It started with a sawn-off 7-iron. It was a clunky, heavy old thing – reduced to about 20 inches in length and with a funky blue, ladies’ grip. My father had it “custom built” for me in 1984, when I was just four years old. He took me, that funny wee club and a selection of battered balls to the village green and showed me how to make a basic swing.
I couldn’t swing the club properly because it was a bit heavy, I certainly couldn't lift the clubhead much above waist height, but I managed to make contact a few times and I can still, just about, remember a feeling of excitement at moving the ball forwards a few yards. I had to be physically removed from the village green that day apparently. I was too young to know it but I had become addicted to golf.
