Avoiding National Service - Korean Style

Most of the 3,500 spectators in the compact stadium on the east bank of the Pearl River stood and cheered as the batter approached the plate.

He usually plays in front of bigger crowds and faces better pitchers but this was different.

Shin-soo Choo is an outfielder for the Cleveland Indians and is what baseball scouts call a five tool player -he is good at everything. The 28-year-old is a productive hitter and last season became the first Indians player since 1901 to have a batting average of .300, hit at least 20 home runs and steal 20 bases. He can play ball.

By professional baseball standards Choo is poorly paid - $500,000 a year - but he has hired a top agent and expects to earn twenty times his current salary in the next few years.

During the off season he resides in Phoenix, Arizona with his wife. He is living the American dream but for all his skill, wealth and enviable lifestyle he had a major league problem.

South Korean men have to serve two years in the army before they are 30 and Choo was about to strike out. Two seasons out of baseball would seriously damage his career. And with North Korea stinging for World War III military service would be no stroll in the ballpark.

The Indians had explored American citizenship but the South Korean government would have cut Choo loose.

There was another way out. Gold medallists are excused national service but Major League Baseball refused to allow Choo to compete in Beijing in 2008 and baseball has been dropped from the 2012 games in London.

Choo's last chance was the Asian Games in Guangzhou.

In the four games en route to the final Choo batted. 571 with three home runs, six walks, eight runs scored and 11 runs batted in (RBI's) and here he was stepping up in the final against Chinese Taipei with his future on the line.

Choo never flinched, hit a line drive to right field and hustled to first. He then stole second before a teammate scored him with another single.

Korea were up and running and in the fourth inning scored four more runs, including a three run homer, to lead 6-1. Relief pitcher Sukmin Yoon and his curveball frustrated the Chinese Taipei and Korea won 9-3.

" Honestly if I told you I didn't think about the military service I might be a liar," said Choo after the game.

" But it wasn't the primary reason for joining the national team. I love baseball and I am really proud of my nation. That's why I want to play for this team. I am representing all the Korean baseball players."

Right now there is a man sitting at home in Phoenix, Arizona with a gold medal on the mantelpiece and heaving a sigh of relief almost as loud as the artillery on the Korean Peninsula.

A Letter From China

The Asian Games will pass under the radar of all but the most committed British sports fan but here in Guangzhou and around the rest of the continent they are a big deal.

10,000 athletes and as many journalists have gathered in this sub-tropical industrial city in southern China to play games and describe them.

As with the Olympic Games two years ago China has spent big. Stadiums, transport systems and accommodation are all new. Thousands of polite and patient locals have been hired to keep it smooth for athletes, spectators and the media.

At the China Mobile shop the staff are charged with putting the media community online. They, too, are long on politeness and patience. They had to go the distance for this iDiot and his iPad.

45 nations are taking part in the games and the enormous food hall caters for many different diets. The elongated serving counter is divided into Guangzhou Flavor, Asian Flavor and Western Flavor which mostly look and taste the same.

There is also a Muslim Flavor section but it is taped off and has different colour seats - presumably to keep out the sweet and sour infidels.

The organisers have thought of almost everything. They have, though, underestimated the Anglo-Saxon capacity for alcohol. By day three there was no more beer, gin or vodka. The finger of suspicion was pointed at the Aussies who were too busy stockpiling the remaining wine, brandy and whiskey to care.

It is too early to judge the quality of the 42 sports but in the women's cricket match between Malaysia and China the first ball of the match was a looping full toss which the batter missed and was bowled. The commentator almost stifled his guffaw.

Other sports are exotic. Rallies in soft tennis go on for ever, wushuw is martial arts dancing with grimacing and floppy swords and sepaktakraw is foot volleyball. They make for colourful television.

Work is full on but there was a day to acclimatise and three colleagues headed downtown. Guangzhuo is the third largest city in China and the fastest growing in the world. It is modern and busy but no tourist attraction.

Perhaps that was why we were treated as curiosities. People chatted, took pictures and pointed and giggled at the Westerners wearing shorts and shades in winter.

Even on a work day the streets were jammed with shoppers eager to be parted from their Yuan. Trade roared in small shops and department stores alike.

China has embraced capitalism but the state remains authoritarian and slightly sinister. Social networking and blogging are banned as is having more than one child or dog.

For the visitor there are ways round the censor. It will be decades before its 885 million official residents are allowed to do what they like.

The Forgotten Champion

On a summer's evening, beer to hand, the ageing athlete recalled how he became the last amateur to win the Australian Open.

On the grass courts of Kooyong Tennis Club Bill Bowrey beat Juan Gisbert of Spain 7-5 2-6 9-7 6-3 6-3. Bill is a modest man and reminded the listener the tournament took place in turbulent times and the defending champion and many other professionals were excluded.

In the late Sixties tennis was a world away from the revolutionary streets of Paris and the radical campuses of America but the leading players were determined to counter the culture of amateurism.

Roy Emerson had won the title five years in a row but, like Bill's other mates, Rod Laver, John Newcombe, Ken Rosewall and Lew Hoad he was now officially playing for money.

Titles and glory came to them all in the Open era but Tex (he once fell off a stationary horse in front of his tennis pals) never turned professional or won another Grand Slam.

Soon after his triumph in a Melbourne suburb he married Lesley Turner (twice a French Open champion), retired in 1972, became a coach, ran tournaments and raised a family.

Most tennis fans have never have heard of Bill but those who have heard him on Radio Wimbledon every year recognise a knowledgeable, perceptive and skilful broadcaster.

He knows what to say, how to say it and when to say it. He takes the job but never himself seriously and is a joy to listen to.

The BBC reportedly pay five-time Wimbledon champion John McEnroe £200,000 for his contribution over the fortnight. Bill never threw tantrums, took drugs or was called an asshole by the novelist and tennis enthusiast Martin Amis but on the wireless he is sharper, funnier and warmer.


The kind of bloke who you would like to buy a beer.

Brooking The Trend

The Football Association is poised to reveal the Englishman who will join Team Fabio.

Actually the word poised in the same sentence as Football Association is inappropriate. Imbalanced, hamstrung, ridiculous, yes. But poised, no. 

Anyway the FA have been looking for the right indigenous man and an announcement is imminent.

Conducting the search is one of the good guys. Sir Trevor Brooking is the FA’s director of football development and he has plenty of UEFA Pro license holders from which to choose.

But who would want to work for an organization as deluded, deranged and dysfunctional as the Football Association? 

The manager is a 64-year-old Italian on £16,500 a day who was out-thought by a bunch of students from Cologne during the World Cup. Three years in and he continues to grapple with the culture. 

The players think they are world beaters and sometimes pass to each other but they are man marked by the tabloids and seem to care more about bank balances, body art and bling. 

And there is little leadership and no money. They have yet to find another chairman after the last one had to leave six months ago when a tabloid stung him right in his big mouth. And since the summer the FA have been without a main sponsor. They were banking on a big offer when England won in South Africa.

Sir Trevor, then, needs someone a bit special. He could do worse than select the best pundit in the game. 

He has played top flight club football, represented England youth, captained the under 21’s and but for injuries would have won full caps.  He has coached at every level and is passionate, educated, intelligent and articulate.

His name is Stewart Robson.

The Game That Ate Itself

The cricket insider spoke slowly and softly,

“If the public knew how much of it went on they would be shocked and disgusted and the game would die.”

He went on,

“It’s the talk of every dressing room and so is the famous cricketer who does it in the Indian Premier League.”

Then he mentioned the late Bob Woolmer.

“Most people think he was about to expose it and was taken out.”

Strong stuff but the insider declined to put his name to it.

The 2010 English summer began with the arrest of Essex cricketers Mervyn Westfield and Danesh Kaneria. 

They were accused of spot-fixing - a niche area of gambling where bets are laid with illegal bookmakers on specific occurrences during a match.

Last month Westfield was charged with conspiracy to defraud. Kaneria, a Pakistan spin bowler,  faces no further action.

But the extent of spot-fixing in cricket was exposed during  Pakistan’s tour.

On August 29th the News of the World revealed how two Pakistan bowlers and their captain delivered a  £150,000 spot-fixing betting coup during the 4th Test at Lords.  

England refused to play the subsequent one-day series unless the three were suspended. Scotland Yard began an investigation as did the International Cricket Council.

England won the first two games of five and were hoping to wrap up the series at the Oval.

Your correspondent covered the game in south London and it was a cracker.

The tourists batted first and made 241 all out off all but two balls of their 50 overs.  

England had a chance of winning until Umar Gul ripped through the lower order and Pakistan won by 23 runs. 

The restoration of faith lasted less than ten hours. 

The next day The Sun newspaper disclosed the fix was in and had told the authorities before the game started.  The ICC tried to call the game off but failed and, as predicted, the scoring rate slowed significantly during the 39th and 40th overs.

Does it matter? After all, spot-fixing has little or no effect on the outcome of a game, nobody notices and nobody gets hurt.  

Except they do.

Woolmer was coaching Pakistan at the 2007 World Cup in the West Indies when, after a defeat by Ireland in Jamaica, he met a sudden and messy demise.

The Times reported,

“...the white-tiled bathroom floor (and) the walls were splattered high and wide with vomit, his body was surrounded by pools of blood and excrement, and a bone in his neck had snapped.

An inquest returned an open verdict.

Five years earlier former South Africa captain Hansie Cronje was killed in a plane crash. He was serving a lifetime ban from playing and coaching after admitting he fixed games.

An inquest blamed the pilots.

And then, earlier this month, David Le Cluse, the chairman of Croydon Athletic Football Club, was found dead with a gunshot wound to the the head.  

The club’s owner, Mazhar Majeed, is an agent with close links to the Pakistan cricket team and was one of those arrested over the spot- fixing allegations.

The inquest has yet to be held.

None of this is news to people close to the game. A friend and colleague, who loves cricket almost as much as he loves his wife-to-be,  dismisses it as a conspiracy theory.

He may be right but fraud has taken root in a sport that already suffers from meaningless matches, flat pitches, negative tactics, poor attendances and formulaic formats.

Corruption is the straw that broke the camel’s bat.

p.s. how to fix a game of cricket 

The Man Who Changed My Life

The former General Secretary of the National Union of Journalists would have been unimpressed.

He was a Glaswegian, a reporter from the old school. A hard-drinking, story-chasing journalist whose main aim in life was to get it right and get it first. He was also an outstanding trade unionist and a kind man.

Harry Conroy died on April 23rd of an internal haemorrhage and someone who owed him a great deal never noticed.

Six weeks after Harry passed away I was flicking through the Journalist, the magazine of the NUJ, until I reached page 28 and Harry’s obituary.

In the tribute by Francis Beckett and Lionel Morrison one paragraph in particular resonated.

“He was never in awe of anyone. It didn’t matter if you were Rupert Murdoch or the office cleaner. Harry always treated you with the same respect and courtesy.”

In 1988 I was working for the NUJ as a postboy and covering sport for a radio station at the weekends.

My attempts to enter journalism had been knocked back at every turn. I had an American girlfriend and had decided to try my luck over there. Arrangements had been made and I was seeing out the last months of my contract at NUJ headquarters.

Lionel’s term as President was coming to an end and he hosted a party at Acorn House as a thank you to the staff.

At some stage during the evening I fell into conversation with Harry. I was a few beers up and he was on the wine. He surprised me by knowing that my contract was about to end. He had been told I turned up on time, worked hard and fitted in.

“Do you want another contract?”asked Harry.

“No thanks Harry. I am off to America to seek my fame and fortune.” I replied.

When I told him how frustrated I was at my failure to find a job in journalism he was taken aback.

“Why didn’t you tell me?”

“ What do you want me to do? March into your office and demand a job?”

Harry said he saw my point and he would sort me out.

I doubted Harry would remember our conversation let alone act on it. I should have known better.

The next week a mate of his from Johnston Press phoned and offered me an interview in Wakefield.

When I went to thank Harry he told me he had done what he could and now it was down to me.

I got the job, went to America for a holiday, came back, was sent on a journalism course before starting work as reporter on the Ripley and Heanor News in Derbyshire.

I loved every minute on that small but significant newspaper and it set me up for a career in journalism.

Harry Conroy changed my life. Thanks Harry and rest in peace.

MAX TO THE MURRAY

The pilot of the Boeing 737 bound for Genoa gunned the engines and the passenger in 1c, as racing drivers like to say, took a bite out of the seat.

Max Damioli glanced across at the nervous flyer and smiled.

“You don’t like it?”

“No.”

“I used to be like you but then I learned how to fly an aeroplane and now I understand how safe these things are.”

And so began a conversation about the fear of flying, smoking, fencing, shooting and the fourth best tennis player in the world.

Max is a hypnotherapist and gave 1c a few tips on how to deal with the rational fear of putting his life in a stranger’s hands and moving at high velocity.

1c said he had given up smoking using hypnotherapy and Max mentioned he was also a sports psychologist and worked with Olympic fencers and shooters.

Now, 1c knows little about anything except sport and he only knows a little about that but he is curious so he asked Max about Andy Murray.

The 23 year old Scot is the most gifted player from these islands since Fred Perry who won eight Grand Slam titles between 1934 and 1936.

He is a counter puncher who uses his opponent’s pace, moves well and plays with imagination. He is fun to watch.

Murray has won 14 times on the ATP tour and has reached two Grand Slam finals. In 2008 he lost the US Open final in three sets to Roger Federer and earlier this year he went down, again, in straight sets to the world’s number one in the final of the Australian Open.

Leave aside those two matches and Murray has won six of nine matches against the best player to pick up a racquet.

Last year at Wimbledon Murray lost in the semi finals to Andy Roddick and after the match Roddick’s coach Larry Stefanki identified a tactical weakness in Murray’s game.

“He is going to have a great future if he gets to the point of recognising balls to attack and to come into the forecourt and play there rather than 15 feet behind the baseline.”

But there maybe another reason why Murray has yet to win the final point.

During matches, when he makes a mistake, Murray berates himself. The more mistakes he makes the more frequent and louder the berating. Murray is by no means unique in this but none of the other top players do it.

When asked about this tendency Max said,

“His conscious is split in two. One is judging the other. One expects to make a mistake and the other part makes the mistake. It is dividing his energy.

“ The more tension in a match the more intense the other voice becomes and the more mistakes are made. Instead of supporting him the other voice tells him off and pushes him towards making errors. It goes downhill from there very quickly.”

“Everybody is different and the solution to the problem depends on the character of the individual. Tennis is similar to golf and shooting events in the Olympics. These contests can be very long and there are plenty of opportunities for the part of the person that judges to raise its voice.

Max said the solution is to stay in the present.

“He must succeed in believing in THE point. Not the one before nor the one after. It is the power of now.

“If he asked me I would recommend he creates an anchor in training. An example would be to close his eyes, take three of four breaths and smile or tell a joke so that when he feels tension during a match he can go back to his anchor and prevent the judging side of his conscious taking over.”

Maybe this is too simple.

After all, when Murray was seven years old he survived the deadliest mass murder of children in British history when a gunman killled sixteen fellow pupils and a teacher at his primary school in Dunblane. His parents also separated around the same time.

But Max knew nothing of these events. He was talking solely about a professional athlete struggling with his other voice and 1c is a much better flyer now than before.

SIMPATICO WITH THE BOYS IN PINK

The goalkeeper was consumed with guilt. He turned his back, knelt by the post and prayed.

Fourteen minutes earlier Salvatore Sirigu had given away a penalty that appeared to dash the dream of playing in the richest competition in football.

But referee Roberto Rosetti had awarded another spot kick at the other end and the 23 year old Sardinian refused to watch as Fabrizio Miccoli sized up the opportunity to equalize.

Sirigu never saw Miccoli put his foot through the ball or the net bulge but he heard the roar and it salved his conscience.

There were no more goals and the game between the only two clubs in Serie A who could finish fourth and qualify for the UEFA Champions League ended in a draw.

Palermo could still make the show but they are two points adrift and must win their last game of the season and hope Sampdoria lose.

At the final whistle the English commentator perched in the main stand of the Stadio Renzo Barbera felt a pang of regret because, in a sometimes monochrome league, the Rosanero add colour with their blend of Italian craft and south American flair.

As well as the prolific Miccoli and the outstanding Sirigu there is the young, thin Argentine Javier Pastore who finds space where there is none, the Uruguayan Edison Cavani, all sunken cheekbones and menace, and his gangling teenage compatriot Abel Hernandez.

In the middle the Italian trio of Fabio Liverani, Giulio Migliaccio and Antonio Nocerino are willing and skilfull workers.

Behind them the full backs Mattia Cassani and Federico Balzeratti attack the flanks and leave the Roman Cesare Bovo and the Danish phenomenon Simon Kjaer to hold the fort.

Kjaer is a pearl. The 20 year old is having a sensational season for club and country. Look out for him at the World Cup. He has long blond hair and wins every challenge.

But if Palermo fail to qualify for the Champions League Kjaer may move on and everybody, from Manchester United to Juventus and Real Madrid, wants him. Others, like the Brazilian Fabio Simplicio, may also leave.

It would be a shame because President Mauricio Zamparini (bonkers but popular), sporting director Walter Sabatini and coach Delio Rossi have put together and run a team which deserves a big stage and the people of Palermo crave the opportunity to showcase their city.

Before the game against Sampdoria the commentator's producer Guiseppe Sampino, Palermo born and bred, had told him why.

"Whenever Palermo is mentioned everybody always thinks of the mafia, and dark things but that was twenty years ago and this city has changed. People here are against the mafia. This is a beautiful and friendly city with history, architecture and passion. It is also safe. A woman cannot walk around alone after dark in Rome, Milan or Turin but she can here. Being in the Champions League would show people that we have other qualities."

Every football club represents the values and emotions of its fans but U.S. Citta di Palermo are a little different for they are the only professional football team in the world that dares to play in pink.

CURRY' S FOLLY

Alan Gowling wore headphones, held a microphone and was about to tell his listeners the team news.

Only the former Manchester United, Newcastle United and Bolton Wanderers forward was sitting in the wrong seat and the former Dynamo Haringey, Club Sandwich and Green Gate utility player was about to ask him to move.

Gowling agreed without fuss and with the suggestion that Tottenham Hotspur is home to the worst press box in the Premier League.

Everton and Portsmouth compete but the view at Goodison is fine and at Fratton Park they still have ticket price signs in pounds, shillings and pence so we are grateful for electricity.

If you are one of the 56 reporters crowbarred into 120 square foot of East Stand lower tier at White Hart Lane your Saturday afternoon will be an uncomfortable one.

Not only is it cramped but the tiny flip-up desks slope towards you. Broadcasters have to gaffa tape equipment and writers hold onto laptops.

Not only is it cramped with tiny, sloping desks but it is impossible to see over the crown of the pitch. Commentating is tricky. BBC radio were in the cabin to the rear of the seating area but the view was so poor they moved to the television gantry in the stand opposite.

Not only is it cramped with tiny, sloping desks and a restricted view but television monitors block the narrow gangway running down the middle. Getting in is difficult; getting out requires balance, sure feet and the eye for an opening.

Everybody blames Steve Curry.

When the East Stand was rebuilt in 1982 the press were housed in the upper tier but a few years later chairman Irving Scholar, who was desperate for cash, freed up the good seats for corporate clients and kicked the press downstairs.

Curry was the number one football reporter on the Daily Express and chairman of the Football Writers' Association at the time. Over lunch with Scholar Curry agreed to the move and to advise on the facilities. Or lack of.

A smile from the dinner ladies in the equally cramped press room, the hot food, the rewarding football (69 goals and only three draws in all comps), the terrific atmosphere and access to the managers post match never quite make up for three hours of neck craning, bladder holding minimal movement.

Tottenham plan to build a new stadium and the FWA have been consulted about press facilities and maybe broadcasters will also be asked to contribute.

The bad news is Tottenham’s new 58,000 seater stadium may be some way off. Spurs are also building a state of the art training ground at Bulls Cross in Enfield and need to spend on players to compete at home and abroad. In the deepest recession for 70 years something may have to give.

The good news is Steve Curry now runs a pub.

FOUR LINESMEN BEFORE THE APOCALYPSE

“Concerning goal-line technology, the Board concluded that goal-line technology would not be pursued.”

With a stray comma, a repetition, a conditional and a negative the Federation Internationale de Football Association took a step back from the future.

Sooner not later replays of incidents will become a part of the game but the International Football Association Board bottled it for another year and the World Cup in South Africa will be replay free.

The IFAB oversees the rules of the senior code. Once a year this inobtrusive institution meets to discuss amendments to the 17 laws of football.

The history of the Board is a bore but in a nutshell us Brits put it together in 1882 so we could play each other in the Home championship under the same rules. In 1913 the French, in the guise of FIFA, were allowed to join and in 1958 they were given equal rights. Bloody cheek.

Anyways the four home nations, England, Scotland, Wales and Northern Ireland, have a vote each and FIFA have four votes. It needs six to amend a law.

The rejection of technology was hardly a surprise but its day is coming and it is time to move the goal-line.

Forget cameras on the goal or sensors on the line or an implant in the ball. Forget goal-line technology and embrace the Appeal.

The Appeal is when the captain of each side can challenge the referee’s decision once in a game. The fourth official has a monitor on which he has one minute in which to watch as many replays as can be provided by the broadcaster. If he cannot make up his mind the referee’s original decision stands.

Cards; tackles; disallowed goals; allowed goals; everything is fair game but it one Referral per side per game. The captain, and only the captain, can Appeal and he must do so, verbally, to the referee with 60 seconds of the incident.

The fourth official will watch the replays on a shielded monitor both of which will be supplied by the host broadcaster.

A manager or coach who tries to influence the fourth official or encroaches on the replay technical area will be sent from the field of play.

Like substitutes in the Football League 45 years ago the Appeal or a system like it will chafe the older guard but it is coming and for that they can thank UEFA.

The Union of European Football Associations is conducting a lackadaisical experiment in the Europa League with additional assistant referees stationed next to the goal.

“(They) will provide two extra pairs of eyes to monitor the game and ensure that the Laws of the Game are upheld, informing the referee of incidents of any kind that he may otherwise have missed, particularly in key areas of the field like the penalty area and its surroundings.

They have done nothing but wear tights and watch teams wrestle each other to the ground before corners and free kicks.

The Europa League re-emerged in February and unlike their colleagues who run up and down or all around the goal hangers stand around waiting for something to happen. They needed tights to keep warm.

The Board will meet in May to discuss the Europa League findings. They are unlikely to see the extra eyes experiment as a success.

The view from here has remained unaltered for years. Four assistant referees running the line is the best technology-free solution.

If only the Republic of Ireland had a vote.

RED, DICK AND ENGLAND

On a Thursday afternoon in June 1950, in a World Cup Group 2 match at the Independencia stadium in Belo Horizonte, Joe Gaetens scored the goal heard around the world seven minutes before half time.

The USA held on against an England of Tom Finney, Stan Mortensen, Wilf Mannion and Alf Ramsey and so began a relationship with the game we call football.

Thirty years later the sportswriter Red Smith of the New York Times, a baseball man with no time for football, encountered the world game at the Meadowlands and wrote of the New York Cosmos and the pre-match song and dance,

"When at last the field was left to the players, the quality of entertainment declined somewhat."

Starring for the Cosmos that day were World Cup winning captains Carlos Alberto and Franz Beckanbauer, Holland's Johan Neeskens and the renegade Anglo-Italian Giorgio Chingalia.

They got off lightly.

Dick Young of the tabloid Daily News had heckled Pele in his first Cosmos press conference and thought the game was for, as he put it, Commie pansies.

One won a Pulitzer prize but both articulated how most of their countrymen felt.

Four years later the Cosmos, along with the rest of the North American Soccer League, imploded and punctured football in America.

Thirty years further on and the story has a different lead.

Since the 1990 World Cup in Italy a stream of Americans, mostly goalkeepers with names like Kasey, Brad and Boaz, have flowed though English professional football.

America hosted the show in 1994; the national team reached the last eight in the 2002 and are about to play in their sixth consecutive tournament; Major League Soccer is in its 15th season; where there were hundreds of local teams and clubs there are now hundreds of thousands and millions of American parents ferry their kids to and from endless practise and games.

Football is embedded and it was no surprise when an American friend of a friend attended a recent Arsenal game and needed no introduction to the context of the match or the Premier League. Bill's son wore an Arsenal hat and they had a ball.

Earlier this year Landon Donovan of LA Galaxy raised the bar for US imports with a 13 game star turn on-loan at Everton whose request to keep him was refused.

Donovan is a key member of a side ranked 16 in the world which last year, in the World Cup warm-up tournament, beat European Champions Spain 2-0 in the semi finals and in the final held a 2-0 lead over Brazil before losing 3-2 .

On a Saturday evening in June, in the opening game of Group C at the Royal Bafokeng stadium in Rustenburg, the USA play England.

Revenge is a dish best served 60 years cold.

HARRY’S PATCH AND MY WIFE

I love golf almost as much as I hate writing in the first person singular.

On reading those first three words some of you, most of you, will reach for the off key but I could care less.

It is our strength and our weakness. Us golfers are so taken with the game that non-believers fail to mark our card but if you show the slightest, even feigned, curiosity we are your friend, your partner, your golf buddy.

For me, an Open assignment at Royal Birkdale in 1998 turned a professional interest into a consuming passion.

That was the year Mark O’Meara, at the age of 44, supped from the Claret jug and a 17 year old amateur Justin Rose chipped in on the 18th to finish joint fourth. I also saw Tiger Woods in the flesh for the first time.

And I remember it for two other reasons.

On the Saturday evening Lee Westwood left the course at the same time as myself and a colleague were walking to our hotel. He negotiated the crowd in his shiny new Mercedes sports car and despite his shooting an eight over par 78 we exchanged a cheery greeting.

150 yards down the road we stopped to let Westwood enter the drive of his rented house. A sheepish professional golfer was greeted with an equally cheery,

“We beat you!”

And I realised that golf, like horse racing and motor sports, is best watched on television.

In the twelve years since that magical working weekend on the Lancashire coast I have thought about golf roughly once every seven seconds.

Golf is proof of the maxim that the smaller the ball the better the writing. And I should know I have read most of it.

Books and magazines as well as videos were devoured whole and every spare morning, afternoon and evening was spent at the nine hole Central London Golf Centre in Wandsworth endangering fellow addicts and disfiguring the big round ball.

Slowly, painfully slowly, I began to hole the ball in less than double figures and graduated to Beckenham Place Park.

Then I suffered a sea-change into something rich and strange. I gave up work.

Or, more accurately, I went freelance.

My inclination to wear spikes around the BBC newsroom had already been noted and the sports editor was happy to see the back of my Dunlop rainwear. I was pleased to be able to play golf whenever I liked.

Beckenham became my first home which I shared with my pal Mark. He, too, is a sports journalist but we never talked about football, cricket or racing.

It was always golf.

Did you see Tiger last night? (of course). Is that the 150 yard marker?(no, it is a beer can) And do you think Ben Hogan ever shanked one as badly as that? (highly unlikely).

Beckenham is a public course and open to the yet to be converted. Once I overhit an approach shot into the 8th green and nearly creamed a jogger. We saw him again on his second circuit and, as Mark helpfully pointed out, he bore a distinct resemblance to the boxer Nigel Benn. The former middleweight world champion must have been in another world because he pounded past us without a second glance.

For 18 months I mixed rounds of triple figures with occasional work assignments and frequent visits to Enfield for assignations with the one. Eventually the trips north turned into a permanent move and five day membership of the Harry Vardon designed Bush Hill Park.

Then I got married. But within three months she was onside. Or, more accurately, greenside.

Our early married life was up and down although there was also plenty of time for golf.

Caddy No1 soon followed. Jack’s inability to carry a full set restricted the swing for a while but a change of strategy enabled me to make more visits to the golf club even if it meant less time on the course.

Three holes here, a bucket of balls on the driving range there or a one man competition on the putting green kept my hand in and my marriage intact.

Six majors later and we had a bag carrier each. Charlie also slowed down the club head speed but after a polite and considerate wait of four days it was back to the track.

That was three years ago. Juggling golf with family life and work has been interesting but meticulous planning and bouts of begging have allowed me to roam free on Harry’s patch.

But while I was feeling pleased with myself for playing more golf than I had any right to my wife was playing more.

Now, more often than not, it is me left at home begging the boys for a go on their Wii as she heads off for another yet another competition or round with friends.

I have been stymied.