The Shell Wonderful World of Golf Series

A Tall Tale

It was a Sunday, 13 July 1997 at 7am an ungodly hour for the day that's in it, nothing stirring, no cars, pedestrians, no joggers just a glimpse of a neglected lawn from a chink in the curtain. A throbbing ailment during the night and the excitement of the day ahead conspired to kept me awake until the early hours reading George Houghton's "Golf Addict among the Irish", a not unpleasant way to wile away the hours, quietly supported by the hum of the dawn chorus. I purchased 'The Title', the sporting newspaper, to catch any tidbits on the Couples vs Watson duel at Mount Juliet in Thomastown, County Kilkenny. Its to my eternal shame that I waited until now to witness the legend, Thomas Sturges Watson, first hand.

No doubt Nicklaus enticed Watson to Mount Juliet (it was only afterwards I realised it was being produced by Jack Nicklaus productions on behalf of ESPN) by uttering Alexander Graham Bell immortal words, on his invention now known as the telephone, "Watson, come here" and although Ireland is a second home for Watson's trans-Atlantic travel plans he had only played competitive golf here once before, at the 1975 Irish Open in Woodbrook, not long after his win at Carnoustie on his debut appearance at the Open Championship. Mount Juliet, at the time the jewel in Ireland's inland crown, was to be the battleground.

I travelled south through Carlow listening to country forum on CKR which was listing similar symptoms to what I had experienced earlier that morning including rapid breathing and bouts of coughing apparently I was suffering from hoose, a bovine problem, the cure for which I considered totally unsuitable.

I never really considered Thomastown as a hive of activity but today it was bustling resurrected again after relinquishing the National Open to Druids Glen. The guards and Civil Defence provided security for all concerned. As you enter the corralled car park the picture of unimaginable beauty that is the ivy-clad Mount Juliet stately home engulfed by trees and framed by the river and its 200 acre demesne only then can you comprehend the visionary who put a golf course there.

I mulled around the practice area and decided to soak in the atmosphere as a top level tournament organiser noted the position of the tents, security checks and an unconvincing final test of the PA system as he travelled along a line to find how the microphones was working. Initially I thought that he was looking for the best vantage point for an interview with the golfers in fact he was trying to find a spot where the microphone actually worked and eventual he succeeded in his quest and stopped there looking content with the equipment.

Fred Couples was on the practice fairway before it had registered with anybody although I glimpsed his instantly recognisable frame from the back as it headed towards the practice tee, then people slowly began to line the ropes. He waited for his opponent with the temperment reserved for a park stroll and set about fine tuning his game. I distracted myself by watching the latest arrivals and when I looked back to the practice tee Watson and his son Michael, who looked less like him than the kid squatted on the ground frantically clicking his camera. Watson went into his stretching routine and appeared to be posing for the kid who was both beguiled and in awe of him. Couples had by this stage started practising and Watson followed suit moving from wedge through to driver most shots hit crisply if not always on line with each finish looking like a pose for 'Life' magazine.

Oddly enough seeing your hero up close was strangely underwhelming and you quickly realise that he is normal, lacked affectation, a Joe Schmoe, who was fortunate to possess a great gift and the thunderbolt of greatness I expected to render me delirious never materialised. His forearms were not popeye-ish and his swing not the cyclone envisaged with little chance of me being caught in its vortex.

The volley of golf balls subsided and the sky returned to its undecided overcast demeanour no longer freckled by white projectiles as the compere, Roddy Carr, introduced the proceedings with equipment ill suited for the purpose. He turned to Tom with an introduction so short of accolades that you'd be forgiven for thinking he had just taken up the sport and also made reference to his arrival earlier in the week at Lahinch his ritual retreat at which point Tom interjected, Ballybunion!. Throughout this the crowd were getting boisterious and impatient as the audibility of the microphone alternated between library and concert mode (and a variety of frequencies in between). At least they had until October when it would air on ESPN to rectify this but even Watson couldn't hide his frustration. When the question - how is your game, he cordially began with the news that it was in good shape but the Mic again failed for a nano-second and the next words were, "well better shape than this mic anyway". The proceedings went on much the same way with reference to the fact he'd played the course already but at the time it was raining badly and to the fact that he had a sixty-six but that his son still beat him which naturally would make him honorary Irish for the line in Blarney.

Watson confessed that the match favours 'Freddie' him being the bigger hitter and himself only three years away from the senior tour was delivered with the sincerety of a psychology major trying to psyche out his opponent. But what was obvious to everyone else didn't escape Freddie either and he replied with 'Yes this course is too long for Tom but it does also require accuracy which he is good at and I think it'll balance itself out'. Fred referred to his absence from competitive golf but quashed any rumours that it was back trouble but would only say for other reasons. Couples also referred again to how lightly he was treating this encounter by indicating that he would be experimenting with his swing in preparation for the Open (placed seventh a stroke behind Watson at Royal Troon). The final Act of this interview where technology had got the upper-hand was for Tom to apologise to Roddy in case his quip, at the sound engineers expense, caused him any personal offence but he just shook his hands as if to say you are indeed a gentleman but no fault lies with you to warrant this act of contrition. At this they retired to the putting green as Gibson's the Dixie-Land Band played in the background and the music from the Bayou was honey sweet almost left you yearning for the Macon-Dixon line.

The putting green was shaped like a severe dogleg and they both took up positions a good distance apart looking for level putting terrain to judge their stroke. Tim Mahony watched the spectacle without pomp or ceremony clearly a man who loved the game and built the course for the game's sake rather than as some egomaniacally gesture and he could stand side by side with Jack Mulcahy and Lord Castlerosse as having contributed something of reverential beauty to Irish golf. Couples finished up quickly on the green and returned to the practice fairway where he wrapped up his preparations and both headed of to the first tee. I for my part stayed around the Ram and Lynx stalls and made a mental note to return to the famous leadbetter academy for a 10min lesson where I would be indoctrinated with the great coach's methods.

I had travelled two hours from Dublin purchased my ticket almost before the printing presses were stopped or the ink allowed dry so I took-up a suitable vantage point on the first-hole. I stood 250 yds up the rough between the fairway and the treeline where I had a better chance of been hit by lightning than I had of golf ball hitting me. The sky jury was still out on whether to provide a torrential downpour or allow the proceedings to bask in the sunshine and submit to the 'testimonial.

The grass at Mount Juliet is like walking on luxurious carpet as it takes your weight supports it and then propels you to your next step while resuming its original shape. You'd be forgiven for considering this an ideal substitute for your axminister an provide a duality of purpose by allowing you to practice at home but obviously the maintenance costs would be prohibitive. The sward over this golfing terrain can best be described as having been pocket-sprung and as inviting as any landscaped garden, the natural terrain moulded to create another golfing oasis. The golf had become secondary to the cascading trees and thick wooded backdrops, the velvet texture greens with white sands like ink blotches protecting them from a direct low-trajectory frontal assault. This was most definitely an American style course transposed onto an Irish landscape by the supreme sculptor and a visionary working in unison. The battle with the course would be done through the air and the greens would be receptive to any aerial attack and this is how these two players took to the task.

The play was routine securing regulation par but Watson made the greater chore of it as he caught the rough beyond the creek on the second but making light of his next only to extract gasps from the crowd usually reserved for a man perilously perched on a ledge twenty floors above you but he continued to extricate himself. Then we arrived at the third engulfed by the lake of Lethe and safety not an option finally Tom rose to the challenge and left himself 10ft, only to let it slip away, for "I've yet to see the hole travel to the ball" as Henry Longhurst would have said.

On the fourth there's a challenge worthy of any championship course, the view from the tee was claustrophobic as the treeline just fell short of converging 200 yds out and at which point you might question exactly how difficult it was to get a camel through the eye of a needle. Boom Boom hit a scorcher down the left side but not before TW had hit it right as it skimmed the trees and landed a good deal off track just beyond a solitary tree but was left facing a shot out of rough over a lake onto a small landing area. Again both played exquisite shots in the circumstances and missed their putts. The next a par five meanders around a cluster of bunkers and TW was already in minor trouble off the tee but Couples again failed to convert his advantage and neither secured birdie on the easiest hole on the course.

The sixth was where I left the proceedings but not before the teeing off on this long and difficult par three, the heavens decided to look on the game favourably as the sun had broken through and looked resolute. From the sixth green you could here the Dixie-Land band play and TW moved his practice swing in time to demonstrate his awareness and probably so the stewards could get the message to the band. While his practice swing may have been music his actual stroke wasn't for it landed in the bunker and Fred faired only slightly better, if a hanging lie on the peripheral can be considered as such. At this I headed back to the clubhouse hoping to get that lesson that had been mentally noted earlier in the day but the queue didn't appear to warrant the remedy to release me from my own personal torment.

Instead I queued for 10mins for lunch only to be served by a boy who had a skin condition that should have meant quarantine instead he served me a chicken burger albeit with gloves which made it more palatable and never one to refuse food even in the most adverse of conditions. I rejoined the main event on the tenth on a fairway that looked like a claw with the green covered with enough sand to reasonable expect a Bedouin tribe to materialise or at the very least a dishevelled man on all fours begging for water, needless to say each went for the green and each hit the bigger of the two targets. All the time the game was in progress you couldn't help notice the mobile cameramen and sound crew moving around sometimes in almost a comical manner but it was not until the tenth that it earned a chuckle from the crowd as Couples awaited their arrival after focusing in on TW when they farcically ran across the mounds like the three little maids in the Mikado. Couples got down in two, three birdies on the trot, while TW took an extra stroke and found himself four behind and went on the retrieve one at the next and they continued on with Couples flirting with an exhibition (by professional standards) of wayward driving probably part of a research project for Troon. The Trees at the back of 12 provided a spectacular backdrop and a little light relief in the "it's a gimme category". The 13th was without doubt a vision of beauty and treachery for anything less than a perfect drive would result in limited access to the green much less the pin and another shot in the target golf area is required otherwise bogey or higher was inevitable. After Couples had a wayward drive TW pulled another one back and headed to the par 3 14th for an interview on the progress so far with Roddy Carr basically TW was glad to be still in the hunt and had Freddie's driving over the last couple of holes to thank for this. Asked whether he was getting any advice from his son he was just saying, "get it to the hole Dad", as I had been short with all my putts on the outward nine. Couples made a few well chosen but innocuous comments, [Aside] the story was that on the previous green he threw his ball to a small boy who quickly gave it back to him … he said no it's yours you keep it and earned himself a fan for life.

The tournament co-ordinator's face was visibly cringing when he spoke into his Mic to the sound technician, "you are joking, aren't you" the reply was: "No", as his facial muscles deserted him but quickly gathered himself to inform the three participants that the interview would have to be re-recorded which they willingly did.

At the next hole the shot itself looked straightforward enough except for a right to left breeze and TW took an address position which suggested he was going to hold it into the wind but the shot didn't come off and he left himself in the left bunker and took four to slip back to three behind and this was the position after the 16th which had a bunker that looked more like a beach, it was huge in the shape of a question mark without the dot.

This story didn't really have an ending, as I left the proceedings at this stage to avoid jockeying for position in a car park, until I saw the finished article only recently in all it's glory. So I missed Watson's second shot to the eighteenth and the presentation of the crystal globe (the transfer of money was more discrete) and the Rolex watch to Couples (-3) who, for the record, beat Watson (level) by three strokes.