When Dustin Johnson won the WGC-Dell Match Play in March, it was a timely reminder of a simple truth: when the best player excels at match play, golf is in a good space.
Johnson fits the mould of the greats: scarily long, with the touch of a pickpocket around the greens.
In the late-1970s and throughout the ’80s, Seve Ballesteros was unbeatable at match play. It was the Seve factor that rescued the Ryder Cup. By sheer force of personality he made the old US-dominated exhibition into a contest. At the same time, he would go to Wentworth once a year to beat all comers at the World Match Play.
Seve’s Wentworth mantle was inherited by Ernie Els in the ’90s and you couldn’t imagine two more different match play personalities. Seve was the intense, smouldering Spaniard, daring you to overreach, standing next to the hole and staring into your eyes, turning strong knees to jelly. Ernie was the laid-back maestro, happy in the eye of the crowd, nerveless over short putts; always capable of improving on his opponent’s shot, no matter how spectacular.
Johnson is the hottest golfer on the planet right now and his persona fits the Ernie mould perfectly. It remains to be seen whether his game will last as long. It was fun to see him tested by Jon Rahm in the final. Johnson won four holes in a row from the 3rd, and was 4 up with six to play, but Rahm – the new Spanish wonderkid – won the 13th, 15th and 16th. Johnson held his nerve, and halves at 17 and 18 gave him the title.
I knew how Rahm felt. Sort of. A couple of weeks previously my neighbour challenged me to 18 holes. He is a decade older than I, but with the metronomic consistency that age confers, he won the first six holes.
The 7th was a par three over water. I duly dipped my tee shot in the moist stuff and reloaded, fully expecting to be 7 down on the 8th tee.
But golf is nothing if not unpredictable. I hit my second ball to six feet and made the putt, he missed the green with his tee shot and four-putted. As you can see, this was not golf out of the top drawer, but it was match play and therefore not to be sniffed at.
The key moment came as we walked off the green and I went to the water’s edge to look for my first ball. It wasn’t there, but sitting in plain sight was a pink Titleist, a ladies ball abandoned by some member of the fair sex.
Being as how my game had been less than manly, I took it as an omen and put it in play right away. I won the 8th with the pink ball, the 9th was halved and we retired to the halfway house with my neighbour 4 up, but grateful for the break.
We halved the next four and then the pink projectile went on a journey of enlightenment; it won holes 14 to 17 and we stood on the 18th tee box all square. As it turned out, I had squeezed the last ounce of magic from the ball. I blocked it right off the tee, struggled in the undergrowth for a few blows and ended with an eight.
My neighbour stared down the line of his putt, grey eyes compressed into slits. He looked like Clint Eastwood about to fire a Magnum. From two feet. He took back his putter and rolled the ball clinically into the back of the hole for a seven.
Beaten 1 up, exactly the same score as Rahm and Johnson. Only everything else was different. Gad, I love match play.
– This article first appeared in the May issue of Compleat Golfer, now on sale
