Wicked Weekend Weakens Weary Weapon-Wielder

I look back on another uncharacteristically bad weekend. With what could amount to be the event of the year up coming up, the required warm up weekend went missing. I needed a good return on the weekend to set me up for some serious slumpage for this weekend. Winnings and elation have eluded me and pain erupts through my body without recourse. I am lacking in redemption and thoroughly consumed by failure.

Let’s start at the beginning.

As previously mentioned, I had £20 go swimming with DJ for 1^st Round Leader.

Yuck.

Then I had £5 each way on Gary Stal before the weekend, £5 each way on Brooks Koepka and a £5 each way double. Stal stalled and went backwards and so did my heart.

The flying Frenchman did not fly to victory as predicted/expected/desired, but helped everyone open the door to allow Ashun Wu pick up his second European Tour victory since last year’s China Open. It’s impossible not to like the chap but even though Stal mounted a French charge on the final day, the French Revolution was quashed by the Imperious Chinese forces. (And Spanish and English and South African and a different vive le Francais advocate and someone from Holland. Thanks guys.)

Koepka was then my final hope and hope was not in abundance. If hope was a currency I would be a poor man. Thankfully hope is not a currency, unfortunately I am still a poor man. My lump to slump days of picking winners or having morosely large bets preceding the Sunday’s play are semi-behind me and the confidence is lacking. The long and the short of Koepka is that I had three places and he tied for 2^nd with three others, meaning I had but three quarters of my stake at 2.75. This does not make for great returns (£9.17 to be exact, immediately re-slumped on Adam Scott to win the US Open). The depressing fact is that with most bookies one can’t even withdraw less than £10.

On Sunday I decided that Mickelson might do the business and had £20 on him. As well as £5 on Ricciardo to win the Grand Prix (bad times) and a £5 double (extra bad times). I watched the Grand Prix at work.

The Canadian Grand Prix is the best race outside of Europe. Tight and with ample opportunity for overtaking and represents what claims to be excellent value. Red Bulls have shown excellent pace here before and Ricciardo wanted to win almost as much as I wanted him to. I don’t know what F1 drivers get for winning races, apart from bottles of champagne larger than most dogs, but what I mean is monetarily. It couldn’t be more than the £50 I’d win, and the £55 I’d have going on to Mickelson at 5s.

Probably.

But I wasn’t about to find out what it was like to win. The beginning of the race was exciting, as was the bit where some stuff happened, but nothing good happened for me so I was bored and sad and without significant financial injection. I still like Ricciardo though, but the potential smile on my face was wiped off very much in the nature his was the week before.

Mickelson looked like he might do the business for a while. He and another veteran campaigner Steve Stricker were playing together and were likely to bounce experience off each other and be completely relaxed. Berger did not look relaxed. He was level through 10 and the attackers were coming up the beach. At this point I fell asleep. The chronic tiredness I was feeling from packing and being up to four in the morning drinking and behaving in a miscreant fashion had tuckered me out. The three hour delay on the golfery did not help and I missed all the rest of it. Checking my phone upon awaking in a daze I was immediately informed by the PGA Tour app as to who had won the tournament. Such a crushingly cold and clinical way to discover one’s fate. Imagine if doctors started delivering news in that fashion. The message said something like “Daniel Berger wins the Fedex St. Jude Classic”. Imagine finding out that you had an incurable disease that way. That’s how I felt. An empathy lacking programme had told me that I was not in the money and I was crushed. And knackered. I went to bed and decided to think about how to process it in the morning. I decided to ignore this for as long as possible.

Why couldn’t I win this week? Not loads. Just enough to have a sizeable lump on the US Open. Maybe just enough to have £100/150 to smash on someone. But it was not to be and I am going to have to rely on other means of financial gain. What are overdrafts for if not lumping?

I am going to pretend that I do have huge firepower this weeks. I am going to prepare a full broadside on the bookies. My armada is ready. The ships are sailing to war. The sky clouds grey and the sunset reflects blood red off the water, foreshadowing the destruction to come. Every bet until this point has been training to run out the cannons. Timing runs, aiming runs, distance finding. Practiced until perfect. The sails are taut and the wind favours me. Port and starboard batteries are run out and the enemy is in range. A lost battle is a battle one thinks one had lost, and my battle is not lost. I will prevail against the ever-growing enemy, and will not rest until the bookmakers are in ashes in my wake.

Or until I have enough money to retire.

Oakmont beckons.