Have you ever loved a Sunday?
Living in New Zealand and playing in Europe was hard. My home was far away. When I left, I was gone. I couldn't pop home for a week between tournaments. Every trip was a journey. Every return was an ordeal. Once I took six bags home from Europe. 120kg. Six months of work.
So I had to build a team. Gail – my manager. And Sidney Yap – my travel agent. Sidney is a Chinese man. He answered the phone at 3am. He helped me fly. Sidney is with the eye. He sees what you need before you say it.
Sidney, Gail, and me. A Chinese man who sees with the eye, a manager who stands in front of you in Morocco, and a Kiwi who slept with dogs in Kent. That's the team. Today we still take Gail for yum cha. On my birthday. On his birthday. On her birthday. Decades later. The travel agent. The manager. The player who couldn't sleep in Kent with dogs. All of us still here. Still sharing a meal.
Today I still teach Sidney on the golf course. I'm the one who argues – because I have to get him to stop, look at me, and listen until I finish what I want to say. We have so much fun. So many laughs. And when he picks up the balls – he's really good. The other day, he shot 83. He said he felt really good. I'm really happy.
I asked him once – if he could give me one word, what would it be? He called me a guru. Not teacher. Not boss. Not friend. Guru.
Air New Zealand helped me fly. $10,000 when I was a nobody. A logo on my bag. And everything was at cost. Not free. Not discounted. Even with their logo, I paid my way. The sponsorship was a handshake, not a blank cheque.
When they said they couldn't sponsor me anymore, they offered a deal. Keep the logo for another year. Gail and I agreed. When the year was up, they said: "Sorry, we're not going to sponsor you." I think it's also because I said no. Not to the logo. To something else. That's not a misunderstanding. That's using me. A year of free advertising while they decided. But I am still grateful for what I got. Both things are true.
I missed my first two cuts. The first stung. The second broke me. I rang Gail that night. I said: "It's killing me. I want to come home." She said: "One more tournament. And if you don't make the cut, you can come home." That next tournament? I finished 2nd equal. I stayed.
I found it hard that the French, Spanish, Norwegian, Finnish girls would talk their own language. It felt rude. Then I understood: English was their second language. I was in their land, not mine. They weren't leaving me out. They were just being at home. I was the visitor. Once I stopped taking it personally, I started belonging. I still only spoke one language. But I learned to listen in six.
Could've. Would've. Should've. Have you ever loved a Sunday? I have.
The one thing every player wants is to play on a Sunday – the Sunday after the cut. When you're inside the ropes, not outside them. You earn that Sunday by securing a card. By practising endless hours. By grinding through 150+ players who all want the same thing: 72 holes.
The 50+ players who make the cut? They make money. And they smile the rest of the week. The ones who miss the cut? They go to the practice range. They go to the gym. They wait. Then the range becomes theirs – to prepare for next week. Most players would hang around the weekend anyway. Because we could still use the players' facilities. And the food was always fantastic.