2006 - Tim Fitz

“The road is long, with many a winding turn………. that leads us ………...who knows where, who knows when………but I’m strong………….strong enough to carry on………he ain’t heavy…….he’s my handicapper”.

Act 1 – Slice Of heaven

I decided to go down to Mollymook on the Friday afternoon – the plan was to hit a bucket of balls on the driving range just to ensure that I had not forgotten how to slice properly. I travelled down in the company of Richard Placek who offered to chauffer me for the weekend – me thinks the Wombo likes to drive back up to the Gong with the jacket in his car and his only way is to offer a lift to who he thinks is the potential winner.

Anyway back to the driving range and me and the Wombo purchase a bucket of balls each and low and behold the ‘5-iron’ has purchased a new set of clubs and is about to unveil them on the range. The sparkle off them nearly blinds me as I watch in awe as the likeable wombat swings into the first ball and launches it miles down the track. This intimidating exhibition initially rattles me but before long I see his true form unfold and he starts spraying them to all points of the compass. It’s time for me to have a swing and for about the first half-dozen shots I have some huge worrying signs in my swing – the ball actually goes straight!! Now that unnerves me – shouldn’t happen, couldn’t happen. It then gets worse – I start to actually pull the ball – veering into trees on the right – right trees….never happened before in my life. I take a break, gather my thoughts and re-focus. I tee up another ball and……I sky one straight up in the air that nearly comes back down and lands on the Wombo. Hmmmm I say to myself I can do this so I go again – this time concentrating on a poor shoulder turn and outside-in swing plane and…….bingo – I slice one that at the end of its travels is heading north instead of the east that it began its journey…….aaaahhh beautiful I say to myself - I am back in my comfort zone. I hit maybe a dozen more balls and then declare myself ready for the Cup.

Wombo and I venture down the hill and watch the Friday field play the last few holes – they are in good spirits but are quick to add that the course is as unforgiving as ever and that only Peter McGovern showed glimpses of taming the beast. It looks like low scoring may not be on the cards this weekend and thus the high handicapper may be favoured. I decide to walk from the course back to Bombora Crescent as daily exercise is now a preferred option. On my journey I enjoy the picturesque walk down the first fairway and up past the 7th green and then stroll up the road towards what is home for the next two nights. All is good, all is calm. Upon arrival I note that more and more comrades are arriving and unpacking their cars so I do the same.

Act 2 – I’ve Got Friday On My Mind

One of the highlights for me this year will be the sleeping arrangements – due to recent mishaps and extraordinary generosity from the tournament director I am given the downstairs double bed all to myself. Basically, this is like gold, as a good nights sleep is not usually factored in at Mollymook. But reality said that I would need more than unbroken sleep to succeed this weekend. Nontheless, I would take advantage of my good fortune and at least not use sleep deprivation as an excuse.

Friday night is always a great night – re-uniting with all the players and sharing a drink and a yarn. There is usually a footy semi-final on TV, pizzas for dinner, sledging aplenty and of course the official opening of the weekend where handicaps are confirmed, the sweep conducted, odds offered and bets taken, teams drawn out of a hat and once all done card games commence. It is truly a great night. After the August 14 scare I have placed a self-impose beer ban so enjoy watching other players guzzle weighty amounts of lager and unwind happily.

Act 3 – What A Beautiful Day

Saturday dawned another glorious morn in the mook. Off to Narrawallee for the traditional barbecue breakfast and a kick of the footy. It was a jovial mood that accompanied the smell of cooked bacon and eggs – everyone whilst in a good mood are still on edge. It is a hard feeling to describe but it feels like you are in a holding pattern just waiting to take-off. Tee-off is only hours away – so close yet minutes go by slowly. But for me this year I do not feel the normal edgy feeling. Maybe it is because for the first cup ever I did not have a beer the night before but I really believe it was because my expectations were low. Sure I wanted to win, sure I was going to try my hardest but reality told me just to be happy to be there and enjoy the golf. Time marched on and back to Bombora we went to change and head on up to the course.

Up at Hilltop the crew gathered for a team photo and then all went their own way to begin their pre-game preparation. Some just used the practice putting green, others had a hit in the nets, keen enthusiasts bought a bucket of balls and went to the adjacent driving range and some just bought a schooner and a meat pie! There are many ingredients in a winning Mollymook Cup formula.

Act 4 – Get It On

I was lucky enough to be in the first group on day one – a decided advantage. There is no doubt that groupings can decide the fate of the non-composed golfer – paired with a reknown sledger, intimidating big-hitter or particularly slow or fast player(s) can cruel a man before he starts. But the groups are a bit of the luck of the draw – you know, like throwing up the four golf balls on the first tee and seeing who lands near who. Anyway I am grouped with Justin Placek – past winner, thorough gentleman, very talented golfer and my godson. David Fitz makes up the threesome – another very likeable lad who is gaining experience and competitiveness every year and, apart from crying the year he hit the ball into the 150 metre peg on the 13th and it rebounding off his knee, has a happy air about him and is a pleasure to play with. It was a right royal blueblood grouping. We have obviously waited 52 weeks for this so the sooner you get to have a hit the better. I am given the privilege of hitting off first – an honour in itself. I pull out the trusty 3 iron, take aim and thwack – as I open my eyes I see it sailing down the middle of OUR fairway!!! All right, here we go – two games of golf since last years Mollymook Cup, a stent inserted into the left anterior descending artery and my game is on song – you beauty. All of a sudden my low expectations start to rise.

It does not take long for reality to set in though. Whilst I start solidly with a bogey, triples and doubles follow – but with the luxury of a fair handicap I am able to regularly score points. By the time we complete 9 holes (the 18th hole as we teed off the 10th) I have posted 16 points and have grabbed an outright early lead. David Fitz on 14 and Justin on 12 are forced to play the chasing game from early on.

Act 5 – I Get Knocked Down, But I Get Up Again

Things do not really improve in my game on the next nine holes with some erratic behaviour tempered with a couple of bits of magic (luck actually). Especially on the 5th hole – with the brute of a green that is unforgiving. I find myself down to the left side of the green, pin high for three but with a dud lie, ten metres of rough terrain between me and an elevated green and then the pin tucked tight on the left side. After badly wiping the previous hole and knowing that I do not have the chipping ability to manufacture a chip shot that will go anywhere near the green I pull out the Texas wedge. Ridiculous choice really – but my logic is I reckon I can at least get the ball on the green with the trusty old putter. I shut my eyes and belt the ball – it bounces, wobbles, skips but amazingly trajects the path I envisaged and as I show increasing interest and follow its path it zeroes in straight at the flagstick and - bingo! In she goes – no worries, a wonderful par and a big four points on this treacherous hole. The rest of my round is predictably dodgy – I am happy to finish as my lack of preparation saw my swing deteriorate rapidly. I had 6 wipes in the round but with 5 three pointers and a four pointer – I had what can only be described as an ugly 30 points. Reality was though that my esteemed playing partners only scored 23 and 22 points respectively.

As we sat at the back of the ninth green and watched the sorry sight of the rest of the 22 strong field trudge up that damn hill it became apparent that 30 points would be competitive. There was the Wombo, a notorious first round success story only carding 26 points, the forlorn figures of Ian Poole with 21 points and SuperCol a disastrous 15 points. Brother handicapper limped in with 23, Roids 19, Muffy McGovern 25 and Muzza and Nick firmed in wooden spoon markets with modest low teen totals. It was the laconical John Barrett that joined me at the top of the leaderboard on 30 points with Dave Gray just a point back on 29 and Mark Placek on 26 would complete the final group for Sunday.

Act 6 – Sunday, Bloody, Sunday

Sunday morning came soon enough and with the early tee off times it means a quick breakfast and up to the course we go. The mood is again jovial – there are a few sore heads but these are hard, tough campaigners who probably play better with a thumping head and alcohol seeping through the pores of the skin. Being in the last group certainly ensures that you can have as many practice putts as you want – probably too many. Whilst it is good to be in the last group as it gives you a chance at glory, I reckon I hold the dubious honour of playing in the last group on Sunday the most times but never going close to winning. It would be a lie to say that my expectations were still nil – but whilst they had raised over the last 24 hours they were not at levels of my previous Sunday shots at the title.

When we finally got to hit off my main aim was to at least score points in the early holes so I could then relax and enjoy the day. My past experiences had shown a disturbing pattern of poor starts and then never being in the contest. With the overnight handicap adjustments we all had ample ‘double bungers” to take advantage of. And advantage I did – starting with three 3 pointers and opening up an early 4 point lead over Dave and six on JB. Mark Placek unfortunately, started the round by picking a bouquet of flowers for I assume Rachelle whilst searching for his ball in the garden bed next to the first tee – he never really recovered and with only six points after six holes would have to wait another year at least if he wanted to add to his 1997 victory. Now I could relax – I had given myself the chance to make a serious bid later in the day. It was early on though that some may say that a huge turning point happened in the Cup – but I do not subscribe to that theory. In the middle of the fourth fairway after playing a beaut shot off the tee a Mr David Gray prepared for his second shot. From my vantage point a further 50 yards on in the right trees (retrieving my third duff into the trees on the hole already and one that would see me card a ten) I peer back and watch in utter disbelief as he winds up and fairly whistles the clubhead through and hits nothing – no ball, no turf, no nothing. His look was one of shock and horror – and he looked straight at me only to see myself breaking out in fits of laughter. Now I know it is not kind to laugh at others misfortune but the whole episode was amazing and lets be honest – funny. Dave took it in his stride and promptly bashed the ball down the fairway and on went life and the game of golf. As we finished the front nine Dave had clawed back three of the four shot lead I had and as we stood on the tenth tee we were back to where we started on the first – a one point margin. JB had not had a memorable front nine and was now 5 points behind but he was far from finished.

Act 7 – It’s Only Just Begun

Yes, as the cliché goes, it was the old “back nine on Sunday’ time at the MMC 2006. And incredibly so. A man playing with a broken heart from previous failures at the course and recovering from a heart attack 6 weeks prior was the leader. But not for long and who would have predicted what would take place in the next nine and who knows maybe more holes. Dave and JB score three pointers on both 10 and 11 and Dave took a one point lead. After leading for the first 28 holes and with only seven holes to play I find myself on the 12th tee behind and to be honest a bit despondent. It is right now that I realize what this Cup means to me. It now felt like someone was prizing it out of my fingers and that gave me a nauseous feeling inside. My other concern was an obvious lack of match practice and just like yesterday my swing seemed to be faltering. But cometh the hour cometh the man they say. Just then, I remembered a quote from one of my mentors, Barry Formosa only 12 months earlier. Bazza, being the great theorist and amazing manufacturer of shots rarely seen anywhere else on the tour, had said to me as we trudged up the 16th fairway in about 17th and 18th places respectively – “who wants to win the cup this year anyway, it’s next year, you know, the tenth running of the cup – that’s the one to win”. That thought steeled my resolve and so I marched on to the tee area, confidently placed my noodle on the pink tee and proceeded to slice the ball straight into the trees!!

Holes twelve and thirteen saw all three leaders squeeze out unconvincing but effective at this stage, two pointers. But for the first time wandering down the thirteenth fairway I noticed a strange yet quiet air amongst the group. At the time I did not know what it was but in hindsight I believe it was a mood swing after we all came to the realisation that it seemed that one of us was going to hold aloft the Cup in a couple of hours time and the enormity of it hit us like a tidal wave. No words were spoken just mental pictures flashed through the heads. Near the thirteenth green we were awoken from our grand illusions by an unconfirmed rumour that Ian Poole had made a charge, was a couple up and could well be the current leader. Now I know they say that you should just concentrate on your own game and not look at the leaderboard and all that – but that is crap. Of course I straight away did the math on how this rumour could be true – I knew Ian had started the day nine points behind and I knew I was only two points down after 13 holes so he would need to be about 5 or 6 points up to be any chance of catching us. Now I doubted that that was the case – this course was too hard for that sort of score this weekend.

After a three pointer for me and JB at the fourteenth it meant that I had rejoined Dave in the lead and that JB was only 3 points behind and making a concerted surge like a marathon runner at the thirty kilometre mark. It was at this time that Dave and I used the first real obvious gamesmanship for the day – we talked up JB’s chances and how he was just sneaking along trying to tippy toe past us. It was a blatant attempt to slow him down as our form was looking dodgy and as any red blooded aussie does he brings the oppositions mind into the equation. Would it work – time will tell.

Act 8 – Stuck In The Middle With You

History will show that what happened on the last four holes of regulation on this bloody Sunday was enthralling and looking back now a pleasure to be a part of. Words do not do it justice. It was pure theatre, set in a picturesque cauldron where three gladiators strived to plunder the holy grail of golf in Australia. On hole fifteen JB picked up another point on myself and two on Dave as he wiped the hole – ouch. And Dave, for the first time looks a tad despondent . I remember remarking to him on the green, whilst waiting our turn to putt, that he had seemed to go a bit quiet all of a sudden.You didn’t have to be Einstein to know that Dave was dirty on himself for I had watched him go from being in perfect position just shy of the water for two to duffing his third into the creek and now he had a twenty footer for one point. So going to the sixteenth tee I had regained a one point lead over Dave and a point further back was JB.

Now the sixteenth had never been a favourite of mine and I had decided to hit five-iron (sorry Wombo) off the tee and nine iron to the creek before then going for the green. A man of resolve though is one David Gray, as he would show over the next half hour. In hindsight my gentle barb on the fifteenth green I think shook and spurred him on and he crashed a drive all the way down to the creek – “yeee haaa” was his cry and when my paltry 5-iron did soar nicely down the fairway, but a hundred yards behind his ball, there were cries of “ho,ho, it is serious now, great shot Timmy boy, we’re all trying now” from the Gray man. He had responded in the way of a courageous fighter, groggy but far from beaten. Now Dave just misses the green to the right for two, chips up to about seven foot but down and across the slope – no gimmy putt. My third lands on the back of the green and I manage a safe lag down the hill from thirty feet and am safely in for five a three. Unfortunately JB has hit a snag on the hole and ruefully finishes with a seven and drops back to four points behind with two to play. He is a shattered man – his long surge from the thirty kilometre mark has hit a pot hole just outside the stadium and there can be no recovery from there. The Cup will have to wait for another year for this hardy soul. Back to Dave and his putt – like a rock he stands steady and caresses the tricky par putt right into the high diddle-diddle for four points and he regains a share of the lead. I must admit that I felt fearful as I strode off the green and headed for the next tee. I remember commenting to Mark at the time that you don’t get many chances like I had right now to win the cup and if I do not win I will be shattered.

Hole number seventeen has been affectionately called Heartbreak or Coronary Hill in the past, and with my recent heart attack and stent insertion, let alone a tied leaderboard on the penultimate hole, well enough is enough. We both stagger up the hill and manage to have our balls on the green for four shots but a long way from the flag. I putt first and somehow again lag it close and settle for a six a three. Dave has a tough putt straight down the hill – and as anyone will testify it is a treacherous putt. With the tension high, Dave taps his first putt only half way then knocks his second a long way past and misses the return to unfortunately four putt and thus give me a two point lead with one to play.

For the first time I believe, barring a personal collapse, that the Cup is in my control to win. Well it was but someone forgot to tell Dave. The eighteenth does shape well for a tired slicing swing and whilst I do hit an ordinary tee shot the ball bobbles up somewhere near the putting surface. Things are still on track for the four that I thought would win me the cup. Low and behold though, up off the canvas Dave climbs again and smacks a tremendous iron shot into the heart of the green leaving himself about twenty feet of treacherous terrain to steal the birdie he needed. I nervously stab a Texas wedge and leave myself about a ten foot downhill, very quick putt for par and definite victory – what a hipster doofus I am!

Act 9 – It’s Now Or Never

Never underestimate the impact a gallery can have on a players nerves – having twenty fellow competitors glued to the events unfolding on the final green adds yet another dimension. But no-one told that to Dave – could you believe that he would strike the sweetest putt of his career, that would curl around the slope and never look like missing as it plops into the cup. There is a huge roar from the gallery, a fist-pump from the man from Orange who would not be denied and I believe the stent that had successfully opened up my once clogged artery was quickly slowing the blood flow yet again.

I will never forget that putt. Immediately I felt like I was Greg Norman – I thought that Dave had done what Faldo and Tway had done to him in majors – ripped his heart out on the final green. I tried to regain composure and tell myself that I will win this thing, that it was my destiny; do it for Michelle, Liam and Grace; do it for the surgeons at Royal North Shore who had saved my life; make Mum and Dad proud and get your hands on this jacket before your big brother does. Anyway back to the golf. When ready I strike what I thought was a good putt off the blade but I soon know that it is slightly off line and is not going to break especially going down the hill. My queeziness grows as I see it roll three foot past before halting. Oh no. Now I am feeling crook. Negative thoughts of “Don’t three putt on the last green to throw away the cup – it will never be forgotten and you will never recover” flood into my head. Positively though I march down to my ball, quickly regain my composure, tell myself to just knock it in and win the play-off. As I prepare to stroke the ball I have one slight problem – I am now so nervous that I cannot feel my hands at all! You could hear a pin drop except for the cameraman who bellows”C’mon the ferals” into the microphone – onya Wombo. I shakily hit the ball and I immediately believe that it has missed to the left but unbelievably the ball just reaches the left edge of the cup and beautifully falls in. Relief of the highest magnitude A four a two and a play-off hole is required.

By the time Dave and I retreat to play the eighteenth again we are physically and mentally scarred. Dave has had a sip of beer from the sponsors and I have opted for a blood thinner. Both our tee shots fail to find the putting surface – Dave short and down the hill twenty yards and myself just off the back right of the green and leaving myself the easier approach. Dave needs a couple of chips to get his ball onto the green and leaves himself a twenty-five footer for a four. I nudge two shots to the exact same spot where I sank the three footer ten minutes earlier. This time with nowhere near the same amount of pressure I knock the putt in the middle and am in for a bogey four. Dave has his put to halve the hole but a miss gives me the cup. He strikes a good putt that turns late and drifts by the hole. It is done, my cup runneth over. We shake hands and acknowledge what a wonderful chapter of the cup that we have just written. One I am sure we will never forget and one the grandkids and everyone else in the close vicinity to me will not be given the opportunity to forget.

Act 10 – Hallelujah

The congratulations from the group after the play-off and back at the house during the presentation are special memories that will also never be forgotten. Donning the jacket, cap and holding the Cup aloft were emotional moments for me and ones I cherish and will take with me to the grave. The Cup is much more than just the golf – it is about the brotherhood of men, the human spirit and soul and all that is good in this world. We use a golf tournament to celebrate these things and by geez it’s a great feeling to win it. One day months later, the cheese and kisses asked me whether it has really sunk in that I have won the Cup, especially after the tumultuous times I have had with health since last September, and I did two things – I pointed to the grand trophy that adorns our front entrance and I then went upstairs, took off all my clothes, went to the wardrobe and put the jacket and bow tie on and paraded downstairs in what I called my 12 month birthday suit! Surprisingly she never asked the question again.