Two weeks ago I went (under the wing of the Groupie) to my first ever Pilates class. I'll tell you what it's bloody difficult - my balance is embarrassingly poor and I've stretched parts of me that haven't been stretched in years, if ever. At one point we were doing an exercise that theoretically involved a controlled roll in a prone position from left to right. As I do when I concentrate, I closed my eyes and only opened them as I completed an inelegant lurch to the right. Opening my eyes I was greeted by an unpleasant close-up of the face of a chubby man in his late fifties - I had rolled up to the mirrored wall. I've since been to a second class and have another scheduled for this afternoon.
But I tell you this not to boast but to impart a startling discovery. On Monday of this week in the humble environs of Pype Hayes Golf Club I played the best golf I have played for a decade. Post hoc ergo propter hoc. Never mind the mechanics of the golf swing and all that jazz, try Pilates.
Whether Tiger Woods has been to Pilates I'm not sure but, having paused for reflection, I am with those who have designated his victory last weekend in the Masters as the most stunning comeback in modern sport. Whilst acknowledging his supreme gifts, I have never warmed to Woods but I think John Hopkins (in
The Times) got it right when he concluded that this latest and most improbable victory has made us admire him all the more and dislike him rather less. GOAT? Arguable but I'm still a Nicklaus man.
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