SENIOR GOLFER’S SOCIETY: NATIONALS
Mr President, Honoured guests, Senior Golfers,
When Mike Greenfield asked me to propose a toast tonight my first thought was: “What the hang can I say that will be vaguely relevant to Senior Golfers?” And then I thought: “Why reflect on the last 20 years or so I have been playing golf – many of the old codgers have been greatly responsible for moulding the game in this country….. and perhaps we can learn something”. I think it is always important to reflect on the past so that we can learn for the future.
I think golf in this country has matured and improved in parallel with our wines. Drinking a fine wine tonight I recalled my first contact with Rhodesian wines at the wedding of one of Jack Gorton daughter’s weddings in the early seventies. I had an excess of terrible wine and suffered greatly. Monty Python once did a spoof regarding Australian wines and the Australian Wino Society which went as follows: “The Sydney syrup is a fine wine with a bouquet like an aborigine’s armpit. For those keen on regurgitation another fighting wine is the Perth Pink. Every bottle has a message on it. And the message is: “Beware. This is not a wine for drinking – this is a wine for laying down and avoiding!” I should think that the same epithets could be used to describe Rhodesian wines. Except that the bouquet would probably smell like a Bushman’s armpit. Be that as it may our wines have certainly improved since then and now our international standing in golf has improved as well through the likes of Nick Price.
In fact my one and only claim to fame in golf is that in September 1972 I was selected to go and play in a pro-am at Hwange with Nick Price and Fred Beaver. I am not sure why I was asked to go along as I wasn’t in their class. Perhaps it was to provide a contrast; how golf should be played and how it should not be played – but it was a wonderful experience nevertheless. Nick is the same age as me – we were then 15 and I can remember being awestruck by the length and accuracy of his play.
Thinking of Nick Price I am reminded of the story of Agnes Brown. Agnes was a middle aged spinster attending a wedding as bridesmaid for the umpteenth time. Half way through the ceremony she started giggling. The dour Presbyterian Minister turned to her and said “Agnes do ye no ken that marriage is an awfully serious business?” To which she replied “Och aye Minister but, not getting married is awfully more serious!”
Nick even then took golf seriously but achieved a balance. Nick was the ultimate golfer even then but he was able to get the game in perspective and didn’t seem to get too up tight. I was delighted to read after he won the US PGA that golf writers felt it couldn’t have been won by a “nicer guy”. Obviously he hasn’t changed.
Someone who has matured greatly in his outlook is Tony Johnson. Tony was a year ahead of me at CBC and was the opposite of Nick Price. My father once banned him from playing at Country Club for breaking coke bottles on the 1st tee. I can recall playing with him at Country Club – at the old 3rd hole – the present 10th – he displayed remarkable athletic skills in throwing his sand wedge across the green in pursuit of his ball which had been hit thin out of a bunker. It was also quite a nerve wracking experience watching Ovies (his nick name) prepare to drive; his contortions were quite remarkable. Tony never had the natural skill of Nick but he has made up for that disparity by sheer determination to succeed. Tony reminds me of the Dutch Reformed Dominee who was hacking badly in the company of one of his elders. After cursing furiously he said “I’ll just have to give it up!” His elder looked horrified and asked: “What golf?” To which the Minister replied “No the Ministry!”.
But getting back to junior golf 20 years ago I am always amazed at the talent this country produced. In 1973 Manicaland couldn’t get a full team together so Mat, Mid and Mashonaland provided a few of their players, on the brink of selection, to play for Manicaland in the Interprovincial Match play championships. In this way I managed to play Interprovincial Junior golf in April 1973 at Greta Park in Mashaba as it then was. The Mashonaland side that year included Mark McNulty, Dennis Watson and Nick Price? The Matabeleland side included Tony Johnson and he didn’t even play number one! Those really were glory days. Greta Park is a wonderful course and it was exhilarating being able to play in such great company. I remember being firmly bitten by the golfing bug at the time.
Had cricket, rugby and the war not intervened I think I may have ended up like the golfer who was putting out on the 16th green with his playing partner. As he was about to putt a funeral cortege passed by on the road running next to the course. The golfer immediately stood up and without putting reverently removed his cap and waited until the hearse had passed. His partner asked him why he had waited so long and so reverently to which he replied “She was a good wife to me for 40 years!”.
Sadly I have not been able to become completely addicted. After my stint of travelling around the country going to exotic places to meet exotic people I went to the University of Cape Town. Any illusion I had of spending most of my spare time at Royal Cape Golf course were shattered in the first week of my ROMAN LAW course. We had an austere Austrian Professor complete with monocle named Schiller, who taught the course. He gave us a mound of assignments and one of my unfortunate class mates asked whether the assignments were compulsory. He replied:
“No zey are not compulsory, but zere again breathing is not compulsory. If you do not breath you die, if you do not do my assignments you fail!”
I got the message and foolishly let LATIN, ROMAN LAW and TAXATION take precedence over golf. That is not to say I didn’t get in any golf in Cape Town. It has wonderful courses and I played frequently at Royal Cape, Mowbray, Rondebosch, Milnerton and at a Jewish Club near D.F Malan Airport. We were always made to feel most welcome at the Jewish Club and it always puzzled me why the AWB in South Africa barred Jews from their membership. Just last week a Jewish friend told me why: Apparently you have to be a complete dick to join.
But I digress. I returned to Zimbabwe after University and once again harboured misguided notions of playing a lot of golf. My partners, my wife and children and our heroic comrades have shattered that dream. Incidentally I have become increasingly concerned about the continued use of the word COMRADE since the advent of ESAP. I have had, up until recently, great difficulty in reconciling the word COMRADE with someone who generally drives a Mercedes Benz, owns several farms and flies 1st class. However you will be pleased to hear that my problems have been resolved. I am told that the word COMRADE is in fact an ANAGRAM standing for either “Communists only made rich after duping the electorate” or “Communists only made rich after diddling economy”.
But I digress again. The trouble about rambling on like this is that one loses the point of the speech. And the point of this magical mystery tour over the last 20 years is that through all our collective toils and trouble you Senior Golfers can say that all the effort you have put into the development of golf in this country has born much fruit and that is seen in the wonderful successes of Price, McNulty and Johnson. My appeal to you is that you recognize that you still have a major role to play. The strategies you employed 20 years ago to foster junior golf in this country must be shared with the next generation so that our proud traditions can continue. As my Austrian Professor said “It is not compulsory…..” but sure enough if you don’t give that input our present glory days on the international scene will not be perpetuated.
In closing I am reminded of the two dour Scottish professionals involved in a tense match play game. Not a word had been exchanged between the two in a ding dong battle until the 17th hole when the one got the better of the other. “Dormie” he uttered as he won the hole. To which the other replied “Chatterbox!”.
Lest you accuse me of being a chatterbox I shall end. I ask you to charge your glasses and join me in a toast to the Senior Golfers Society.