The editor, Alan English, walked with me that Sunday afternoon. We found a brilliant vantage point near the sixth tee and watched as Faldo hit a beautifully struck iron to the green. “I’ve noticed something about you,” he said. “You don’t follow the ball.”

“What do you mean?” I replied.

“Your eyes never left him. You didn’t turn your head and follow the ball.”

“Really? Hadn’t thought about it,” I replied.

But try writing a diary about a ball.

Faldo was fascinating. The more I watched him, the more I learned the game. We did a second diary a week later, and I spent the next two years following him around the world and gathering his thoughts. Then, in January 2005, there was a chance to caddie for him at the Heineken Classic in Melbourne.

We were getting on pretty well at that stage and I travelled down thinking that his great days were behind him and we were doing this for fun. And for three days it was. We had some nice meals, a couple of decent practice rounds and I felt calm and confident in the job.

Then, on the morning of the tournament, everything changed.

He was tense and irritable on the drive to the course and gave me a bollocking on the practice green for some minor misdemeanour. And now I’m jumpy. It starts to rain and I’m fretting over the pin placement sheets, and the umbrella, and the towels, and feeling really nervous when we get to the tee.

On the first, he misses the fairway with a three wood, hits a six iron into the front left bunker and three putts the hole for a double-bogey six. At the next, a short par three, he flies the green with a nine iron and can’t get up-and-down. He bogeys the fifth, doubles the sixth, and now the rain is coming down in sheets.

It’s a nightmare. I’m wrestling with the umbrella, struggling to keep the clubs dry, and must have raked every bunker on the course. We’re six over through six and it’s all my fault. Everything is my fault. And then, just when I think things can’t get much worse, he asks for something to eat.

I pull a cereal bar from the bag laden with nuts and apricots and make an effort to raise his spirits: “Come on Nick! Just reset and start again,” but he’s studying the ingredients on the wrapper. “There’s too much sugar in this,” he says. And now I want to kill him. I’m thinking: ‘Five-iron, full swing, to the back of the head’.

Sixteen years later it’s still the greatest experience of my sportswriting life and I’ve never forgotten the lesson: it’s a different game inside the ropes.

1

They take different routes to the 149th Open and arrive at different times. After a missed cut at the Scottish Open, Rory McIlroy leaves Edinburgh on Saturday afternoon and takes a flight (private) to England’s south coast with his friend and caddie, Harry Diamond.

Shane Lowry leaves Dublin on Sunday afternoon. The defending champion has spent the week sharpening his game on the links of Portmarnock and Lahinch and travels to Sandwich on a flight (private) with his wife, Wendy, his coach, Neil Manchip, and his manager, Brian Moran.

Pádraig Harrington arrives in Gatwick late on Sunday evening on a chartered flight from Edinburgh and a tied-18th finish at the Scottish Open. He takes a rental car at the airport and drives to Sandwich with his son, Paddy, and caddie, Ronan Flood, listening to the penalty shootout between England and Italy.

2

“I watched it on BBC,” McIlroy says. “Jurgen Klinsman was doing the punditry and said at half-time that if he was in the England dressing room he would be telling them to stay aggressive and go for a second goal, but they came out in the second half and sat back, and sat back, and all of a sudden it was like “Oh crap! We’re into penalties.”

“Would you have taken one?”

“I would have put my foot straight through it, right down the middle.”

“You would?”

“Right down the middle.”

“Seriously?”

“Yeah, that would be my go-to — right down the middle, even though your man (the Italian goalkeeper) is 7ft 7 or whatever (laughs). But they got off to a great start. Harry Kane — great penalty; Harry Maguire — unbelievable penalty, top-right corner . . .

“So you were rooting for England?”

(Shakes head)

“You’re weren’t?”

“I love the team; I love the manager; but the behaviour of the fans before the game was disgusting, disgraceful, and the behaviour of the fans after the game was even worse. And obviously, it’s not all the England fans but the minority let them all down and . . . could you imagine if they had won? I mean, they’re fighting with each other! It’s disgraceful behaviour.

“Sure.”

“And they can’t help themselves — it’s every time! But I felt really bad for the players and for Gareth Southgate, because they seem like a really good group of lads and it looks to me, from the outside, that he has created the best culture there has been in English football for a long time.”

3

“I was rooting for a good game,” Harrington says.

“Get off the fence!”

“No! I’m telling you. I was rooting for a good game.”

“You didn’t see the game.”

“No, but I listened to it on the radio.”

“You had to be rooting for somebody?”

(He doesn’t answer.)

“I’ll ask your son.”

“Ask him.”

“Paddy? Who was he rooting for?”

“I don’t remember, actually,” he says

“Good answer Paddy,” Harrington laughs.

4

“It’s unreal, isn’t it?” Lowry says, gazing at the grandstand behind the 18th green. It’s Monday morning and he begins his defence of the Championship by playing the two opening holes with Francesco Molinari and then cutting to the back nine. He has to hurry. He had the Claret Jug polished last week and will hand it back in an hour.

“I was given a bottle of Haut-Brion from Stephen Grant (a friend) after Portrush and I was going to open it last night and fill the Jug for the last time, but the England game was on and I didn’t want to waste it.”

“So you weren’t rooting for England?”

“Is that a trick question?” he laughs.

5

It’s Tuesday afternoon and Rory McIlroy is playing a practice round with Dustin Johnson, Lee Westwood and Danny Willett. They have just reached the sixth tee when Willett takes out his phone and announces the draw. Westwood seems happy enough with Stewart Cink and Martin Kaymer. McIlroy has no complaints with Patrick Reed and Cameron Smith. Willet seems content with Dean Burmester and Laird Shepherd.

And DJ never complains about anything.

But it’s the relief at who they’ve avoided that surprises most. They all have guys they can’t stand and abhor playing with, and begin swapping stories on the tee.

The time when . . .

The time when . . .

The time when . . .

It’s a different game when you see it up close.

6

Travelled to the golf course early this morning. I arranged a practice round with Paul Casey, Justin Rose and Ian Poulter at the US Open and we were on the tee at 08:35. It has never been my style to practice with other players. I have always been a disciple of the Eric Bristow School. Bristow, a former world darts champion, never practised with teammates or shared their hotels. “Once they get to know me they will beat me,” he explained.

But for me the time has come to move on. I would like to think there’s a Ryder Cup captaincy for me in the not too distant future and I’d like to get to know these guys and for them to feel comfortable with me. And it’s good for me to be more competitive in practice; you get tired on the range hitting hooks and draws alone.

The Secret Diary of

Nicholas Alexander Faldo,

July 15, 2003

7

Pádraig Harrington once choked on his tea when I likened him to Nick Faldo, but there was no argument. He was, by nature, more personable than the Englishman but they shared a lot of the same traits on the golf course. Harrington was another disciple of the Eric Bristow School. He didn’t chase other players for practice rounds and wasn’t interested in joining them for dinner.

“It was all about me,” he laughs.

It’s Wednesday afternoon and he’s walking down the fourth fairway, fielding a question about England’s penalty shoot-out loss and the fall out for Gareth Southgate.

“As a man with a reputation for leaving no stone unturned, were there lessons?” I ask.

“Well, you’ve got to lead with your best which they did,” he says. “And when you end up on your arse you’re always wrong. If those young lads had scored, Gareth Southgate would have been a genius for bringing in kids who didn’t have the burden of scar tissue, as against (using) experienced guys who were wary of the consequences if they missed.”

“Sure.”

“The thing I would do is to pick five guys that are trying to score, rather than five guys who are trying not to miss. I’d tell them: ‘Commit to trying to hit your best penalty.’ You don’t want them going up there with the consequences of missing in their head. But who knows? Clearly those guys were picked because they did the best in training, and that’s all a manager can do. But I’d rather have lucky guys that score bad penalties.”

“Is there an equivalent in golf?”

“The Ryder Cup. In a regular event, when you have a putt to win, you’ve obviously played well to that point and holed some putts, so you’ll feel pretty good. In the Ryder Cup, you can have a situation where a player isn’t playing well, and you put him out in match number nine because you’re hiding him. But all of a sudden match number nine is the most important of the day, and he has to hit shots that he hasn’t hit all week, and people are judging him as if he has.”

9

“People changed,” Brendan Lowry says. “They got older.” It’s Thursday morning, and he’s standing at the practice ground watching his son warm-up for the opening round. He’s talking about a friend he met recently who he hadn’t seen since Covid and how shaken he looked. “I think it did that to a lot of people,” he says. “A lot of people suffered in ways you wouldn’t imagine, and it made them old.”

Brendan wasn’t immune.

He didn’t see Shane for nine months, from when the lockdown hit until Christmas, and often sought comfort watching replays of Portrush and his son being presented with the most coveted trophy in golf. “It was great,” he says. “It’s still great. I watch it every time with tears rolling down my face.”

But that brought another concern. What if something happened to the box?

He made a ton of calls but hasn’t found a way to convert it to something tangible like a DVD. And that’s a worry. “I don’t know what I’d do if I lost it,” he says.

I ask him about the 1982 All-Ireland: “Do you have a copy of that?”

“A DVD,” he says.

“Do you ever watch it?”

“Are you joking?” he says. “Never!”

Shane hears him laugh across the fence and hits the final ball of his warm-up. He hands the wedge to his caddie, Beau, slips his glove into a pocket and walks towards the gallery. He hasn’t seen his father for a week but they embrace as if they’ve been separated for months, and when Brendan turns around he is visibly moved.

And the moment is beautiful.

10

“On the tee from the Republic of Ireland, the defending champion Shane Lowry.”

11

Gerry McIlroy is standing near the players’ toilet on the ninth tee when Cameron Smith walks past and gives him a nod. Everybody knows Gerry. He’s been a presence on the fairways since his son picked up his wand and it’s always a busy walk.

“There’s Rory’s dad!”

“How’s it going, Gerry?”

“All right Gerry?”

The shadows are lengthening on Thursday evening when a fan gestures from the ropes and sparks a conversation about the transfer window in football and the targets for Manchester City.

“I like Grealish,” the fan says.

“I like Kane,” Gerry replies.

Everybody knows Gerry is a Man City fan.

“Do you never get tired of it?” I ask.

“Tired of what?” he replies.

“The hassle. The attention. Not being able to walk around in peace?”

“It’s nice to be nice,” he shrugs. “And I’ve met that guy before.”

Two weeks ago, at the Irish Open in Mt Juliet, Rory was asked a question about his first visit to the venue for the World Golf Championship in 2002. “It was the first time I ever watched Tiger play live,” he said. “The first shot I ever saw him hit was a drive off the fifth hole, the par 5, and he hit a two iron into the green. It was really cool. I idolised him growing up and to actually see the man in the flesh was pretty exciting . . .

“The last time I was on the 18th here was during the prize ceremony when Tiger won. I sneaked under the rope onto the back of the green, and I was standing right behind him and his glove was still in his back pocket. I was so close I could almost touch him and I thought about grabbing the glove and running, but I didn’t.”

But the most interesting aspect of the story was what happened next.

“That story Rory told about Tiger’s glove? Where did you stay?” I ask Gerry.

“I was working 70 hours a week,” he says. “I couldn’t afford to stay.”

“You drove home?”

“Yeah.”

“You came up and down from Belfast in a day?”

“Yeah.”

“And forgive the stupid question but was that for your benefit (everybody knows Gerry loves golf) or for his?”

“Are you joking?” he laughs. “It was all for him.”

12

My new daughter, Emma Scarlet Faldo, was born eight days after the Open at 4.25am on Monday, July 28. We call her Miss Zen because she went through the whole of labour and delivery with a completely even heartbeat. And then she lay there looking at us as if to say, “What the hell was that? And who the hell are you?” She’s eight days old this morning and when I picked her up and started cuddling her, she gave me this amazing grin that put tears in my eyes. I’m so emotional with her it’s ridiculous. She is so lovely and sweet I just melt every time I take her in my arms.

The Secret Diary of

Nicholas Alexander Faldo,

July 28, 2003

13

Pádraig Harrington’s home for the week is a small boutique hotel just behind the 13th green. He’s battling to make the cut when he reaches the hole on Friday but splits the fairway with a drive that leaves him 179 yards from the flag. His second shot, a five iron, looks perfect in the air and is fading gloriously towards the flag until a sudden shift of wind almost sends it off the green. The three-time Major winner can’t believe it. He’s mad at the wind and mad at the bounce and says something he rarely says.

“F**k it!”

Ronan Flood listens and counts to ten. “If you’re ever going to do it now’s the time,” he says.

Harrington looks at him blankly: “Huh?”

“There’s the hotel,’ he says. “It’s a long way back to the clubhouse, we could just storm-off and walk straight to our room. Just let me know. What’s it going it be?”

Harrington makes par and birdies the 14th.

Paddy Harrington watches from the edge of the fairway. Fourteen years have passed since his father’s triumph at Carnoustie when he jumped into his arms on the 18th green. He was four years old that summer and melted countless hearts as Pádraig raised the Claret Jug: “Can we put ladybirds in it?”

“We can indeed,” his father replied. “We’ll put ladybirds in it.”

He’s 18 next month — the same age as Emma Faldo — and if he had a pound for every time someone mentioned ladybirds he’d be a very wealthy man. But stupid question number one has always been the one I’m asking now. “Did you never want to be a professional golfer?”

He smiles and nods across the fairway to his dad.

“For sure I’d like to be what he is, and to have what he has,” he says. “But I wouldn’t want to put in the practice and go through all you have to go through.”

He’s lived it. He knows. It’s a different game inside the ropes.