Random pals grin and bear it

It was 7.30 a.m. on Wednesday at the St Leon-Rot golf club and the chauffeur driven cars (all German made) were queuing up to leave their passengers off at the main entrance to the clubhouse. Pro-am day at the Deutsche Bank TPC Open and the sponsor's guests were arriving for a bite of wurst and a cup of coffee before their assault on the course. This was most definitely an executive affair - there were no punters involved in this pro-am.

For professionals the pro-am is a necessary evil; if you are not in the proam it means you are not playing well as it is normally the higher-ranked players who compete. If you are in then you have the pleasure of spending up to six hours on the course, most of it in fear of your life or of getting maimed by the frequently misdirected shots or having to search knee-deep in hay looking for an errant approach.

Many of the amateur contestants agree that they would not like to be in a similar situation of near chaos on the eve of their company's a.g.m. or a presentation of an important deal to the board. Professional golfers are expected to put themselves through such rigours every Wednesday as "preparation" for the start of the tournament next day. They do, however, enjoy playing for the larger purses that ensue from inviting high rollers to join them for a pre-tournament round.

The shotgun broke the early morning tranquility on the course at 8.30 a.m. and Paul Lawrie hit his tee shot off the eighth. His playing partners had introduced themselves. Mike, a plucky American in his forties with a handicap of nine bid us both a hearty good morning. His business partner Robert was less enthusiastic but nonetheless polite off an 18 handicap.

Then Rolf Hess, the third member of the amateur team, presented himself. A well-built German in his late fifties, Rolf made his opening gambit with a beaming smile which exposed the glittering crowns on his back teeth. He told Paul that he had read an article written by an amateur that had played with Lawrie in a pro-am in America last year that was very interesting. Had he read it, Rolf enquired. Paul feigned enthusiasm at the German with the fixed grin as he responded that he hadn't seen the piece.

Rolf was the last to hit. As he shuffled about in his pre-shot preparation a white band slid down his wrist coming to rest just above his glove. Paul wondered what the band signified. Professionals tend to be reserved when it comes to the over-enthusiastic amateur getting just a little too close at such an early stage in the day. Rolf developed an early habit of grinning uncontrollably in your face after he made a comment that was not remotely grinnable at apart from the deliverer's expression as he did so. Paul perceived this as somewhat manic.

Professionals obviously have no concept of how batty they appear to the outside world as they carry on in reaction to a bad shot. The white band of course was the hospitality tag that got the guests into the lunch banquet. The round rolled on laboriously, an hour after we started we were still on our third hole: at this rate we were in danger of breaking the six-hour record. Rolf got on the card with, in his own words, a "nice and easy par". He chipped in from a thick lie in the rough. If it hadn't clattered the pin head on, his ball would not have stayed on the green.

Paul asked Rolf if he was nervous, as he had complained of stomach trouble earlier. Paul's inquiry was more in connection with his eccentric behaviour rather than the quality of his golf. After all he was used to bad golfers. Rolf drew a serious expression for his reply. "Nervous, me?" He turned out to be a chess grandmaster. "A game of golf is not going to make me nervous'. This reply did have the effect of putting the critical golfer back in his place.

Michael, the financier from North Carolina, was teeing up on a different side of the tee to the grandmaster. He had just spent four days at Number 2 (Pinehurst I assumed) playing with Nick Faldo. In his first sentence Michael had rattled off more famous golf courses than I could remember.

Shinnecock, Baltusrol, Winged Foot flowed from Michael's tongue like they were in his back yard. Golf nut and professional pro-ammer immediately sprung to mind. His brother usually played with him in pro-ams but he couldn't make this one. He was too busy buying a bank back in the States.

Michael looked back at the third amateur, Robert, as he was tacking his way down a particularly long par four. "That guy's got too much loft in his swing," he exclaimed. Looking back down the fairway at the struggling golfer I was trying to see if his back swing was very steep and somehow associate it with the loft that Michael was referring to. With a grin on his face he asked Paul and I if we could spot it. Then he proceeded to explain. "You know, loft: Lack of F***ing Talent.

The grandmaster proceeded to question every yardage I provided him with throughout the day. Off a handicap of 14, the doubting boardman didn't know how far his shots were likely to go, whether the numbers he was basing his club selection on were accurate or not.

As a sort of compensation for his cross examination of my figures I got to find out about his jousts with his old sparring partner on the board, Boris Spassky. Rolf is level with his Russian friend and rival in their chess games over the years. The pair, it seems, also held a Swiss doubles tennis title until last year.

As the shotgun signified the start of the afternoon torture session for the late starting pros our group still had one hole to complete. We had reached a golfing form of stalemate. The authorities tried to relieve us from our state of fairway suspension by starting the afternoon contestants before we had finished. A "zugzwang" or forced move was going to be the only way to shift this lot.