The Grand Slam Dunk

Last year, I was at Wentworth for the pro-am on Wednesday ahead of the PGA Championship. Not playing myself, obviously. I have neither the game nor the fame to tee it up in such an august field, but I do have a famous son, and he needed a caddie.

It was exciting to be within the ropes on such a golf course and with some of the world’s best players including a certain Rory McIlroy.

On the range in the early morning, Justin Rose breezed past and stopped for a quick hello with Tom. It is hard to explain the regard I have for sporting heroes like Justin. Perhaps because I play the game and know how hard it is and because as a stand-up, I understand pressure and how painful it can be.

Ever since Justin Rose burst on to the scene at The Open Championship as a 17-year-old amateur and holed out on 18^th to finish 4^th, he has beguiled golf fans. Ryder Cup heroics, US Open Champion, Olympic Gold Medallist… and the dubious honour of being Champion Golfer of the Year in my novel, Open Links. A fictional win but with his heroics at Royal Troon last year and just finishing 2^nd at the Masters, only a fool would write of his chances of adding his name to the vaunted Claret Jug. If this were to happen, no one would cheer him louder than me.

I could have chosen any golfer to become my champion in Open Links, but I selected JR for his stellar career but also because of the affection in which he is held.

Back to Wentworth for a moment. After his round, Justin was on the range with his people practising and ironing out kinks. I dearly wanted to say hello to him, but I didn’t. Too shy perhaps or more likely because I witness first-hand the pressures of genuine celebrity and how they crave being left alone. I wouldn’t have taken up too much of his time. Just long enough to congratulate him on his career and to say thank you.

And yet this weekend I found myself wanting Justin to miss putts and ultimately to lose in a play-off to win his first green jacket.

And all because of a man from Hollywood.

No, not that Hollywood but the less heralded Hollywood, Northern Ireland from where Rory hails.

So famous he needs only one name, Rory McIlroy and his quest for the Golf Grand Slam has taken so long, some doubters never believed it would happen. They said he didn’t have it in him. That he was a spent force and a choker, having coughed up two US Opens and an Open Championship.

But I never doubted for a moment that his long major drought would finally end. But that said, along with everyone else I was suffering unbearably with his near misses, and I hoped fervently that this year’s Masters would be his breakthrough.

So, when his nearest competitor Bryson De Chambeau began to falter, tensions eased until first Ludvig Aberg emerged on the rails to be replaced by Justin Rose as the man threatening to deny Rory McIlroy once more.

Perhaps with a nod to his birthplace, McIlroy likes a drama and had us all  watching through our hands as he duffed easy shots and then pulled off miracles to remain in the hunt.

And like all great movies, he kept us rapt until the end. Needing only a par to win – he contrived to take one extra shot yet and made us endure a blinking play-off against the ever-popular Justin Rose.

Mercifully the play-off was quick, and it went Rory’s way. He is a remarkable sportsman and truly deserving of his iconic status in golf. A generational golfer, he is almost as brave as he is talented and why his win is being heralded by all true golf fans.

So well done Rory, my apologies to Justin Rose and my thanks to you both for the greatest Sunday’s golf watching of my life.