Stop being so nice Rory, be like Reed — rude and in a rush to win

LONG before the Reed family issues went ‘SPLAAAATT’ in public this last week we had always understood that young Patrick was an irascible little dude. Those red cheeks are not painted in permanent marker by chance.

So, when our happy Rors decided to get up close to Patrick last Saturday evening in Augusta National, and do some mischievous poking in the ribs with his comments about how the other man might handle the pressures of the final day, there was always a likely outcome.

One in which an angry scowl would precede a dose of incurable nervousness.

Today’s game of golf, more than ever, tilts itself in the direction of the aggressor and the more ambitious. Ever since Tiger stripped the game bare of its age-old niceties, the men who have come after him have chosen to by-pass Charm School.

Patrick Reed and Jon Rahm, and the likes of Bubba Watson before them, remind us of the pertinent words of Barry Fitzgerald when playing the character, Father Fitzgibbon in the classic 40s movie Going My Way.

‘A golf course!’ charges the equally irascible Parish Priest, as he observes Bing Crosby dressed up as Fr Charles ‘Chuck’ O’Malley and bearing a slim golf bag on his shoulder, ‘…is nothing but a poolroom moved outdoors!’

Indeed.

TWENTY-SEVEN-YEAROLD Patrick Reed — as his parents Bill and Jeanette, and his sister Hannah (and too many of his former classmates in Georgia and Augusta State) understood before any of us — has a mind peppered with his own selfish instincts.

He brings to the game a wary, suspicious eye, one kept on those too close to him it seems, or those who just might be standing in his way.

Every time the final round of the 2018 Masters threatened to pressure him or breathe down his neck, Reed dug in those heels of his.

He was not for moving from the top of the leaderboard.

Jordan Spieth was doing his best Usain Bolt, but he was simply too far back. Our man, in comparison?

All through a long and ponderous Sunday afternoon in Augusta, McIlroy had the demeanour of a man in a 10,000 metres race. As though there were 25 laps of the course in front of him, and not one whistling tour of the 18 holes.

McIlroy gave us the distinct impression that he has all the time in the world to collect his fifth major — and finally try on that coveted green jacket that might some day wrap itself around him, tightly, a better fit than any green jacket that has come before it.

But, in many ways, it might be a good thing that on the 10th time of asking, McIlroy failed to meet Augusta’s fullest requirements.

When he does complete his career Grand Slam, and becomes only the sixth man in the history of the game to do so, there is every chance that McIlroy will also lick the envelope closed on his days as a serial major winner.

With the Slam done and dusted, McIlroy will find himself on the same scary pedestal as Jack Nicklaus. His need to win, and win again, might also be as dimmed as the aged Golden Bear.

McIlroy is so different to Reed and the young bucks (many of them his same age, or thereabouts!) who have no trouble believing that they are deserving of a major or two.

Unlike Reed, McIlroy has never forgotten that he was sent forth into the world by a loving, supportive family. An only child, he got extra kisses every birthday, we suspect. And as a grown man McIlroy is living a challenging, but quite contented life. Rich beyond belief, he is married to an All-American girl, whereas Patrick Reed’s wife, his former caddy, and a beautiful and supportive woman as well for all we know, just happens to have a look of a pushy Tonya Harding.

Of course, Reed and his wife Justine already had two kids before he clinched his first major last Sunday. Their life together is on the move. They didn’t see the need to take a whole lot of time embracing on the edge of the 18th green. Reed had a scorecard to be seen to by officials. Justine followed behind.

There was an impatience, through the handing over of the green jacket in the Butler Cabin, and the later speech-making (‘I am who I am’, the new champion emphasised for no good reason) about Reed’s movements and his utterances. He wants more majors fast. McIlroy wants them too. It’s just that he appears to have infinite patience. Neither is he a born fighter.

McIlroy, unfortunately, is not a fighter in any shape or form. He’s a genius. On his best days, that genius flowing through his arms and into his fingers, his mind on automatic pilot and without a worry in the world crowding in on it, he will always be unbeatable.

On the days like last Sunday, however, when he is not quite at his best, there is no switch to flick, no red button to press, nothing to propel his game back to its highest level. Nobody to give him a kick up the backside.