The Sunday Walk

Sometimes it's necessary to take your Sunday seriously.


Another very warm and sunny spring day but I found myself with no energy to do any of the usual things I would do in such fine weather. So I took a leisurely Sunday walk, as apparently you're supposed to on such days!

My entire evening disappeared to the Masters. It looked like it was building up to be an intriguing final day, so I switched on the TV to follow the leaders through the first couple of holes. I barely moved for the next four or so hours. I don’t really follow golf and I’ve never played other than a few hacks on a pitch and putt course, but I do enjoy taking an interest in the majors, usually confined in any serious way to the final day of the Masters and the Open. The duel between Henrik Stenson and Phil Mickelson in last year’s Open from Troon was the stuff of legend and probably the best combative golf I’ve ever seen. The duel between Sergio Garcia and Justin Rose tonight was also the stuff of legend. 

Just like the appreciation of any kind of fine art, the appreciation of any sport requires an understanding of its language. Although I don’t play the game, I’ve invested enough time over the years to understand its grammar at least. And I also know its leading actors and their stories, which allows me to enter fully into the human drama of these occasions. Spain’s Garcia, one of golf’s most famously unfulfilled talents, was in battle against England’s late-blooming Rose, who is in the form of his career after winning gold at the Rio Olympics. Add in the most beautiful sporting stage in the world, all the long history and tradition of the tournament, the context of the preceding three days which saw these two players rise to the top of the pack, and there was a palpable sense of destiny to be felt around the way Garcia and Rose swapped the lead while every other challenger fell away. It was meant to be.

Just as Rose seemed to have victory in sight, Garcia came back with a stroke of genius and he was left with one short putt to finally have a chance to put his demons to rest. But it always felt like he was going to miss that putt. It was as if Destiny was wrestling with his grip on the putter, determined that it would be Rose who would be wearing the Green Jacket at the end of the day. Garcia is a great golfer but there can only be so many truly greats in the pantheon of the sport. Perhaps Garcia was never meant to rise to that level. The putt was only five feet but it looked so much longer as he addressed the ball. I was willing the ball to drop into the hole, but, of course, it didn’t. Garcia missed. It wasn’t even close. Destiny is a deadly opponent.

The duel went back to the start of the final hole again, the story to repeat, nobody giving Garcia much hope. It looked like his spirit was broken. Except that it wasn’t. Garcia refused to follow the script. He pounded on a mistake by Rose and won the hole - and his first major at his 74th attempt.

This is why I love sport. When all the elements come together like they did tonight, it is the most astonishing human drama. When two players are going head to head like this it becomes gladiatorial. I can think of only cricket and tennis as the two other sports which can provide this kind of cerebral combat where stage and tradition, skill and courage combine so spectacularly. It was a privilege to witness. I’ve not had a chance to speak to anyone about it. I had to share some words here, for me as much as anyone else. It’s an occasion I don’t want to forget.