Paradise

We played golf at Turnberry yesterday. The boys and I were celebrating the wee fella's fifteenth birthday. I could tell he was excited about it by the way he'd been planning for over a week what he was going to wear. He's not normally the voluble type, and you have to know how to read the signals to know how he feels, but it was a dead giveaway when he laid out his all black Tiger Woods outfit, including his newly shined black school shoes which he will never in a million years wear to school.

We've had a few great golfing days out, the boys and me, over the years. I suppose the first biggie was when I took the big fella to Troon in '97 for the Open which Justin Leonard won. We arrived at about seven thirty in the morning, in time to see Jack Nicklaus on the practice ground with Payne Stewart. How poignant that image is now. We walked the whole course that day, sometimes stopping to watch the players come through, sometimes following one of our favourites like Jesper Parnevik or Seve, or Barclay Howard, the leading amateur.It was the Saturday we went down so we could watch the final day on the Sunday in the comfort of our own front lounge. The big fella was just twelve then and he lapped it up. A golden day.

The next was the open at Royal Lytham in 2001. We went down on the Friday and stayed two nights in Blackpool. The big fella's mate, Seve (real name) came with us. The wee fella was ten years old and would not be left behind. I spent more time that day trying to keep tabs on him than watching the golf. The big fella and Seve had a ball chasing autographs, although there was a tense hour at the end of the day when they were late meeting up with us at the agreed time, and I was running between the mobile police unit and the rendezvous point. Sometimes you could just murder your kids and save the lurking paedophiles the bother. We spent the last day at the Blackpool amusements. The two bigger ones went on the big dipper and I had the dubious pleasure of nearly shitting myself on this infernal thing called the Coca Cola ride with the wee fella. Ironically it was the only ride we could go on together because the wee fella passed the height restriction. First of all you were flung forward and whipped round in a corkscrew motion till you thought your head was going to fly off, and then it mercifully stopped. Just as you were thinking - Thank fuck for that - and about to loosen the safety harness - the bastard took off again backwards ! And whipped you round again back to the starting position. I'll tell you something for nothing, I was crying tears of relief when I got off. And I never did find my 'Open 2001' cap which I'd forked out the better part of ten quid for the day before. You don't normally see chinstraps on baseball caps .. pity.

St. Andrews last year was special. The wee fella and I had two great days. A B&B right in the middle of the old town, a few steps away from the first tee on the Old Course. All that atmosphere and history. It's a wonderful place to visit. I love it that you can just walk right on to the famous turf. There is a public right of way across the eighteenth fairway. Try that at Augusta or Pebble Beach. St. Andrews is great. Then we had a game on the Duke's Course. I won. No, only kidding. I don't remember the score, just that we enjoyed the game.

There's something about golf that can bring people closer. I find it difficult to define. Maybe it's because you don't have to say too much. You can enjoy the game and each other's company and the pleasant surroundings. And when you're walking down the eighteenth fairway it's the best feeling when your boy puts his arm around your shoulders and says 'This was a great day, wasn't it, Dad'.