Bring Me the Head of Sergio Garcia Read Free Page A

previous week, he would mysteriously have heard about it on the club grapevine. ‘Yeah. 320 yards. Nine-iron into the green. I know,’ he’d say. Seemingly unimpressed, he’d quickly deflect the conversation back to his attempts to cure his violently hooking long irons. But one day, in May 2005, his equilibrium cracked.
    On the long par-four fourteenth, a new ‘freewheel through the ball’ swing thought helped send my drive hurtling into a realm that it was assumed only John ‘Smasher’ Briggs, the club’s ex-assistant pro, could reach. I charged off the tee in overexcitable, somewhat disbelieving pursuit, but Jerry stopped behind me.
    He was leaning on the tee marker, and he had a tiny crooked smile playing about the corner of his mouth. ‘So, have you ever really thought about it?’
    â€˜Thought of what?’ I asked.
    â€˜Turning pro. Making a go of it. Living the life.’
    â€˜I did once, but it’s sort of too late now. Anyway, I’m not good enough.’
    â€˜But you only play once or twice every two weeks, and you play like this. What if you came up to the course more? Do you realise how many people would love to hit the ball that well? I tell you, Tom, I’ve been to The Open twice now, and I’ve seen those guys hit it, and I’ve seen you hit it. It makes the same sound .’
    â€˜But that’s only part of it, isn’t it, the sound? What about the putting, and the chipping?’
    â€˜I’m telling you, mate, big hairy balls to the putting. Arse to the chipping. You’ll sort that. I reckon there’s a handsome living out there for you. I know what I’d be doing, if it was me. I wouldn’t be fucking around here, writing for the Eastern Daily Press .’
    â€˜But I don’t write for the Eastern Dai …’
    â€˜Potaytoe, potahtoe. Who wants to be pissing around slaving over a typewriter for a living, or one of them laptop thingies or whatever it is you use, when they could be hanging out with Tiger Woods? I’m telling you, mate, now’s the time. You’re still young. If you’ve been given something great in life, you should do something with it, that’s what I always say.’
    Plenty of people had told me, since my golfing reincarnation, that I ‘should be on Tour’. I knew that was sheer misguided flattery, and I knew about the huge gap between a four-handicap amateur like me and even the worst touring pro. Coming from someone like Jerry, however, the enthusiasm seemed to mean so much more. Clearly he wasn’t the kind of bloke who gave away compliments lightly. But what really affected me was his indignation. To him, my lack of interest in my golfing talent seemed scandalous, an insult to those who struggled along, barely getting the ball 200 yards off the tee. Maybe it was because I was on the verge of my thirtieth birthday, but in the weeks that followed I found myself marinating in his comments.
    Everyone tells you that reaching thirty is a big deal, but nothing can prepare you for the event itself. I used to think that twenty-seven sounded old, and that after that landmark ages would all be much of a muchness, but thirty is an eloquent slap in the face. Suddenly, a considerable portion of the endless unfurling ‘future’ that you’ve been talking about for much of your twenties has already passed. I had been determined not to let it bother me. I’d even grown my first full beard especially for the occasion. After all, what was there to worry about? I was happily married, I had friends I could count on (even if most of them thought I was a bit weird for playing golf), I had a writing job that I loved, and I had a mortgage on a house that, two years after I had bought it, could still make me go ‘Wow!’ Still, when the big day itself hits, it’s impossible for even the happiest person not to do a bit of evaluating, ask themselves a ‘What