GOLF:He played with such flair, passion, intensity and honesty of expression. RODDY CARRreflects on the life of his friend and business partner
IT WAS 1973, El Paraiso GC on the Costa del Sol, the last event on the European Tour. I was a struggling tour pro trying to make the cut to keep my card for the next year and avoid the dreaded Monday pre-qualifyings. A couple of 73s would do it. This was real pressure, the negative pressure of survival.
I was paired with this 16-year-old Spanish kid whose name nobody could pronounce and who was the kid brother of Manuel Ballesteros. He didn’t speak a word of English except “hello, I am Seve”.
He was a boy with drop-dead good looks and the exuberance that only fearless youth has. He had a flashing white smile and piercing eyes that sent lightning bolts through the heart of any female they engaged.
On the first hole he mashed a drive 300 yards down the middle, hit a five-iron into 10 feet and proceeded to chastise himself in Spanish out loud all the way to the green. He missed the putt and kicked the bag all the way to the next tee. I scratched a par four.
Next hole he hit a one-iron into the teeth of a 30mph wind to 15 feet and went nuts that it wasn’t stone dead. I’m thinking, is this kid crazy, does he expect to hole one-irons?
And so it went all the way around. I shot the inevitable 73, he shot 66, which should have been 60, and he was still ranting on after he signed his card.
I decided I couldn’t put up with this a second day and would have to speak to the PGA official, Tony Gray, about his behaviour for both my and his own good. Manuel was waiting by the scoring caravan. I went over and told him what I was going to do. He pleaded with me not to, that the lad was only a boy and he would speak to him. I let it go.
Fifteen years later, after I had hung up my clubs, I approached Seve in the Old Course hotel in St Andrews, overlooking the famous Road Hole, with a business proposition to promote tournaments in Spain with him. He paused for what seemed a long time and, with those eyes boring into me, asked, “Roddy, remember El Paraiso in ’73?”
I said “Yes, very well, Seve”.
“You no report me.”
He then put out his hand. “Yes, we will make business together for our families.”
He had a memory like an elephant, always did. I spent the next 13 years working with Seve in Spain, and in the final three years managed him from Pedrena, the fishing village where he was born and which he loved so much.
To understand Severiano Ballesteros one must understand his life as a young caddy in Real (Royal, of course) Pedrena GC. He had to steal balls and borrow clubs to play on the beach, because he was not allowed play on the course. He would climb the wall behind the fourth tee at night and play 18 holes in the dark with no shoes so his mother would not see his wet shoes when he returned.
His father, Baldomero, whom he loved dearly and missed greatly in later life, was the caddy for Emilio Botin, the owner of Banco Santander and Spain’s richest man. Seve was later to marry Botin’s daughter Carmen, a beautiful woman in all respects, who bore Seve three children who became the light of his life.
He developed his genius skills on the beach in Pedrena. He made up shots with a limited armoury of clubs and using a Heinz beans can as a hole in the hard sand. He had just his imagination and creativity, which was limitless, to learn the game.
When he played he never knew or thought about anything but winning. He believed he could win any tournament and always thought he would. It was win or die, like the true matador he was. He dressed for the fight in cashmere pastels, and performed with a panache never before seen. He had a ferocious temper but was the eternal optimist on the course; no matter where he hit it, he believed he could make birdie.
Nobody will forget his grand entrance on the greatest stage in world golf at the British Open in Birkdale in 1976. On the final hole he dared to play an impossible, cheeky pitch-and-run, threading it through the greenside bunkers, to finish second to Johnny Miller.
Nor will anyone forget the joyful fist-pumping jig that became his iconic image when he won at St Andrews in 1984.
He never forgave the Americans for the loneliness he felt when he went to play on their tour. They wouldn’t speak to him in the locker-room or have dinner with him. The old guys on the PGA Tour didn’t take kindly to foreigners invading their tour and “stealing” their money.
In retrospect, maybe they should have been nicer to Seve. Once, on the first tee at Augusta, he told me he had 143 enemies to kill. “With every birdie I kill maybe five to 10, with every eagle I kill more.”
Who will forget his triumphant march up that 18th hole in 1980 having slain the field mercilessly to take his revenge?
The Ryder Cup became the ultimate battle for him taking on the might of America under their flag in mano a mano combat, which he loved. They were impossible to beat – or so everybody thought, except Seve.
Tony Jacklin was smart enough to know Seve was the key to victory and gave him his head. In this event he became both the gladiator and the general and led his troops into battle with the passion of Braveheart.
He loved the Ryder Cup more than any other event. His fire, passion, determination and belief that Europe could beat the Americans was infectious and ultimately convincing.
His battle at Oakhill in 1995 against Tom Lehman in the top singles on the Sunday, leading his team when his game had totally deserted him, was the greatest epic encounter in golf I have witnessed. He didn’t hit a fairway or green for the first nine holes and only met Lehman on the greens to pick his ball out of the hole.
He was all square after nine.
The Lehman twitch at that stage was almost uncontrollable. Seve fought like Jake La Motta in Raging Bull. “I don’t go down for nobody.”
“Seve won’t go down” rang out from the big red scoreboards around the course. It ignited and inspired his team-mates, because they knew just what it took for Seve to do this; their gladiator was leading by example. Even though he lost, his courage and inspiration passed through the veins of his team-mates and sparked them to a memorable victory.
Weeks later, by the fire in the old clubhouse in Pedrena, we were discussing that battle. Seve paused, touched the side of his nose with his finger as if smelling blood: “If I get him one more hole, I break him.”
There was always an aura around Seve, such was his charisma. Even the most seasoned scribes would be nervous approaching him, as he was unpredictable and they knew he never forgot.
I remember vividly, at the annual European Tour black-tie dinner in Wentworth, the star players coming in. Faldo, Lyle, Langer, Woosnam entered and nobody noticed. Seve appeared dressed in his favourite brown blazer, white shirt and an Augusta green tie looking like a Greek god. Silence descended on the room, then everyone rose and applauded. That’s charisma.
He loved his fans and they loved him. He fed off their affection and they inspired him to give more. He always wore his heart on his sleeve and played with such flair, passion, intensity and honesty of expression that he was the most exciting ever to play this great game of golf.
It was a tragic and sad ending to a life that inspired millions to take up the game. He is immortalised as the legend “Seve”. He will be remembered for his genius and courage, and most of all for the joyous way he played the game.
He will be sadly missed.
RODDY CARR
May 8th, 2011
