Me and Hugh
He may have commentated in over 150 test matches and famously survived a fall from a hotel balcony, but Hugh Bladen still gets nervous when playing a tense golf game. And there’s no tenser match-up than taking on Simon Hill head to head.
I hear Hugh Bladen before I see him. Rather fitting, I suppose, given his legendary status behind the microphone as The Voice of South African Rugby. “Over here, Simon,” the veteran of more than 150 tests called from inside the Royal Johannesburg and Kensington clubhouse. “You’re late.”
And it’s true; I was late. But I had an excuse: I’m from Cape Town, and without a GPS to help me navigate around Jo’burg I was as helpless as a syrup-laden waffle on John Daly’s plate. In fact, it’s a miracle I rocked up at all.
I ventured somewhat guiltily inside the clubhouse to be greeted by what appeared to be a large, blue sleeping bag wearing a hat. It was only when a bony hand extended from somewhere near the waist, that I suddenly realised the sleeping bag was actually Hugh Bladen under what must have been 80 layers of clothing.
I secretly wondered how he planned on swinging while wearing John Orr’s entire 1977 men’s winter range. With the cart saddled up, and me at the wheel, we made haste to the 1st tee at Royal Jo’burg and Kensington’s West course to begin our 18-hole matchplay ‘duel’. Hugh, of a potentially afternoon-wrecking 17 handicap, politely declined the offer to go off the seniors (OK, he didn’t politely decline, but this is a family magazine), instead preferring to lead us off the club tees. I would follow suit off a four these days more a fantasy than a handicap.
Now, ‘tis no secret that Hugh Bladen is a rugby man through and through – three decades behind the microphone talking about the game he loves so dearly is clearly testimony to this.
I can’t, however, help but think that standing there over the ball on the 1st tee, his mind must have drifted back to the 1960s and his glory days at flyhalf for Transvaal, because his tee shot resembled a perfectly weighted grubber, rolling gleefully through the grass towards the fairway. “Now that’s what you call a pensioner’s poke!” he muttered as he shuffled less than satisfied off the box. To my surprise I managed to work one down the middle and stuck the approach close. Let’s be honest, it’s never ideal playing 3-woods into par fours (ask Corey Pavin) and unfortunately Hugh’s drive had cost him – he landed just short of the green for two after a lengthy second.
A chip and a two-putt saw him walk off with a bogey five. A par wouldn’t have mattered anyway on this stroke 13, because I boxed my putt for birdie to go 1 up. My lead, like Rudolph Straeuli’s tenure as Bok coach, was shortlived though. Clearly peeved at being 1 down after one, Hugh lit one of his trusty Van Rijn cigarettes and took a couple of contemplative drags on it.
What spinach is to Popeye, Van Rijn cigarettes are to Hugh Bladen, and he used his extra strength to par the par-five 2nd very convincingly. I, on the other hand, could only muster a bogey, which meant we were back to all square. Things stayed that way until the lengthy par-three 8th – a hole with such a sloping green it feels as though you are aiming at a dart board. Hugh, now into his second box, landed his ball on the front, leaving himself an uphill putt. I, forgetting that there is virtually zero air in Gauteng, overclubbed and watched in dismay as my ball settled at the back of the green.
“That putt’s going to swing like the ‘60s,” came the somewhat smug response from somewhere deep inside the sleeping bag. And he was right. Aiming just above Vanderbijlpark, I attempted to put my ball somewhere in the vicinity of the cup. Needless to say I failed miserably and not only bogeyed the hole, but took the much-feared ‘snake’ as well.
Hugh, using all his cunning, coaxed his ball to just under the hole, tapped in for par and went 1 up. I looked at him, expecting a trademark ‘un-believable!’ but nothing came. Instead, he shuffled with purpose back to the cart and lit up another. Hmm, things were getting interesting. After a quick hamburger and chips (and another Van Rijn for Hugh) at halfway, we were back in the saddle, affairs delicately poised.
The halfway-house warmth seemed to have done Hugh the world of good because he decided to shed a layer of clothing, making his face wholly visible for the first time that afternoon. Up until this point I could have been playing against a Hugh Bladen impersonator and probably would have been none the wiser.
The halving game continued until the stroke-2 12th hole. The course, although in great condition, had received a lot of rain, which meant run off the tee was scarcer than a Lions’ Super 14 victory. Hugh, as a result, was playing long(ish) irons and woods into some of the par fours. On this particular hole it proved to be his undoing and he faltered to a double-bogey six. I limped in with a five, which was good enough for the win and good enough to level the match.
I’d be lying if I said it was all golf that afternoon. Hugh is a seriously entertaining individual who has a story for just about everything. And when it comes to the game of rugby, there is very little he hasn’t seen or experienced. It is, therefore, rather important that you keep your wits about you when playing golf against the guy. A momentary lapse in concentration during one of his sidesplitting tales about Schalk Burger senior or one of his umpteen Currie Cup games behind the mic, and you could find yourself more than a couple down. And I’m not just talking about beers.
So there we were: deadlocked and fast running out of holes. It would remain all square until the par-four 17th. In his eagerness to get into the warmth of the clubhouse, Hugh overcooked his second and was chipping from just behind the green. I had stuck mine to 10 feet and was eyeing a second birdie for the day.
Hugh’s chip came up short, which meant I could snatch the lead heading down the last. Without building it up too much (hey, it’s Head to Head, not the Ryder Cup), I boxed the putt and Hugh missed his, meaning I would have the honour on 18 – a par five, dogleg right.
With the sun setting quicker than Richard Bands’ Springbok career, Hugh and I began the 431-metre journey home. He was in the middle of the fairway. I was in the rough on the left. Saving his best for last, Hugh rifled a 3-wood to within 100 metres of the green. I, on the other hand, was in the thick stuff, which ruled out any possibility of going for it in two. The best I could manage was a 6-iron to leave myself a wedge in.
Hugh, sniffing the sweet scent of whisky from the members’ bar, put his pitch to 15 feet. I stuck mine just inside his (on the green, that is) – in fact, it was right on his line. Let nobody ever tell you that Hugh Bladen does not have BMT, because when I say he boxed that putt, I am being deadly serious. Not only did he box it, it never looked like missing. His birdie on the last meant I would have to drain mine should I wish to emerge victorious.
I wish I could say that I did just that, but that really would be lying. Neither did it lip or teeter on the brink. It was short. Well short. It was a half. I didn’t feel too hard done by though. Halving with South Africa’s version of Bill McLaren is hardly a disgrace. And besides, I knew the real fun was still to come as we made our way into the clubhouse.
Not even the looming double gin ‘snake’, which I incurred on the 8th, could dampen my enthusiasm at the prospect of sharing a table with this true legend.
And yes, it would be a long time ‘til I emerged. It would be even longer until I got home. And if I learnt one thing that day with Hugh, it’s this: I really need to get myself a GPS.
