirely sure whether you’re about to witness a golf tournament or a yacht race.

It was Jack who sculpted the golf course in South Korea which hosted last week’s Presidents’ Cup, and the risk-reward par four 14th was doubtless the result of his two major ambitions:  A) to get the ruling bodies to rein in the distance modern golfers hit the ball, and B) to turn the Earth from two thirds water to at least nine tenths.

Play it safe out to the right, or take on the challenge of a 300 yard carry over a gigantic pond was the question Jack required the golfers not only to ponder, but presumably ponder long and hard before opting for the high risk hero strategy.

Or at least I assumed that would be the case until JB Holmes walked onto the tee. Holmes’ ponder could scarcely be described as either long or hard, as maybe half a second elapsed before he reached nonchalantly into his bag for a three wood, and launched his ball into the stratosphere.

What made you sit up on the sofa and your mouth drop open, however, was not the fact that Holmes’ brain had computed that a 300 yard carry equated to a three wood – he is, after all, ranked No 5 on the PGA Tour driving distance stats – but trying to guess what might have been going on between his ears after he’d hit it. And the conclusion you were pretty much forced to arrive at, was “not a lot”.

“This one’s headed left I believe,” said the commentator, although judging from the dispassionate way, disinterested even, Holmes watched his ball’s journey from the tee, you assumed it couldn’t be all that far left. Just far enough to leave a longish putt perhaps. Or a chip from the fringe.

However, the ball turned out to be so far left it could have voted for Jeremy Corbyn, and a loud thud and a shriek confirmed that it had narrowly avoided braining someone in a small knot of spectators standing fully 70 yards wide of the green. “Wow!” said the commentator. “That could have been nasty.”  Holmes might possibly have muttered “wow” to himself – you couldn’t tell with his back to the camera – but what he didn’t say, or shout, was “Fore!” Pro golfers rarely do. One or two of them point, but most of them regard a vocal warning as something far too beneath them once they’ve surrendered their amateur status. Like other forms of etiquette. Holmes has been a professional since 2005, which is probably when he last replaced a divot as well.

Perhaps it’s because they are so programmed into expecting to hit a good shot that a bad one robs them of the power of speech.

Most club golfers, by contrast, are programmed in entirely the opposite direction, so that when most of us clear the throat before hitting a drive, it’s not so much out of nerves as preparing the larynx for a piercing cry of “Fore!”.

I’ve often wondered why injuries to spectators at pro tournaments are comparatively rare. It’s precisely because the players are so good which makes it more dangerous than your average club Stableford, in that while a pro will hit a really bad one very rarely, when they do no-one’s expecting it.

How many times do we see spectators standing on both sides of a tee, stretching for 50 yards perhaps, and all craning their necks as far out as possible in order to see a pro driving off. You can’t wander around a building site without wearing a hard hat, but at a golf tournament you’re allowed to stand within decapitation distance of a duck hook with naught but a cardboard visor for protection, or a knotted handkerchief.

I would invite you at this stage to examine the By-line photograph of our Editor at Large, Graham Otway, and if, like myself, you’re of the view that it bears more than a passing resemblance to Churchill (not the great wartime leader, the four legged one who sells insurance “oh yes!” on the telly) there’s a very good reason why dear old Otters has gone through the later years of his life with permanently quivering jowls.

We were strolling around together, in Ireland I think it was, at the Seve Trophy, generally chewing the cud and chatting about nothing in particular, while Henrik Stenson was lining up an approach to the green. Standing, as we were, about 30 yards away, more or less at right angles to his line, we waited for the crisp, satisfying whoosh of ball striking sweet spot, and an appreciative gasp from the gallery as the ball spun to a halt a couple of feet from the hole.

Well we got a whoosh alright, and also a gasp, albeit of the unappreciative variety. The whoosh followed a kind of pinging noise as ball collided with hosel, and the gasp came from Otway as the ball (he had a bit more hair in those days) treated him to a centre parting. The shot that dare not speak its name. But soon to be known as a “Poulter” perhaps after one of the more spectacular examples of the genre at Woburn last week. Old Otters hasn’t been the same since, and even now, when he’s at home watching on the telly, and Stenson has a wedge in his hands, he dives behind the sofa.

At a US Masters several years ago, when Sam Snead was one of the honorary starters, he took out one of the spectators with a direct hit on the hooter. The CBS announcers, under threat of losing the TV contract, are programmed to say only nice things at Augusta, which resulted in a soundtrack sounding something like: “and here’s Slammin’ Sam. Even at 89, straight down the middl… thwack …arrgh!”

In fairness to Sam, he never had the time to shout. Unlike Holmes. And it’s high time these people re-acquainted themselves with the game’s basic rules of etiquette. They always say that the worst piece of advice in golf is “keep your head down”, but when you’re wandering the fairways at a professional tournament, it’s the soundest tip you’ll ever get.