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THREE TO WATCH: (From left) Annika Sorenstam, Karrie Webb and Lorena Ochoa were followed by a crowd of 100 like a faithful army, and applause rippled like wind down the fairways. -- ST PHOTO: ALBERT SIM
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THE three champions, between them winners of 18 Majors and 122 tournaments, a sort of history walking in white shoes, met on the first tee. They posed, they smiled for photographers, they have been to this place, the centre of attention, before.
Then Annika Sorenstam, Karrie Webb and Lorena Ochoa put on their gloves (Ochoa metaphorically) and commenced battle.
Golf is the most civilised (some might say antiseptic) of sports. Yesterday, for instance, amidst a cathedral hush interrupted only by growling planes and laughing fountains, no intemperate words were exchanged. Any dark look was hidden behind dark glasses (Ochoa doesn't wear any, but then she only smiles). And no contact occurred except a fine embrace in the end.
In a noisy, cheerleading sports world, this can't be overrated.
Every shot was aimed at a green, not the next person, but it is too simplistic to see golf as a sport only of battles with the self.
Sweden's Sorenstam doesn't just want to be back at her best, she wants to be better than Mexico's Ochoa. Ochoa, whose swing brings to mind a reed whipping in the wind, is intent on building a legacy. And Australian Webb's every polished swing warns, 'don't you dare forget about me'.
These women, marvellous advertisements for their story-filled Tour, want each other's scalps. They're just not rude about it.
Ochoa started with the sign of the cross, though when she finished at six under it was clear the field should not be shy of praying for assistance. She hit her iron on the first hole to four feet, a 'good shot' was heard, and golf's No 1 was away.
On a day so sweltering that shirts felt like blankets, by the third hole even the players searched for shade. A lizard, overcome by the weather or the company, promptly lost its grip and fell from a tree behind Webb. Then Ochoa birdied the third and the heat was truly on.
These are grown-up competitors, no caddie lines up their putts or aligns their shots as occurs, alas, with too many others. They have confidence in themselves, and Phds in grain, slopes, breaks.
A following crowd of roughly 100 trudged behind them like a faithful army, and applause rippled like wind down the fairways. Sugumaran Mallika, a golfer herself, when asked what she found most compelling of the trio, said: 'They know where to direct the ball; they want it there, and it is there.'
Just to emphasise the point, Sorenstam cracked an iron over a yawning bunker on the 10th hole to five feet. Even she could not miss that putt yesterday.
The game's greatest player ever has a robust Swedish heart and a perfunctory swing, but yesterday the slide rule that is her precise game was malfunctioning.
She had a bogey, then back-to-back birdies, another bogey, then a birdie to finish at one under. Her round was decided by little imperfections with the putter (she missed so many putts it seemed the hole was repelling her ball), but today they may be gone. Golf's annoying gremlins are like this.
From sweaty palms, magic arrived. On the par-three 14th, all three balls trundled off the green and into the rough. Whereupon, Webb chipped to a foot, Sorenstam to six inches, Ochoa to three inches. Even the gods must have bowed.
Webb and Ochoa spoke to each other, but conversation was thin. Sorenstam existed in a cocoon and her hunger was evident in every schoolmistress-like stride.
Even her wedding to Mike McGhee has been set for next year to allow her time to reclaim her greatness. As the gracious McGhee, walking the course yesterday, admitted, that was precisely the reason for the scheduling.
'The plan is for her to focus on golf this year. Even if you have people plan your wedding, you're thinking about it,' he said.
Webb had played soundly but without great effect, till the end when two shots sang through the haze, one landing six inches from the 17th pin, one four feet from the 18th pin. 'Hello, remember me,' her shots said as she finished the day at three under.
But this day was Ochoa's. For six weeks, she confessed later, she had been practising. Six days a week. From 7am till 2pm, polishing her short game, her long irons, her putting. Then, gymwork, from 5.30pm to 7.30pm. Yesterday, she looked a ready player.
The year is young, so is the tournament, but a start has been made. And a gentle message sent.
rohitb@sph.com.sg
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