Charismatic Seve was always the coolest gunslinger in town
SPORTSMAIL SPORTING HEROES
Crouched under the trees to the right of the 18th fairway high up in the Swiss Alps at crans-sur-Sierre with an eight-feet high wall in front of him and surrounded by towering fir trees that restrict his backswing, Seve Ballesteros was eyeing the tiniest of gaps, while his caddy Billy Foster was imploring him to hit the ball sideways back into play.
It was a ridiculous situation. Just an hour earlier, Seve had been deep in the chasing pack only for a remarkable run of birdies to propel him to just a shot from the lead. And when the Spaniard had the sniff of victory in his nostrils, nothing was going to stop him. certainly not the piffling matter of the laws of physics.
he sent Foster out to get a yardage. The young caddy would later admit that he didn’t even bother giving it much of his attention. ‘I winged it,’ he would say, telling his boss it was ‘140… or something’. The pair were in contention and Foster could see his man running up a huge score, no doubt eating into the prize money and, by extension, his percentage.
For he had seen what everyone else could see. There was no way out. The trees told you that. The wall. The restricted backswing.
Seve, however, had seen a gap between the top of the wall and the conifers that surrounded him. It was no bigger than a dinner plate.
‘I can shee it, Billy, I can shee the shot,’ he told Foster who, as one of the game’s jokers, replied: ‘Seve, you’re good but you’re not effing Paul daniels.’
The Spaniard took the wedge from his bag and ushered Foster away.
‘I thought he’d run up a nine or it would come back and hit him in the face,’ said the caddy.
Almost on his knees, Seve took a swoosh with his club amid a flurry of dust and pine straw. despite the lack of room to execute the swing, he managed to project the ball high enough to climb over the wall in front of him.
despite the apparent lack of a gap, he found enough clear air to send his ball onward. despite the swimming pool on the other side of the wall, he cleared that, too. And despite the trees that guarded the right side of the green, he negotiated them as well. his ball ends up sitting at the front of the green, a bunker between him and the hole.
Foster is open-mouthed. he describes it still as the greatest shot he has ever seen.
Almost matter-of-factly, what happens next summed up Severiano Ballesteros. he pitches in for a miracle birdie. Foster was on his knees.
Seve was born into humble beginnings in Pedrena, Spain, the youngest of four brothers. his fledgling experiences of golf came when caddying at a local course. But it was while on the beach near his home that his passion was fuelled as he hit pebbles with a rusty three iron, dreaming he would one day win the Masters or The open.
That he would go on to do just that is the stuff of fairytales or hollywood movies. Which is apt, given that when the golfing gods decided to carve out their masterpiece, they gave him movie-star good looks to go with the most perfect of swings. Throw in that fiery Spanish temperament and a passionate will to win and you had the makings of a superstar. Someone every man wanted to be, and every woman wanted to be with.
When he first burst on to the scene at The open in 1976 at Birkdale, few had heard of this Spanish teenager. In the locker room, too, there was an air of confusion. More than once, fellow competitors congratulated his brother and caddy Manuel on his marvellous round, only for the elder sibling to turn to this slip of a boy beside him and inform them: ‘No, it was him.’
As his swashbuckling style captivated the crowds, more seasoned watchers waited for him to blow up. he didn’t, and by the last round was leading the field. Something had to give, of course, and the experience of American Johnny Miller would eventually win the day, although not before Seve had left his mark.
chasing a second-place tie with Jack Nicklaus, he needed to birdie the last which meant a tricky up and down between two bunkers.
When he trundled the ball between both traps, there was a notable groan of disappointment from the crowd. had he duffed it? had he thump. Seve’s imagination had seen a shot no one else could ever dream of. he would sink the putt. And golf would never quite be the same again.
I WAS too young to enjoy those early Seve exploits and experience them now only through highlight reels. The same, too, for his first open triumph at Lytham in 1979 when he was so wild off the tee he hit one drive into the car park.
No, it was 1984 as a 13-year-old lad that I first truly became aware of the wonder of this Spanish magician. chasing his second open triumph and battling with Tom Watson in the final round, Seve was in his element at St Andrews. everyone wants to win the claret Jug at the home of Golf and Seve was on the charge.
on the last day, the sun shone and a lack of wind left the legendary stretch of links defenceless. The old course was there for the taking but only Seve, with his magical short game, was taking advantage. Still, he knew that he needed a birdie going down the last. he stood over a putt of around 20 feet, slightly uphill. As he hits it, the whole world, my own included, seemed to stop. By now, they are hanging off lampposts just to get a view. But there is silence as the ball slowly, inexorably, makes its journey to the hole. It never, ever, at all, even once, looks like it is going in until, with its very last roll, it takes an inexplicable dive to the left and in it falls.
cue bedlam in the Gardner house. The old man on his feet, punching the air as Seve begins a jig of joy. It starts with three or four short punches with his fist, then he is on his toes with two punches in the air.
And the smile. Beaming so brightly under those dark, brooding eyes. even now, it makes the hairs on the back of my neck stand up. I will never tire of seeing it. Never watch it without a tear in my eye.
It meant something to Seve, too. he would get a tattoo of the image on his arm. It would become his emblem, his trademark. And it meant something to others.
The european ryder cup team at Medinah in 2012 had the Seve logo on their bags. They wore his famous dark blue-and-white colours on the last day.
how much was that miracle comeback due to him? Something certainly. A source of inspiration surely.
In a match decided by the tiniest of margins, don’t tell me the Seve aura didn’t make a difference.
For an aura is what Seve had. They say you did not have to turn around to know he had entered the room.
There was an energy, an electricity, a crack and a spark that surrounded him. Some lucky few are blessed, or perhaps cursed, with this gift that they are just that little bit more, that little bit better than the other guy’. Sinatra, elvis, Pele.
They say you should never meet your heroes and in truth I never did. In fact, I can count on the fingers of one hand
the times I actually saw him up close. That first occasion is still clear. The third hole of the Kings Course, Gleneagles at The Scottish Open. I had raced ahead of his game to get prime position at the green to await his arrival. And there he strode, alone in the fairway, taller than I had imagined, perfect in every way. The coolest gunslinger in town. The way he walked, the clothes he wore. The way he played. That swing. He played a game of golf that was alien to every other player of the time. It was simple, hit it and when you find it, hit it again. It didn’t matter if it was in a bush, or behind a tree. In a car park or up against a wall. If he could see it, he was hitting it. His short game truly was a gift from the gods. And his will to win was a lesson in life. No game was ever over until that final putt fell.
His battles in the Ryder Cup are the stuff of legend. He won points and halved games he had no right to.
Half the time, opposing players only ever saw him on the tee and the green. In between, he would be thrashing through trees and bushes.
Getting down from impossible positions to score a half or win a hole. It could break opponents. It often did. His partnership with Jose Maria Olazabal has entered golfing folklore. Seve played father, friend and mentor to his young countryman and it was a doubleact that was feared by the Americans. At Kiawah Island in 1991, they were up against Chip Beck and Paul Azinger. With the Americans three up, the Spanish pair were made aware of a rules infringement.
Referees, players and captains got involved, with Azinger only admitting after being told he would not be penalised, that he had indeed committed a breach by playing the wrong type of ball. Seve always maintained that he never thought the Americans were deliberately trying to cheat.
He thought that they just weren’t aware of the rule.
It was Azinger’s refusal to admit his error until after being told there was no penalty that riled him.
It’s a dangerous thing to poke a hornets’ nest… and furious at the American tactics, Seve metaphorically spat in his hands, rubbed his palms together and turned to Olly. ‘If they wanna game, they gotta game.’
What followed was the most ruthless, clinical exhibition of foursomes golf. The Spanish pair triumphed on the 17th green.
That determination. To come from nowhere and win was not only the story of Seve on the golf course, it was the story of his life.
This little lad who taught himself the game by hitting pebbles on the beach to become a legend.
He wasn’t perfect. Far from it. He could be difficult to deal with and was stubborn to a fault.
He had fallouts with both the
European Tour and the PGA Tour. And he had regrets. Blowing the Masters in 1986 when in prime position by hitting the worst shot he ever hit, a huge hook into the water at the 15th, meant he couldn’t keep the deathbed promise he made to his father Baldomero, who had died just weeks earlier.
He had vowed he would win another green jacket for him and failed. As a son, that resonates.
He was taken from us far too young at the age of 54 when he lost the one battle he could never win with a brain tumour.
At his funeral back in Pedrena, the cortege was led by a lone piper.
The world was a far better place with Seve in it. The Spanish bullfighter blessed with colour and flair, drama and despair, triumph and disaster.
Over 18 holes, anything could happen and often did. Taking on everyone and anyone with no one and nothing standing in his way. Was he the matador as everyone described him?
To me, he was the bull. There’s a difference.