I placed my hands beneath the tap and watched as the blood ran off them. The bathroom of Mowbray Golf Club rather than the practice tee was certainly not where I expected my first-ever golf lesson to end. My coach Greg Mcdonald remarked that it was certainly a first for him too. Little did I know that over the next 14 years the game which caused me physical pain in the early stages of my development would bring me unimaginable pleasure in the 14 years that followed. Golf gave me a career. A sense of belonging. A sense of self. And it all began two weeks before on a Masters Sunday that continues to shape my life to this day.
People often ask me why I got into the game. With a father who was a stalwart of Mowbray Golf Club’s league team for decades and who represented Western Province a few times too, the assumption is that he would’ve introduced my brother and I to the game he loved from a young age. That wasn’t the case.
Thinking back on the countless memories we’ve shared watching or playing the game, it is a wonder that at no point did he ever force golf upon us. But that’s never been how he’s operated. Instead my love for the game started with a simple question.
“Do you want to watch the final round of the Masters with me?” asked my dad. My knee-jerk was to say no, citing tiredness, having just returned from an Easter Sunday feast with some family friends. I sometimes think about how differently my life may have turned out had I said no. I’m forever grateful I said yes.
The extent of my golf knowledge to that point was knowing that Tiger Woods was the dominant figure in the game. Could I tell you how many times he’d won and where? Absolutely not! My golf knowledge was as good as null. Hell, there was a time in my life where all I knew was that my Dad played off a 4-handicap (whatever that meant) and that, to my knowledge, Ernie Els was American. Ah, those were the days…
Nevertheless I decided to indulge my dad, keen to spend some quality time with him and hoping to catch a glimpse of Tiger.
Even the most ardent golf fans may not remember what unfolded on Sunday the 12th of April 2009 at Augusta but it’s forever etched in my memory. 49-year-old Kenny Perry stood on the 17th tee with a two-shot lead over Chad Campbell and Angel Cabrera.
I said to my dad “He’s basically got it won doesn’t he?” My dad explained that two shots over two holes on a stage as big as the Masters was nothing and that anything could happen. Right on cue Perry heartbreakingly bogeyed each of the final two holes before succumbing to Cabrera in a playoff.
I’d seen enough. I was convinced right then and there that golf was the greatest game ever invented and the Masters the greatest tournament. I was hooked and insisted that I begin learning to play the game as soon as possible.
The passage of time is funny. 2023 will mark the first time the Masters has finished on Easter Sunday since 2009. A lot has changed since then. My hands no longer bleed after hitting a bucket of practice balls. I can now confirm that Ernie Els is in fact one of South Africa’s greatest golfers and not in fact a product of the red, white and blue.
I’m also four years into a career as a full-time golf journalist, a career path I certainly wouldn’t have embarked upon were it not for that fateful day Easter Sunday in 2009. I’ve also realised that I’ll measure the success of my career against the number of Masters I cover and not the amount of money I accumulate.
But the more things change, the more they stay the same. When I hear the Masters theme song play at the start of every broadcast and during every leaderboard update, I feel just as excited at 26 as I did at 13.
But something else has changed… Watching the Masters with my Dad is something I cherish now and is far from a chore. I can’t wait to settle in to watch the final round together, our eyes glued to the tv, and me knowing two things to be true: No lead is safe and there is nothing else I’d rather be doing!
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