So, a gaggle of golf's finest fossils are shuffling onto the fairways at Chart Hills this week. Apparently, they’ve decided they’d rather bash a little white ball for cash than, you know, sit in a comfy chair and complain about the youth. Shocking, I tell you. We’ve got major champions and Ryder Cup captains dusting off their spikes, presumably to prove they can still haul themselves around 18 holes without needing an oxygen mask and a golf cart.
Lee Westwood, bless his creaky knees, is making his Legends Tour debut. After a good few years chasing Saudi oil money, he’s decided to hang with the chaps he used to beat when they were all younger and significantly less likely to throw their backs out reaching for the remote. He’s spouting off about how great it is to see old pals. Truth is, it’s probably more about seeing if he can still whack it past them, which, according to his own boasts, he absolutely can. 300, 310 yards, he claims. Good for him. Somebody’s got to keep those golf ball manufacturers from going bankrupt.
And then there’s Steve Webster, the reigning champ. He snagged the whole thing last year. Now he’s back to try and pull off the repeat. It’s a noble pursuit, I suppose. The Sisyphean task of trying to recapture the glory days when your back didn’t seize up like a rusty hinge after a single bunker shot. The rest of us mere mortals are just hoping we can make solid contact with the ball without embarrassing ourselves too badly.
They even threw in a little exhibition match with some YouTube golf personalities. Michael Campbell and Jimmy Bullard teamed up against Paul McGinley and Peter Finch. Honestly, it sounds like the kind of thing you’d pay to watch if you’d lost a bet and your eyesight was going. Apparently, there wasn’t much separating the teams. Which probably means it was a nail-biting thriller. Or just a bunch of blokes having a laugh and occasionally hitting a decent shot.
The main event, though, is the Staysure English Legends. It’s a chance for these old warriors to feel that sweet, sweet sting of competition again. To be the long hitter. To be the chap making the clutch putt. For us watching, it’s a faint glimmer of hope that maybe, just maybe, there’s a light at the end of the very long, very frustrating tunnel of our own golf games. Or maybe it’s just a freight train coming to flatten us. We’ll see.