I cried on Saturday when I heard that Severiano Ballesteros had died. Why? After all he was only a sportsman (or as some would say, only a golfer and we all know they aren't really sportsmen).
The story starts on a Wednesday afternoon in 1976 at Royal Birkdale site of that year's Open Championship. Seve is 19, I am 14. Dad and I have driven the 60 miles from our home and I am attending my first Open Championship. Just days before, I broke 80 for the first time and my handicap is now 9! I can be confidently described as a golf addict, so this is a big deal.
The summer of '76 in England was a scorcher - most unusual in those pre-global warming days. In fact, a small fire broke out in the rough on the course during the first round as bone dry grass was ignited; but the real fire was on the course. Seve arrived on the scene, all swirling follow-through's, fierce grimaces and mega-watt smiles all wrapped up in a short game to die for. He is joint leader after the end of that first round and goes onto finish second. Johnny Miller, America's bleached blond surfer, won that week but it was the coming out parade for Seve and little did I know it--European golf.
My next encounter was in 1979 at Royal Lytham when Seve captured his first Open. As he putted out on the 18th green I was half way up the ladder to one of the famous yellow scoreboards that flank the 18th green at every Open peering over the top of the grandstand to witness his triumph. By now he was the best in Europe on his way to challenging Jack Nicklaus and Tom Watson as the best in the world.
By 1984 he was a superstar about to realize every golfers dream - win the Open at St. Andrews. Newly graduated from university, I am in my first year of real work for a bank in London and engaged to be married. I take my two weeks off work and take my fiancee on a trip to Scotland. Being the romantic guy that I am we will spend the first week working on the scoreboards at the Open (remarkably the relationship survived this trauma, and in July we will celebrate 26 years of marriage).
Our digs for the week are a B&B in the village of Strathkinness about 3 miles outside St. Andrews. On Tuesday night we amble over to The Tavern, the only pub in the village. Its a beatiful evening and we sit with beers outside. A few minutes later another young engaged couple join us outside. I do a double take, surely not? But yes it is. Seve and his fiancee, Carmen are also enjoying an evening drink at the pub! I am shy but not that shy. I comment on the beautiful evening and Seve nods acknowledgement. I wish him luck and ask him if he's playing well. He responds with that fierce stare, "I play great!" No doubt about that - those eyes can't lie.
Next morning, I hit the bookmakers on the High Street in St. Andrews and place 20 pounds on Seve to win, the odds are about 10-1. Five days later I stand beside the Royal and Ancient clubhouse and pump my fists in mirror to Seve's famous celebration. Donna and I had a great week touring Scotland - all paid for by the Spanish Conquistador!
Fast forward, 22 years and its 2006 and the Open is at Royal Liverpool. Thirty years on from my first encounter with Seve I will have my last. Seve plays that year, not very well - time and a dodgy back have stolen his long game but the short game remains magical. Regardless of his play, he is adored every step of the way, he clearly enjoys it, no doubt helped by having one of his sons on the bag. Even better my son is with me, attending his first Open - there must be some symmetry in that. The week is all about Tiger for him - for me its seeing the close of my era in golf. Seve led the way and made golf very, very exciting for a 14 year old that Wednesday afternoon in 1976.
That's why I cried on Saturday morning.
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