CADDIE'S ROLE: The reality of tour life is not as grandiose as one imagines when seeing a champion hoist the trophy on a Sunday afternoon
WE CROSSED the Iberian Peninsula last Monday with the unique Mediterranean light illuminating southern Spain for most of our 950-kilometre trip east to Castellon on the Costa Azahar. Those of us who were trying to organise flights to the Castello Masters had to be creative with our travel plans as there were no point-to-point flights.
I rekindled my affection for overland travel with an old friend who has gone full circle and now travels the tour again in a camper van, just like we did in the 1980s when it was the only way to get around Europe on a budget. Duncan has not forgotten his routes, unlike most of us who began in the shoestring days of hand-to-mouth caddying who have all but rejected the journey and now concentrate only on arrival.
Naturally the demands on us all connected to professional golf have dictated we are expected on site as quickly as we can get there. So when we hit a few serious inclines around the mountainous Granada region three hours past Seville it became clear to me, the infrequent overlander, that we were not going to be at our final destination until Spanish dinner time.
We had pulled in to a town in the northern province of Malaga to collect another old friend who had been working on the Seniors Tour in Malaga and had decided to join us on our nostalgic trip across Spain.
I am often asked about what happens the night of a victory on tour. The answer is, it depends on what your travel arrangements are for the following week. I had committed to travelling overland, so the party was going to have to be deferred.
Despite the glory of my boss Tom Lewis’ dramatic victory earlier in the day, our modest celebration consisted of some tapas and beers in a truck-stop off the A-92 past Seville. It was not champagne and caviar in the Ritz.
The reality of tour life is probably not as grandiose as the mind conjures up when seeing a champion hoist the trophy on a Sunday afternoon to rapturous applause and the prospect of a bright future.
We got to talk about the old days on the road and particularly Duncan’s overland trips on tour in the US where you could drive for days in order to make it to the next venue on some acceptable day for your player. They even had to make the trip east when the tour shifted from California to Florida with a tournament the very next week.
Although it took us about 14 hours of driving to reach the Mediterraneo Golf Club, averaging well below 100km per hour, it was a short hop compared to traversing the US in an old Cadillac and adhering to the 70 mile an hour American speed limit.
We arrived at the home of “El Nino”, the “Kid from Castellon”, or simply Sergio as he is referred to today, his youth behind him but his youthful charm still very much intact. Sergio was retracing his routes last week much as us overlanders from Portugal were doing. This time it was out of choice, not necessity.
Sergio’s name and status brought the European Tour event to this relatively secluded course off the beaten golf trail in Spain four years ago. Without his influence of course there would never have been an event there.
Spending the week at Sergio’s birthplace of Borriol, about 15 minutes from Castellon, gives you a clear sense of the homely familial atmosphere of a small Spanish sports club. Sergio Garcia’s father Victor is the professional at the club, his mother runs the pro-shop, his sister and brother play there and they live close enough to walk to the club. There is a typical hubbub of life in the clubhouse, unique to Spain.
Even though as caddies we had a designated dining-room and lounge assigned to us upstairs in the clubhouse, we all tended to congregate in the café where members and caddies mingled and enjoyed the sociable nature of the venue.
Being the previous week’s winner, Lewis got the star billing draw. We played with Matteo Manassero, unbelievably two years younger than my 20-year-old player and the senior member of the group, Sergio. With the game increasingly being encroached by young whipper-snapper golfers, no wonder the 31-year-old Garcia had to drop the youthful sobriquet.
Club Mediterraneo is the type of club that you would drop into for a casual game if you happened to be passing. Without being disrespectful, you probably wouldn’t be inspired to make a pilgrimage to play it. But it is a pleasant course and particularly tricky for longer hitters. You can see how Sergio became such a good driver of the ball as you have to be straight if you take the big stick out off the tee.
When you play with him you benefit from his local knowledge. When you hit into the great unknown off some of the tees, as many of the fairways are blind dog-legs, you had the comfort of looking at Sergio for feedback as to where your ball could possibly be. He could ease your anxious mind or at least give you hope. On one hole Sergio’s father Victor, who was strolling around in the gallery, caught a spectator trying to run away with Tom’s errant tee-shot.
Sergio was taking a trip down memory lane himself last week. It wasn’t just us caddies revisiting old times on our trip across Spain to get back to the Garcia routes.
The comfort of familiar surroundings, with family and friends supporting him, coupled with an acute understanding of his home course and an irrepressible talent ensured a spectacular 11-shot victory for the “Kid from Castellon”, now very much an elder statesman on tour.
