8

The Ryder Cup

Flashback. 3 December 2000. It is my fiftieth birthday. Annie and I have been to the matinee at the Arts Theatre and now we are heading to a pub in Fen Ditton, presumably where the kids are waiting for us with a ‘surprise’ meal. However, it is a bigger surprise than I have expected, with over 50 people, family and friends, here to celebrate the big occasion. My brother has come over from Germany and has brought Mum down from Leeds. There is an old school friend I haven’t seen for over 30 years. I am quite overwhelmed and completely fail to follow my own advice at such times: ‘If you can’t think what to say, don’t say anything.’ Instead, I ramble on for ages and tell a rather inappropriate joke that falls completely flat. Anyway, it’s my birthday, so they all forgive me.

Now it’s time for the presents, of which there are a considerable number, all shapes and sizes. My brother has bought me a cracking new set of golf clubs. Tom hands me a small envelope. In it there is a birthday card – to me and Annie for our fiftieth birthdays – and a letter. The letter is acceptance of payment for two tickets for the Ryder Cup at The Belfry, in Birmingham, September 2001. The tickets, it says, will be forwarded later. They are for the whole event – the three days of the tournament itself, plus three practice days. The price has been blacked out, but I know these are very expensive tickets indeed. Later that night, I am ashamed to say, I cannot resist holding the letter up to the light. The price is £400. It is typical of Tom’s extreme generosity, shown in so many ways, though he is still a student, working only part time.

But September 2001 will not be remembered for the Ryder Cup. It is, instead, engraved in our minds for ever as ‘9/11’, when terrorists flew passenger planes into the Twin Towers in New York and into the Pentagon. So the Ryder Cup is cancelled – or, rather, postponed – until September 2002, which is when my son, Tom, is lying at home in bed, dying.

Annie and I decide not to mention it. Maybe Tom will forget about it and we’ll just not go – or perhaps we’ll quietly give the tickets to someone else. Tom has not forgotten; the Ryder Cup is at the forefront of his mind. This is the one thing he still has to look forward to. He is really animated, longing for us to go. ‘But what if something happens while we are away?’ we plead, not wanting to say directly that the ‘something’ might be Tom’s death. ‘Not to worry,’ he whispers, struggling with the tumour on his vocal chords, ‘Liz is here, with Jo and Ben. They can look after me. Liz will ring you if anything happens.’

It seems we have no choice. We cannot deprive Tom of his dying wish. So we arrange to stay with our friend, Peggy, in Birmingham. We miss the first practice day – we cannot face leaving that soon. We set off on the Tuesday afternoon and arrive at Peggy’s looking pale and exhausted. Wednesday morning dawns with grim foreboding. We don’t want to go – but we know we must. We get dressed, sit on the bed and have a weep. Then we set off. We follow the signs to the course, park the car and go through the security check. Security is, understandably, incredibly tight. No cameras – and no mobile phones. No way of getting in touch until we get back home in the evening. We head for the entrance with thousands of others. They can’t wait. Unlike us they are in high spirits. We finally arrive on the golf course, feeling as if we’d rather be anywhere but here.

But here is where we are and we gradually start to get into it. The practice days turn out to be a really good way of getting to know how to watch golf. Watching golf at a major tournament is not straightforward. We have never done it before. It isn’t like football, rugby or cricket, where you find your allocated seat and sit there for the whole match. You have choices. Should you follow a particular group of players round? If so, you get the continuity of a single match, but you might never get a really good view of play, because of all the people who are already standing or sitting in the best places when you arrive at each new hole. Do you instead find a seat at an interesting hole and stay there, watching all the matches go through? If you do that, you may want to change halfway through the day to get a different experience and be at one of the later holes when the matches draw near to a conclusion. Either way, beware! Don’t sit too near the end! A lot of matches will be finished by hole 15 or 16, so if you are on hole 18, you’ll miss them completely!

We have a wander around all the holes, to see which are the most interesting and which provide the best views – sometimes views of more than one hole. After a while we work out our strategy. Hole 3 at first, a risk and reward par 5, where we have an excellent view of the approach shots over water and of the putting green. Then hole 15, by which time the matches are at a crucial stage. We don’t stick to it religiously, but it seems to work pretty well.

We get back to the car and ring home. All is well – or at least no worse than when we left. We arrive back at Peggy’s and begin to feel the relief of being away from the constant anguish of watching Tom die.

Friday morning dawns with no change in Tom’s condition. The tournament proper starts today and we are beginning to feel excited. We find our way to the grandstand at hole 3 and settle down to wait. Colin Montgomerie is in majestic form. Why has he never reproduced it in a major? The Europeans surge ahead, only to be pulled back by the Americans. By Saturday night it is eight points all, with just the singles to come. High drama! Tom still OK.

We arrive on Sunday morning for the singles, full of hope and excitement, yet knowing that the Americans almost always win the singles. We get the playlist. Sam Torrance, the European captain, has front-loaded – all our best players are out first. The Americans have done the opposite, with world number one, Tiger Woods, playing in the last match. By the time he is on the back nine it will all be over and his match will be irrelevant. The turning point comes when Phillip Price, whose only previous claim to fame was being named Man of Pontypridd 1994, thrashes the world number two Phil Mickelson by three shots. Paul McGinley sinks the winning putt, is thrown by his fellow team members into a lake, and Europe have won a stunning victory.

We drive home in a state of high excitement. It is the best present we have ever received and the finest, most exciting sporting event we have ever witnessed – by a mile. We sneak in late, not wishing to wake Tom, who is on heavy doses of morphine and is dozing by 7 or 8 p.m. most days – but he is awake. He has forced himself to stay up and he wants to hear all about it. He is utterly delighted that we enjoyed it so much. I think it is the last thing he ever really enjoys and Annie and I feel rested, refreshed and strengthened for the days ahead.

We will need it, for Tom will die the following week.