2014 - David Fitzgerald

Day day leads the way… way

The year was 2014, and the cup and jacket were under the strutting reign of a once-unexpected and (still) wildly unorthodox champion, Bazza. I had just commenced real life (at KPMG of all places), and a success-drunk and retired(?) Uncle Baz delighted in telling me numerous times “the first 20 years are the hardest….”

It was also the year of the bunny. I was tuning some Finnish bird at the time, and her parents had travelled over to check it was all legit. They were sorely mistaken if they thought I was going to miss the Cup to get to know them. So while they headed to the Bunnies v Chooks game (the real grand final), wore Greg Inglis masks (blackface was still acceptable in 2014), and watched a sport they couldn’t comprehend, I made the pilgrimage to the Mook with 22 other hopefuls.

I played the Friday warm up with none other than the Belrose bookie bunny himself, and what a bunny he turned out to be. Whilst generally playing and scoring like crap, I was adamant that all the bad shots were being burnt, and actually felt ok about my game by the end of the round (including resolving to take driver out of the bag for the weekend). Maybe by virtue of our slices ending in opposite sets of trees, little Timmy Fitz clearly didn’t make the same observations, and pushed my odds out plenty during the evening’s frivolities (with much glee I might add). So I chucked a bit on myself. By the end of the evening the bookie couldn’t have cared less how much he might lose as the bunnies had clipped the chooks’ wings, and their ticket to the big dance the following week.

Saturday came and luckily I was paired with the only real golfer in the field, a young Harry Brookes. He’d recently grown several inches, which the oldies we were matched up against couldn’t say without the help of viagra. In a noble act of youngies teamwork, he gave this scratchy player a very useful chipping lesson before tee off, one which ultimately saved me many shots over the course of the weekend and has probably been regretted by runner up Haz ever since. We were keen to set a tone for the youngies and desperate to avoid having to wait on a bunch of bloated old codgers the following year. We dusted our opponents off about 10 and 8 (can’t remember who), at which point Harry realised it was game on and he should probably stop giving me impromptu lessons.

I was overnight leader by 3 shots, feeling good but very aware my newfound golfing rhythm could be fleeting, and that my performance on a hangover is often suboptimal. But the pressure of being an overnight leader was far too much to bear so I endeavoured to drink plenty on the Saturday night and forget about it. To add to an athlete’s preparation, I think this was the year they upped the schnitty’s at the golfie to mega size, and pride bets were placed on who could finish the plate. Some of those who did were later spotted in the toilets generously donating back to the club.

Sunday morning came and after a breakfast of half a box of pizza shapes I felt surprisingly fresh. The final group comprised Harry, Timmy Fitz, myself and Toddles, who 9 years later was still reminding anyone who would listen of his championship pedigree - despite surely having no actual recollection of his victory. He sledged on the front nine relentlessly, clearly aware that he had a gap to make up and his golfing skill would not be enough to bridge it. Growing up in constant competition against the Placek boys meant I was equipped to deal with it on this particular day, where a younger version might have failed. Memories of the c.2000 Mollymook Beachside challenge against Dewey, where a score of 24 on the 8th hole cost me the trophy, were pushed to one side. By about the 13th hole the monkey had ceased his chirping (chimping?) and I had only to focus on avoiding wipes which might cause an onset of the wobbles. Thankfully I made it through and have never felt more relieved or surprised finishing a round of golf.

All that was left to do was enjoy a few beers, a satay chicken burger, and the unmatchable honour of being robed in the jacket by the great Maltese Falcon himself. That one glorious weekend in September will serve as a rare fond memory to look back on over what he assures me are the gruelling decades to come!

Written by David Fitzgerald