Back in 1978 when I did my first ever television broadcast at the Open Championship, the BBC had a policy of "sink or swim." There is no training ground for anyone wishing to become a golf commentator and it was in such circumstances that I went into action on the first morning of the championship that Jack Nicklaus eventually won at St Andrews.

The one concession they made to me was that they would give me someone lesser known like Baldivino Dassu and, they told me, coverage would only include play from the 13th hole in, so I could look out for Dassu turning up. Nothing is ever as simple as it appears.

I was sitting in the commentary box and Peter Alliss had given me this wonderful assurance that I had no problems as he would be sitting close by me and would give me all the help that I'd need on my first day. That helped ease the nerves and I relaxed into my chair in the knowledge that Dassu was at least 40 minutes from coming into view. As a newcomer to commentating, I enjoyed sitting back and listening to the others talking away and I was very pleased with myself.

Suddenly, one of the cameramen from the roof of the Old Course Hotel zoomed out to some unknown part of the course and offered a picture to the director. And, of course, the director said: "Baldivino Dassu, cue commentator."

I didn't know what to say. I had never spoken on television in my life before and I didn't know where he was. If you know St Andrews, part of the surface resembles something you would see on the moon. Looking out at Dassu, I simply had no idea what hole he was playing. So, I covered up the mike and turned to Alliss. "Where is he?" I whispered. And he peered over those half glasses of his, looked to the sky and said: "Find out for yourself."

And that amounted to my training as a commentator. In the end, the director said: "Say something." So, I said: "There is Baldivino Dassu." And, in my earpiece, I could hear the director saying, "say something about him." So, I said: "He's at the far end of the course."

With that, Dassu holed his putt, and the director said: "What's his score?" I didn't have a clue what his score was, so I continued: "By sinking that he's one better than if he'd missed it." And those were my very first words on television.

Things have changed a great deal since then, and I've gone on to commentate on 21 Opens which has been a great source of satisfaction for me. However, it was in another one of the early championships that a funny incident occurred.

When I started out in commentary, the guys in Ford gave me a car on the condition that they could have the words "Alex Hay drives Ford" painted on the side of the car. "How much will it cost me?" I inquired. "No, no, no, we'll give it to you," they said, "as long as you park it next to Peter Alliss's Rolls Royce under the commentary box."

That was 1979 and the Open was in Lytham that year and Seve Ballesteros won, which prompted great celebrating and even drinking of champagne in the commentary box. On emerging from the booth, there was Peter's lovely blue Rolls Royce with the number plate "PUT 3" and alongside it was my poor "Alex Hay Drives Ford". . . and, underneath, someone had sprayed, "never mind, your luck might change."