It happened the same week strawberries were served at Wimbledon, with iced Pimms. Fans queued quietly and wore straw hats and sun block. Federer crashed out. Satorial elegance and Swiss cool gave way to the next contender, hungry to serve, ace and volley and walk with the champions.
England footballers froze in the heat of the South African sun and White Van Fan flew the flag for his team. It was the day the amber eyed New Yorker teed up his ball and Bon Jovi played at the O2. A day to both remember and forget. For different reasons.
Summer had finally arrived in a blaze of glory. Beaches were adorned with deckchairs, towels and sunshades. Toddlers licked ice creams. Paddled, made sandcastles and slept on the soft sand.
Shops sold out of barbecues, beer and black currant juice. And it was the same week that Ruggy came up with an idea.
“Why don’t we all go in for the medal?”
“Don’t forget England are playing that day” said Gus.
“There are only 2 million in Slovenia” said Big Rich. “Means they might have an outside chance of a draw”.
“Bit harsh” said Gus.
A football fan to his soul. He loved the flow of the game. The skill of the first touch. The movement off the ball. And the goals. It had not been a good World Cup.
“I think they are going to start playing now” he said. More in hope than expectation.
“Who cares?” said Ruggy.
The tee time was booked. A tee time had also been booked by an American and his son along with a buggy and clubs. And ahead of them, a regular four ball who would tee up at the allotted time and make their mark on the day.
The fairways wore the brown parched air of summer. Balls ran. Bounces were in the lap of the golfing gods and the greens were fast and true. continue reading…
