Colin Sheridan: Phil Mickelson winning at 50 is cool, but no more than that
Phil Mickelson celebrates winning the PGA Championship at Kiawah Island. (AP Photo/David J. Phillip)
One of the forgotten casualties of this pandemic is not the suppin’ of soft pints on a muggy Saturday evening. A casualty sure, but one with a lobby louder than Big Pharma, so, hardly a forgotten one.
No, dwell not on the act, but the environment; the little things around the margins. The dust dancing on the slivers of impossible light pouring in through your favourite window. The pint settling in the glass. A fire on in summer. Turf burning. A race from Uttoxeter on a barely audible TV in the corner, as a Clancy Brothers tune hangs softly in the air like a drunkard’s lullaby. A bag of King crisps split down the middle between two grown men who, in other circumstances, wouldn’t consent to sharing so much as a car to a match.
It’s not even these things I miss the most, though. I miss standing, absentmindedly waiting, staring at the paraphernalia on a country pub wall. Leaning in awkwardly to squint at old team photos. Caught fish. Goat fairs. A town’s history laid bare in a series of windswept combovers and V-neck Slazenger sweaters. Innocence juxtaposed against ignorance. Parish priests and the Rose of Carradine. Páidí visiting for a dinner dance. Happier times, in the galaxy of sepia-tinted photos on pub walls at least.
Still, hidden from obvious view, the best part; the coup de grâce, usually positioned just above a urinal, the Carrols GAA All-Stars posters. An aperture into the forgotten soul of a country. There is something unquantifiably cerebral about swaying gently, like the Burj Khalifa in a sandstorm, while looking 1972 Offaly full-back Paddy McCormack — the Iron Man from Rhode — dead in the eye.
The Connolly brothers from Galway, heads on them like New York Police captains, shoulders the width of Cadillacs. Swarthier than Belmullet fishermen. Not a weight lifted, not a protein shake drank. Physiques honed by the ebb and flow of daily life. Footing turf and fitting kitchens.
As Phil Mickelson closed out his USPGA victory last weekend, the one aspect of his victory to receive most hyperbole was the fact he did it at 50, and in doing so became the oldest player to win a major. I love watching Michelson play golf, but, as the commentators fawned, amazed at his Lazarus-lite abilities, my mind wandered to the pub walls and the All-Star posters.
Has Sky Sports’ Bruce Critchley ever seen Paddy McCormack’s pen pic? Or that of his Offaly teammate, sharpshooter Tony McTeigue? Does Ewen Muray consider that, yeah, what Phil did was great, but he did it without having to do a day’s work, feed childer, go to training and attend a parish committee meeting on the way home? Stare at those faces on the wall, Butch Harmon, I dare you. These men had lived three lives before 30, and still found time to win All-Irelands.
There exists, somewhere in my home house, a picture of my dad being handed the Hogan Cup as captain of Saint Jarlaths in 1960. He was 18 years old, but, with his Brylcreem hair and handsome, lived-in face, he looked like he’d already done two tours to Vietnam. He looked like a grown man. I, by comparison, ordered a cull of all known pictures of myself from the ages of 16 to 24 recently.
Phil’s 50 is the average man’s 36. There is bound to be some modeling all these soon-to-be-bored scientists can do to prove this. Regardless, I am certain of it. In fact, given how much time Shane Lowry has spent turning turf just to please his granny, he’s de facto older than Phil, and deserves to have it acknowledged. Besides, it would be another cool graphic for the Golf networks: Cuts made — 12 Career Earning — ,611,761 Age — 50 Actual Age (adjusted using the Age-to-Life-Lived index, sponsored by Goodyear) — 36 .
It may be a little unfair to say Big Phil came to us by way of the silver spoon, but by the time he turned pro in 1992, the California kid was already a celebrity.
Famed for having hands so soft he could cradle the neck of a newborn signet, Michelson has always been more Seve than Faldo, a gambler both on and off the course.
His fellow age-denier Tom Brady has become so aware of his own image he cultivated an industrial complex devoted solely to his reputation as a tipper. Michelson is many things, but when there is nothing to redeem, a figure of redemption he is not.
Which makes his win admirable but not remarkable. When then 52-year-old Fred Couples grabbed a share of the US Masters lead in 2012, any hope he could see it through the final day and win was nothing short of folly. Had he held on, however, it would have been like Paddy McCormack reprising his role as Offaly All-Ireland winning full-back in 1972, 10 years later in 1982, aged 43 (actual aged, according to the ALL index, 55). Ditto Tom Watson at the 2009 British Open. Couples is as relatable a person as he was a brilliant golfer. Watson the same, and at least he looked proper old.
Phil and the aforementioned Brady occupy a parallel universe. It is one of avocado toast, live-in personal trainers, and Honduran coffee diets. Their privilege may be earned, and for that they should be admired, but where’s the story?
Try having to raise a couple of kids, Phil! Or doing a thesis while you work, Brady! Don’t give me your Tom versus Time BS. Try Tom versus Turf.
Old Tom Morris earned his nickname because he was proper old. Ted Williams went to war. Jackie Robinson served under Jim Crow. PGA tour professional Kevin Hall is profoundly deaf. Phil winning at 50 is cool, but no more than that.
Give me Paddy McCormack, the Iron Man from Rhode, any day of the week.
