Bellinghamgolfer.com

Had I been born in America, it's unlikely I'd have been very keen on Seve Ballesteros. There would have been a grudging appreciation of his supernatural gifts, of course, a nod to his ability to hit shots others might have considered a little too adventurous. But deep down I'd probably have resented the unbridled joy he showed after beating Americans at the Ryder Cup, or anywhere else for that matter. But I come from Europe so, naturally, I think Seve was the greatest.
After watching on TV as he won the 1984 Open Championship at St Andrews and, I remember, being slightly mystified by his exuberant celebration upon holing the winning putt, I got to see him in person for the first time a year later at Royal St George's. Stood outside the ropes halfway down the 1st fairway, I watched as he set up for what looked like a very, very difficult approach shot. Nowadays, the 1st is just a drive and a short iron, but 26 years ago, under heavy, dark, gray skies, the hole was something of a beast. Not yet used to the dimensions of a golf course or the capabilities of the world's best players, I doubted there was any way he could possibly get his ball anywhere near the hole. It just looked so far away.
From a distance of about 50 yards, I saw him swing the club and heard the click of contact. No one around me had a clue where the ball was though I think we all suspected the wind was dragging it offline possibly into one of the bunkers on the left or the rough on the right. After a few seconds, the ball came back into sight as it dropped softly onto the green and settled just a few feet from the cup. Everyone else in the gallery seemed as stunned as I was and stood in silence before erupting into enthusiastic applause.
Much the same happened a year or two later during the European Open at Walton Heath, just outside London. The 11th on the Old Course is a fantastic Par 3 and having stationed myself there for some time, I got a clear view of Seve's tee shot from just a few yards away. Many people might remember Seve swinging wildly with a driver or slashing at his ball ferociously in deep rough, but let us not forget how effortless and elegant his swing could be. On this occasion, I distinctly remember how softly he swung and yet how powerfully he connected. The ball fizzed into the distance on a beautiful right-to-left curve then, just as it appeared to be veering too far left, seemed to shift back slightly to the right. It pitched beyond the hole, spun backwards and stopped a few inches away. I was pretty sure you couldn't intentionally curve a ball both ways without the help of a very strong wind, but that is what Ballesteros appeared just to have done. It was incredible, and I was spellbound.
By now, Seve was a very firm favorite with the British crowds. He had won the Open Championship twice and would again in 1988. He had two green jackets, and had made the Ryder Cup an exciting event more or less by himself. But thanks to facial features that had golfer's wives glued to the set, and with brilliant chip shots like the one he played between the bunkers on the 72nd hole of the 1976 Open Championship at Royal Birkdale, and the one he holed on the 18th at Wentworth against Arnold Palmer during the 1983 World Martchplay Championship, it hadn't taken Ballesteros very long to ingratiate himself. Up against the less aesthetically-pleasing Eamonn Darcy, Brian Barnes, Neil Coles, Tommy Horton, Ken Brown and Mark James, Seve looked almost out of place on a golf course and one wondered if he might just as well be suited to Hollywood or the MGM Grand. It seemed slightly strange that someone so captivating, so enthralling, so downright exciting should be playing golf.
Of course, everyone wanted to play just like him. We all tried putting with the toe of the club raised slightly off the ground. We would swing the driver so hard and so far it would end up pointing at the target. And we all tried starting the backswing without first waggling the club. I've hit ten dozen buckets at the range attempting to copy his set-up. The absence of a waggle always seemed like a good idea; it would enable the head to remain centered and, I thought, somehow help prevent a sway of the hips in the backswing. But I never could develop a good tempo and achieve consistently good contact.
Contact like what Ballesteros achieved on his drive at the 11th hole at Wentworth near London during the first round of the 1994 Volvo PGA Championship. This time, I watched from behind the tee as Seve hit a gorgeous and powerful draw that started on the right edge of the fairway but curled back toward the middle. The magical sound of his persimmon wood making contact with the ball echoed around the trees for a second or two and, though we had been watching him for 15 years, we, the gallery, still stood in wonder (if you're wondering how I can remember such apparantly random shots hit 20 years ago or more, let me explain - it was Seve Ballesteros that hit them).
The closest I ever got to the great man was on the range at Santa Ponsa GC on the island of Mallorca prior to the 1998 Turespana Masters Open De Baleares. He hadn't won since the 1995 Spanish Open, but had recorded three victories on Mallorca ('88, '90, '92) and was still the star attraction in a field that included future major champion Angel Cabrera, two-time Masters champion Bernhard Langer, Jack Nicklaus's son Gary, Seve's brother Manuel, and a 17-year-old Sergio Garcia. After playing the Wednesday Pro-Am with Englishman Ross McFarlane, I went back out to the range hoping to find Seve. He was alone at the far end, quietly hitting mid-irons. Zimbabwean professional Tony Johnstone once said that if Seve was the most talented player in the world and worked harder than anyone else, then how could he possibly beat him. Seve was working hard now, turning the most delicate two-yard draw into what looked like a three-yard draw. Again, with that uncontrollable, free-wheeling driver swing etched in our memories, it's hard sometimes to remember just how accurate and precise he could be with his irons. I sat down about ten yards away and watched for an hour as he landed 30 or more 200-yard shots within a few feet of each other. Eventually he packed up to leave. But before he walked away, he turned to me, smiled and thanked me for watching. I wanted to say the pleasure really had been all mine, but he was gone.
The next time I saw Ballesteros was the last. Now 42, starting to struggle with his back and the victim of alien theories thrust on him by too many swing instructors, Seve limped to rounds of 80 and 86 at the 1999 Open at Carnoustie. His swing looked different than it had just 15 months before. The low hands at address, early pick up and naturally upright action that had bought him so much success had been replaced by a more upright address position and a peculiarly flat swingplane and shoulder turn that relied less on the skill inherent in his hands and, one assumes, was designed to ease the stress on his spine. It was, frankly, terrible to watch. Seve looked all at sea, and we knew that he knew the ball was going sideways.
Tom Lehman said Seve's biggest asset was that even though he might just have hit an awful shot, he was convinced the next was going to be one of the greatest ever. That, of course, had been evident during the memorable match the pair played at the '95 Ryder Cup outside Boston where Seve hit it all over the State yet somehow took the American to the 15th hole.
But that self-belief had long since disappeared by 1999. Seve hit horrible shots at Carnoustie with the look of a man who thought the next one might be just as bad. On the 12th hole in the wind and rain of the second round, he hooked his drive into a gorse bush not 220 yards away and had a haunted look on his face that suggested it really was the best he could do. For so proud and valiant a champion, the anguish and distress must have been profound.
That's not how I, or anyone else, will remember him of course. We'll remember the passion; the spirit; the intensity; the rapture; the fire; the courage; the foolhardiness; the resolve; the simple beauty of his swing; the full-blooded drives; the finesse of his iron shots; the genius of his short game. It will be with a sad heart that I recall his brilliance rthough because, at age 54, he was maybe 30 years early for his tee-time in Heaven. But I'll also have a smile on my face knowing how fortunate I was to see the great Severiano Ballesteros in full flight.