General / Bill Elliott / 14 October 2008 /

Bill Elliott pays tribute to Seve - a hero and a friend - following the Spaniard's diagnosis with a brain tumour last week.

Some days are worse than others. This is one of them.

The news from a Madrid hospital that Severiano Ballesteros has a brain tumour has brought the bleak tidal waves of the current financial tsunami into a proper perspective for those of us who know him. And, as it happens, love him.

Love him because he is Seve, because he brought drama and excitement and a swaggering Spanish sexiness to an old game that needed him at the time much more than he needed it.

As a sportswriter it is hard to have heroes. We get too close to them so that we see the flaws. But I have three...George Best, Muhammad Ali and Seve. Ali I met several times and he stood up to the closest of scrutinies, undoubtedly the most interesting sportsman of my lifetime; George was flawed but flawed beautifully unless you were married/living with him and certainly the best footballer I ever saw bring dreams to life on a pitch. I am proud to have been a friend for a time.

Proud too to know Seve as a pal. Our friendship has endured many years now and survived some crucial moments. Like the time I thought he was going to chin me. This was in Ireland and I had just quizzed him about his then problems with the US Tour hierarchy. He was incandescent with rage, so much so that the security guard protecting him at the time, stood back so he could take a better swing at me.

He pulled back at the last moment and we retreated from each other, him fuming, me convinced that I'd just witnessed the end of a friendship that had begun in 1979. The following day when he came into the Media Centre for an interview I sat at the back and sulked.

When he had finished talking that day I got up to walk out and then heard a familiar voice...."Beel, Beel, I need to speak to you". I turned and there he was beside me. He gripped me by the shoulders and said softly so no-one else could hear "I am so sorry for yesterday, so sorry. Please forgive me. I was very wrong." And he smiled that big smile and I forgave him his small trespass. Who wouldn't?

The difference between Ballesteros and Nick Faldo is more than one major (Seve has five, Faldo has six). Where Faldo barricaded himself against everyone else, Seve would invite us in. Right from the start he knew not only that he was special but that he was on a special journey and he wanted as many people with him as he could gather to his side.

What a trip it was, a roller-coaster ride of laughs and scowls, of brilliance and near farce, of derring-do and debateable decisions. Never, ever, however, was it boring. He led the charge in America as he refused to accept that the Americans were naturally better at the game. Without his victories over there I doubt that the likes of Faldo, Sandy Lyle, Bernhard Langer and Ian Woosnam would have enjoyed the same careers.

He was box-office. Unpredictable but always passionate he brought a bright light to the centre of European golf that has never been replaced since his damaged back broke his spirit.

Now he needs this spirit more than ever as he lies in that hospital. At 51 he is still a youngish man but he is a damaged one. At least this damn tumour helps explain some of his more erratic behaviour over the last several years during which time he has upset more than one old friend with his mood swings.

At these times we put his irascibility down to his frustration at the loss of his skills but it is now clear that it probably was this damn thing pressing on his brain. Once again we forgive him.

One thing is certain, he will fight this whatever the final diagnosis suggests. This is his nature for he is a man who tilts against windmills, a golfer who laid down the template for several generations of Spanish players and a man who never forgot where he came from no matter how high he climbed.

I sent him a message 24 hours ago that hopefully he will read soon. Even more hopefully I will get the phone call eventually that will offer the old, chuckling voice and the familiar mangling of my name and the confirmation that he is still okay and eagerly looking for another windmill to put his boot into. Vaya con Dios amigo...

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