Emigrating was never going to be easy but the last thing I expected was Major spoilers from the least tech savvy man you could meet.
Moving to Australia was a daunting prospect for many reasons. Leaving friends and family behind. The country of my birth. A promising career. A cosy apartment by the Phoenix Park. Clonakilty pudding. But emigrating was never going to be black and white and among the many things to consider, especially as a sports lover, time zones being flipped upside down was a very real concern.
Ten years ago I lived in Australia, free from my spluttering mid-thirties engine that needs a full night’s sleep to function. I’d pull all-nighters watching McIlroy march to four Majors. Set the alarm to see Liverpool’s title hopes peter out. There were late nights in the Pig ‘N’ Whistle for the Six Nations. Lock-ins in the Irish pub for the GAA. If anything, there wasn’t enough sport. Fast forward ten years and last week I got jet-lag watching Wimbledon.
For those that don’t know, I’m writing to you from Brisbane, currently nine hours ahead of Ireland. And while my southern hemisphere move has meant U.S.-based majors can be enjoyed in the morning, this week’s Open at Troon means I’m on the night shift, and for better or worse, I won’t be missing it.
I will miss watching it with Dad though.
Ever since he plonked me in front of the telly because some yank with a quare name in a red shirt was playing a different game to the rest at Augusta, we’ve rarely missed a Major together. We picked each other’s jaws off the floor despairing at Van de Velde’s misfortune. Leapt as high as Mickelson after breaking his duck.
There were the Harrington years which paid for the fireplace and the extension. GMac winning the U.S. Open on Father’s Day and me watching it with Dad having backed him at 70-1. We cashed in on Cabrera together too. Burst into tears for Tom Watson. Dreamt of going to Augusta. Settled for Birkdale and Portrush. And this week our tradition will continue, albeit 16,000kms apart, when I phone Dad for the back nine on Sunday.
You’d almost get emotional thinking about it, the phone on loud speaker, the old man staring at the empty arse grooves of my favourite chair in the front room hoping I’d appear like Our Lady at Knock. But then I remember Lord Muck on his throne with his Sky Sports subscription. And I’m here relying on a stream a full minute behind the live action.
What could possibly go wrong? If the U.S. Open at Pinehurst was anything to go by, actually quite a lot.
See, Dad turned 80 this year and has made it this far without the internet. At this stage he just about knows the difference between the remote control and his mobile phone. He’s a dying breed. The type to buy a daily newspaper and devour it front to back. He’s well-read but computer illiterate. In fact, I once overhead him on the phone to the bank telling them his email address was “at Colm”. It wasn’t.
As far as Dad’s concerned, a dodgy box is a malfunctioning accordion, so you could imagine my trouble explaining to him on the phone that the golf he was watching at the U.S. Open was a minute ahead of the images I was seeing in Australia. He thought I’d discovered time travel.
“Right. I won’t say anything so,” he’d promise after strict instruction. The air dead between us before an almighty “feck him anyway” bursts through the phone; Dad’s own brand of a Tiger roar that could only mean one thing. McIlroy’s in trouble. Sure enough, a minute later, the first wobble appears on my screen. Not a lag or a buffer, but a horror short miss on 16.
“Dad! You’re killing me.”
“Why?”
“Because I’m only looking at it now.”
“He missed the blasted thing.”
“I gathered.”
I spend the next hole recovering alongside Rory, trying to explain to Dad that my feed is delayed. I feel like Father Ted trying to teach perspective to Dougal in the caravan with the cows. These are small but the ones out there are far away…
“Here’s Rory again,” Dad says. Lesson learned apparently. McIlroy on the 18th tee.
“Don’t tell me what happens,” I warn him, just in case.
“Sure how would I know what happens? He’s only standing over the ball now. Sure I don’t know where it’s going to go no more than the man on the… left rough. Suffering Jaysus. Should’ve hit three wood like the first three days.”
I couldn’t believe my ears. My eyes on the other hand had been thoroughly briefed for each blow of McIlroy’s back nine due to Dad’s inability to grasp the most basic instructions. Ten years I’d waited to see McIlroy win a Major. Finally on the precipice, the moment was about to be lost to Dad’s commentary killing the suspense.
“More bad news,” he tells me. “I’ll say no more.”
I hover my finger over the red hang up symbol on the phone. Fight the urge to press it. Dad giggling at my frustration on the other end. Dementia or devilment. I wouldn’t rule either out. Issue one final weary warning for the hell of it. For the love of golf…
“Dad, please. I told you I’m behind you!”
And just then I imagine him looking over his shoulder in the big armchair expecting to see me standing in the door. Like it was all one big ruse. That I mightn’t have discovered time travel but teleportation instead. And we’d hug it out and crack open two cans of Guinness and I’d fit seamlessly back into the cold arse grooves of my favourite seat. Mam’s candle flickering for Rory. Our hearts flickering for a surprise reunion.
But there’s no one in the doorway. And I don’t even care that Dad spoils McIlroy’s final act. It’s a small price to pay for our tradition continuing across hemispheres. After all, there’s only so many more Majors we’ll get.
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