Standing alone on a practice putting green, eyeing a six-inch drop, whispering the words: “This for The Open.”
I’ve lost count of the number of times I’ve mentally won The Open.
Every July, the sight of brown and baked links fairways, cavernous pot bunkers and ‘Quiet Please’ signs fills me with the same excitement I felt as a boy on the practice putting green.
Qualifying for The Open
Now, fully grown and the holder of a respectable scratch handicap, the closest I’ve ever come to realizing my boyhood dreams are the three Club Championships I’ve won at Ramside Hall; where the trophy is an unapologetic, slightly gaudy replica of the Claret Jug.
As a British journalist, I consider The Open to be the greatest tournament in golf. I’ve attended my fair share of championships, as spectator and reporter.
Something changed for me in 2014 and I decided to stop dreaming and start living. A little internet research and a signed cheque for £140 later, I’d entered qualifying for The 143rd Open Championship at Royal Liverpool Golf Club or ‘Hoylake’ as it’s more commonly known.
It took me longer to fill out The Open entry form than it does to file my annual tax return.
After identifying all of my clubs, ball, footwear, grooves specifications and the year of manufacture for everything apart from my trolley, all that was left was to wait. I chose regional qualifying at The Northumberland Club, Gosforth – which ironically is in Newcastle Upon Tyne, not Northumberland. I’d always wanted to play it and it’s less than an hours’ drive from home.
Months later, preparations hadn’t gone to plan.
The worst possible preparation for Open Qualifying
Instead of hours on the chipping and putting greens, I’d sat holding on the phone to mortgage brokers, solicitors, estate agents and removals companies. I’d stuffed almost every possession I own into a brown box – bar my carefully packed golf clubs.
Three days before Open Qualifying we moved house, with a toddler, packing a life into 60 or so cardboard boxes. Sure, I fitted in a few swings in the new back garden but I was lining up more spirit levels and tape measures than putts.
A total lack of preparation can have a liberating effect on your uptight ‘inner golfer’ and give you a reason to see golf for what it is, a game, and something we do for enjoyment.
With this in mind, the day came, June 23rd – and with it a chance to take a step closer to teeing up in The Open.
Arriving at The Northumberland Club, I was greeted by a smiling gentleman in a double breasted navy blue blazer and a haircut straight from the Officer’s Mess at the Royal Air Force.
My next meeting was with a sharp suited young woman with an ear piece and I was directed to registration where another smart blazer greeted me and began the briefing on local rules – especially encounters with the adjoining Newcastle racecourse.
After I’d declared my chosen golf ball and accepted my card, I found my caddie Paul Atkinson, waiting by the putting green.
Paul loves golf as much, possibly more than I do, and he was beaming and ready to go. He’d arrived early, scouted out the range and chatted to some competitors who’d played a practice round.
Playing it Blind
We were going in blind. I’d never seen the course before and Paul had played it a few times, but never when it was set up for Open Qualifying.
A chance encounter with Hutch, the long-time caddie of a good friend of mine, turned out to be the best strokesaver I could wish for. You can’t pitch anything on the green he said, “they are so firm and fast you have to drop it short,” surely not I thought. This is a heathland not a links.
With 30 minutes to go until tee-off I was sweating and nervous. Warming up on the range alongside a field of pros and amateurs off scratch or less, is not the place to throw in a shank – but half a basket in and I hosel rocket a 54 degree wedge – and nearly take out the range attendant.
I recover and get back towards finding the grooved part of the clubface. After a few confidence builders, I move to the chipping green and then hit a few putts. The ball is rolling like a marble on glass and I hear mutters that the greens are running at 14 on the stimp.
‘This is Open Qualifying I say to myself, what do you expect.’ I’m drawn with two pros, Antonio Rodriguez from Spain and Richard Robson-Crosby, from local club Ponteland.
Antonio reminds me of many Spanish golf pros, small, diminutive, closely groomed and dashing in Lacoste t-shirt and drainpipe chinos. Strangely, his caddie Kevin is a portly Glaswegian dressed head to toe in Dunlop clothing.
The first is a drivable par-four and I play conservative hitting a four iron up the left of the fairway. I’m thrilled to make solid contact.
I arrow a pitching wedge straight at the flag for my second and expect applause from the 35 or so members sat up on the hill by the green – nothing – not a ripple. When I reach the green, I’m through the back. Hutch was right – no landing on the greens.
I chip short and hole from ten feet – par. Four more and I’m wondering what all the fuss is about. I’m playing in The Open – kind of – and I’m level par.
Level par in The Open
I cut my tee-shot slightly at the sixth and have to chip sideways from behind a stand of trees. The rigs and furrows of the Northumberland Golf Club started to exercise an influence on play and with lightning fast greens it’s difficult to be aggressive.
A bogey is followed by another par and then quickly two more dropped shots as my approaches find thick collars of lush rough just feet from the putting green.
I fail to get the shots back at the reachable par five 9th after a long straight drive but get up and down from a tight spot for par to stay three over.
I know I probably need to finish under par and start pushing for birdies. I skip over two more greens and play brilliant recovery shots to par them. I smother a 3-iron at the long 13th and fail to save from sand – four over.
I attack again and miss left at the short 14th, but play a sublime bunker shot to tap-in distance. I hole another par saver at the 15th after driving into a fairway bunker. Antonio starts to call me Seve, as I miss green after green, and still save pars.
When I land in the rear of the greenside bunker at 16, I find the ball on a downslope with the pin cut around eight feet onto the sloping green.
What would Seve have done
I wonder what would Seve have done.
I rehearse the shot for what seems like forever and zip the right hand through hard into the sand. The ball zips out and grabs the green on landing, bounces, rolls and checks around two feet from the hole.
The small gallery, which includes my father, a member from my golf club, a self-styled golf trolley inventor and a few Northumberland club blazers, gasped in astonishment.
I tap in. At plus four with two to go, I know qualification is unlikely but I’m loving the experience. The course is fiendishly hard and the atmosphere is that of a high class professional tournament.
I narrowly miss for birdie at 17 and I take to the 18th tee hoping for a strong finish. There is a large gallery basking in the sunshine on the clubhouse veranda watching the players hit up to the elevated green. Another good drive and I play to feed my wedge in from the left hand side down towards the pin. Mild applause tells me it’s not far away.
Up on the green I’m facing a 12-foot left to right downhill putt that could easily run away from me. I take my time and persuade myself this will be my last shot of the day. The putt is on its way and begins to shudder off the slope towards the left edge. It topples in and I hear clapping and voices saying “well done,” “good putt.”
Final hole heroics at The Open
I know I’ve missed out on qualifying but it feels like an Open moment.
I think back to all the times I’ve stood and watched final hole heroics at The Open – like Justin Rose’s holed wedge as a 17-year-old amateur at Birkdale in 1998, Paul Lawrie’s 4 iron into the 18th green at Carnoustie a year later, and most unusually; the exotic dancer streaking onto the 18th at The Old Course St Andrews during Tiger’s victory walk in 2000.
When I shake hands with Antonio and Richard I realise I’ve beaten my professional playing partners and acquitted myself well. Paul is upbeat and excited. He pats me on the back.
Next, we’re escorted to the scorer’s tent where we sit down and mark our cards. There’s no interview with Hazel Irvine or Dan Walker for me but I’m happy and ready to treat my caddie and father to a cold beer and a burger.
On our way out, I stop by the leaderboard to see how the field has fared and where I might place. I scan down the names – big reputations – professional and amateur. The field is struggling with the speed and firmness of the greens.
With no preparation, the stress of moving house and no idea where I was going, I eventually finish 23rd. The top seven qualified, from Matthew Webb at six-under to a cluster on one-under. Their dreams lived on and they moved to Final Qualifying.
Falling four short of the qualifying mark at my first attempt, I know I can compete at Open Qualifying, against professionals and amateurs; and I’ve fulfilled a dream of entering The Open.
The Open returns to Royal Liverpool Golf Club in 2023, perhaps it’s time to try again!
*This article was first published in 2014