Introduction

If I read this putt right, we make the cut at The Open. 

I’d done my research the night before and had learned that never had a female Dutch golfer made the cut at The Open before so I knew what it would mean to my player. 

I'd always dreamt it'd be me striding ahead with the adulation of the crowd as the soundtrack to my first Open victory but here I was on a dark Friday night trying to get my player to her first-ever third round. 

It was a buzz to be inside the ropes at the British Open and I wanted to make sure this dream continued for both of us. So at 9:45pm on Friday night under the warm din of light oozing from the clubhouse windows of Royal Lytham and St. Annes, Christel Boeljon asked me to have a look at a putt for her. 

Christel is as consistent a player I’d ever worked for and rarely needed help reading a putt or deciding on a club from her hapless looper. The importance of this putt was clear on her face. The Dutch Golf Federation representatives were standing behind the ropes by the exit of the green as they’d done for the previous 35 holes and her parents and brother were stood next to them eagerly squinting through the dark to see if she could make a small piece of Dutch history. 

Her drive down the par four 18th was perfect. I’d chosen an auburn light on the 100-year-old clubhouse as a line - think it was an upstairs toilet actually - and she’d swung her Taylor Made SuperQuad as well as she’d done all day. As the ball fell back to earth it bisected the frosted glass of the gents to perfection. 

The second shot was going to be trickier as we couldn't actually see the pin. It was the last day of July so the days were long but having spent nearly six hours playing 17 and a half holes behind the rest of the world’s finest and slowest lady golfers, it wasn't just no time to be playing golf but we shouldn't have had to squint through the dark to secure weekend playing privileges at the biggest event on the ladies' calendar.  

We had 147 metres to the pin, not a breath of wind and the 18th at Lytham is as flat as a pancake. A decent 6iron would see us pin high, I was sure. Through the din, I momentarily glimpsed the motionless flagstick and lined it up with another window to give Christel an easy target to focus on. She went through her usual routine and caught the Taylor Made ball as sweet as a nut. 

I could barely make out the flag. Let alone the flight of the ball. The lights of the clubhouse were the only source of light we had on this, now chilly summer’s night. She’d managed to park up her approach pin high, as instructed and to about 20 feet which, as far as I could ascertain in the gloom broke a touch from right to left. There wasn't a big break but half a cup right were my rather flaky words of authority to Christel.

She went through her pre-shot routine as always and with a last word of encouragement telling her to trust her stroke, she pulled the trigger and sent the ball rolling…