First Impressions - Column

March 8, 1971: Muhammad Ali suffers a crushing defeat at the hands of Joe Frazier, who lands his legendary rival a spectacular left hook in the 15th round at Madison Square Garden.
July 6, 2008: The greatest fight in tennis history is waged between rival giants Roger Federer and Rafael Nadal at the 2008 Wimbledon Men's Single final. Rafa eventually emerges supreme after a four-hour, 48-minute showdown.
February 23, 2011: Jamie Morton is dealt a decisive drubbing by his Nana after a dramatic nine-hole clash at Stratford Golf Course.
Yep.
It might not qualify for the world's great sports almanacs, but my devastating loss to my little old nana was one that will go down as one of the most catastrophic in my vital statistics.
Being thumped by someone in their mid-80s at any sport might sound comical at best, but in this particular rivalry one has to appreciate the context.
Of course, I can out-drive my nana, but on small courses where a player's short game is more important than their hitting distance, the wily old campaigner can employ her one chip, one putt precision to devastating effect.
When I lived in Napier, I'd meet the octogenarian adversary I came to call the Grey Peril early each Saturday morning on the foggy fairways of the Awatoto Public Golf Course. We'd greet each other with a smile and a few pleasant words - and sometimes she might even offer me one of her Worther's Originals - but as soon as the first tee was plunged into the ground, it was on.
In our bitter battles of attrition, we'd scrap among the bunkers, trying to beat each other down with false compliments and dirty jabs mid-way through each other's back swings, before one of us would lose their composure and start yielding precious points.
Too often, the crunch would come at the ninth hole, which at a mere 109 metres should have been a nice easy lay-up to finish on. But with nerves frayed after eight testing holes, this seemingly simple hole usually proved my undoing.
Begrudgingly, I'd hand over the trophy that we contested each weekend - a ceramic lion bought from the $2 shop.
It wasn't always that way though.
In one instance, while playing at Awatoto with Dad, my nemesis was feeling pretty chipper after a well-controlled shot to the lip of the green.
But when I outclassed her with a beautifully-struck high shot with a sand wedge, bringing the ball down almost on top of the pin, things got ugly. "JEE-mee", she called to me sweetly.
I thought she was going to congratulate me for my turn of golfing brilliance, yet all she wanted to do was pull me close and mutter to me one nasty word: "Pig".
After another victory one morning, I was strutting back to my flat whistling a merry tune with my clubs hanging smugly off my shoulder.
Two of my neighbours' friends, who happened to be pros at the world-class Cape Kidnappers Golf Course, were sitting in the back garden.
"Have a good game mate?" asked one.
"Did I what! Completely wasted my nana."
He gave me an incredulous look and turned away.
Still, it was just as much a landmark victory as last Wednesday was a landmark defeat.
I kicked off well, bogeying the first hole with some nice putting work, until the second hole presented a foul psychological hurdle in the gully that lay between the tee and fairway.
After I duffed it, as I was always going to, the Grey Peril exploited this Achilles heel, slyly noting every time I had to hit over a creek: "Don't like those gullies do we, Jee-mee?"
The rest of my game began to fall apart too, as even the easiest of fairway shots were grubbed away at geometrically-impossible angles into bushes and towards golfers on neighbouring fairways.
The coup de grace came when the demoralised grandson's tired performance was written off in a mordant bit of condescension on the ninth hole: "Oh well," she remarked with that same, weasel-like grin: "we had some good shots in there, didn't we?"
Yes, it was a day that will live in infamy - and the reason I'm now going to be putting in some hard practice.
Because next time, record books or not, granny's history.