I guess, hello, world, huh? I am Erin Sand and the warmth of the emotional farewell to Javier Pinedo, a prominent figure in golf journalism, has been the trigger to bring me out of the hibernation state I’ve been in for almost a decade due to a script called ‘choosing to keep working on the swing’, which is as elusive as the muse that once helped me live through April’s thousand anguishes, dismantle Gary Player, unite two champions by a tragic fate, like Payne Stewart and Tony Lema, or reflect on the importance of the mental game with the dear Watson.
The choice is not easy when one is equally passionate about golf and writing and, in both cases, without the skill or expertise of a professional in either field. Surely a dilemma akin to choosing to play on the PGA Tour or in the LIV, although not influenced by the powerful gentleman, but yes, as Steve Jobs said, by another more valuable and limited resource, time (or the lack of it).
One must manage oneself, because the necessary practice hours, which Gary Player spoke of, to muster inspiration or consistency and efficiency in the swing are very scarce when one does not own an agenda bursting with other more than obvious priorities, by the way, very much like Maslow’s pyramid or even more prosaic.
Ten years ago, when I wrote golf chronicles with Óscar Díaz, which I recommend reading because they remain fiercely current, I had that kind of audacity typical of the ignorant that fortunately did not lead me where angels fear to tread. I couldn’t even have suffered from impostor syndrome. Back then, upon hearing about the winner of the AT&T Pebble Beach, Jimmy Walker, only a well-known whisky brand came to mind, however, today I have him identified even by his interest in astrology. Once again, time comes into play, but this time as a teacher mitigating the lack of knowledge and skills.
I would have liked to say that during all this time I have dedicated myself, like the envy of any self-respecting golf geek, Dylan Dethier, to seeking the essence of golf by playing all the golf courses on my personal bucket list
I would have liked to say that during all this time I have dedicated myself, like the envy of any self-respecting golf geek, Dylan Dethier, to seeking the essence of golf by playing all the golf courses on my personal bucket list or that I spent seven days in Utopia wondering how a game can have such an effect on a man’s soul, while being lectured by Robert Duvall (although I would also have benefited from combining golf and journalistic lessons from David Duval or Mark Immelman), but I leave science fiction for other very real matters that happen on the major tours and even in mediocre weekend matches.
Certainly, any attentive and perceptive reader will have already concluded that my story has much less mystery and intrigue than that which surrounded Anthony Kim during his also prolonged absence, entanglements with the alleged collection of a juicy insurance policy included. Take cover marines, because I didn’t even manage to establish myself as a golf writer and, moreover, I have shielded myself with an alias that avoids public scrutiny, prejudices, and criticisms that seek controversy. Nothing is more intriguing than what is not said.
Behind my constructed pseudonym, Erin Sand, is a triple homage to a writer ahead of her time, like George Sand, an activist, like Erin Brockovich, who for a noble and just cause dared to passionately and successfully practice law without being a lawyer, and an illustrious golf journalist like Herbert Wind, whose creativity was enough to christen the Amen Corner. Not forgetting the touch of humour that is the irony of the fact that the club I handle worst in my bag is, precisely, the sand.
Behind my constructed pseudonym, Erin Sand, is a triple homage to a writer ahead of her time, like George Sand, an activist, like Erin Brockovich, who for a noble and just cause dared to passionately and successfully practice law without being a lawyer, and an illustrious golf journalist like Herbert Wind
Trying to combine the literary style of George Sand, Herbert, and Erin’s determination are not bad roadmaps when it comes to entertaining and connecting with a target reader looking for something different, disruptive, and that unites golf with the everyday, the emotional, the historical, or the educational. That’s why I fully endorse the message of the curious tattoo that Pavon has on his hand and which I invite you to investigate.
Ladies and gentlemen, I owe it to the noble and just cause of compensating you for dedicating precious time to me with a high opportunity cost. I leave it to the kind reader’s discretion, if they want pre or post-round escapism, to engage in multitasking while choosing between MAX or Movistar, or to kill time during those more than four hours of televised golf, whose origin is that the concepts of ‘undue delay’ and the maximum forty seconds to execute a swing are too prostituted in practice.
The good news is that reading releases much less dopamine, that which disrupts neurological functions, than a trip to the fridge or a mini-dose of reels whatever the content imposed by the algorithm that you, patient and busy reader, have surely fed without realising it.
In any case, the leitmotiv is going to be a sport for which adjectives like addictive and exciting, as well as demanding, frustrating, or intimidating, fall short. Ask professionals like Hatton after executing what he considers a bad shot, Wyndham Clark (W.C. for his detractors, like Alejandro Larrazábal) –before visiting the renowned sports psychologist Julie Elliott. By the way, for those who don’t know her, you can visualise her as the Americanised version of Joseba del Carmen, but without that past as a bomb disposal expert for the Ertzaintza–. We all know that the swing is the mirror of the soul and reveals much more than the typical cycling shorts, Jason Day‘s outfits, or Fowler‘s camouflage suit. Also, whoever is free of an inappropriate reaction, let them cast the first stone (before a club into the lake on the 18th like my idolised Mcllroy, at the WGC Cadillac Championship in 2015).
During all this time, the world of golf has evolved and revolutionised simultaneously. Technology is no longer just dedicated to improving materials and managing courses, but also the way of training, teaching, defining game strategies, choosing Ryder players (and, if you push me, even being able to see their faces when the captain formally communicates it to them, but remotely).
Artificial intelligence not only helps improve players’ performance by analysing the swing, personalising training, recommending clubs, but, if you push me, it manages to identify golf unicorns sooner –in the purest Aberg style– than the Winged Foot course prepared for the US Open and, moreover, without so much massacre. I think now Fitzpatrick thoughtfully looks at all those boxes storing notebooks where he meticulously records every single shot of a professional career I saw take off precisely in 2014 along with Justin Thomas and Tony Finau. I’m sure Dodo Molinari makes extraordinary use of that lake of data amassed with such tenacity.
We have experienced golf without an audience, a schism in the process of reconstruction in the PGA TOUR, the birth of golf in a stadium, Tiger’s redemption by winning another Green Jacket and his efforts to return, the emergence in the golf world of a Basque gladiator, marked by the gods and with a weakness for chocolate palm trees and his conquest of two majors, as well as the long-awaited victory of Sergio García also in Augusta on what would have been Seve’s 60th birthday.
We have entered the most exclusive locker rooms, hand in hand with the major platforms to see the tying of shoes or choosing an outfit for the wife of a five-time major winner
We have entered the most exclusive locker rooms, hand in hand with the major platforms to see the tying of shoes or choosing an outfit for the wife of a five-time major winner, we surpassed the United States in the number of Ryders won (since competing as Europe) and the Spanish armada has established itself as a benchmark of success and joy (and as David Durán would say “what will be, will be”).
Take a breath because I continue: some of the major tours have changed names and rulers –just when I had managed to learn them–, except for Korda, the LPGA is still dominated by surnames also difficult to memorise. Not to mention that the industry and the number of fans have grown exponentially (in Spain we already have 305,000 licenses).
You can start exhaling and surely this reading helps you as much as a Sama Vritti breath: the drum roll is to underline that, although in 2018, almost as if fresh out of the seminary with his patient Jesuit appearance, the unorthodox swing of Scheffler came into play, sadly, we still have not yet been able to witness how Rory completes his Grand Slam.
Controversies aside about the long-awaited embrace between Al-Rumayyan and Jay Monahan, the length of the courses or the new ball testing standards –which will come into effect next year– if there is something about the future of golf that we have to ask ourselves, it is precisely and as Bezos said, what is sure not to change. I leave it to each reader to put on the time cosmonaut suit and imagine the content of the Rolex ad we will see in another decade with the values that will always be associated with golf.
sadly, we still have not yet been able to witness how Rory completes his Grand Slam.
In case you’re not in your most creative moment, what surely all of you who have made it this far (I hope not in respiratory apnea) agree on is the feelings of greatness, brilliance, epic, nostalgia, and inspiration that come from recalling Gary Koch repeating three times “better than most”. Surely in the next ten years, golf will continue to give us moments of emotion, celebration, and inspiration for the best chronicles. Be patient and join me on the journey to Ithaca that should be as long as Kavafis requested or like the walk down the fairway of a par five with the putter in hand.
