March 30, 1998

Social or monetary handicap can't stop Firoz Ali.

By Udayan Namboodiri

Another morning has broken at Madartala, the shanty town that lines the outer wall of Hole Number Three at the Royal Calcutta Golf Club (RCGC). The men have already vanished, gone to work as caddies for the sahibs eager to play the pre-office nine rounds, and the women collected around the community water tap. Nothing seems to have changed. Oh, but it has. In one of the few concrete houses in the locality sits an unusual man. Two days ago he became the third Indian ever to win the Classic Indian Open -- Indian golf's most coveted prize. He has $50,010 (Rs 20 lakh) under his belt, a brand new Omega on his wrist, and he's one of India's latest sporting sensations. Funny thing is, Firoz Ali can't be a member of the very club he's won at.

This class system is one of golf's most startling ironies. You can be gifted enough to hold off the best from the Asian tour, but no one forgets which side of the tracks you're from. It irritates Firoz. It bothers him most that every time they write and speak of him, the words 'caddie-golfer' are affixed to his name. As if it were some low caste.

"We hate the Indian press for calling us caddie-golfers. Abroad we get respect for our professional standing, but here you guys keep reminding us of our lowly status." Perhaps Firoz sees no merit in the romanticism of it all -- the caddie turned champion, the rags to riches story. Perhaps it is exactly what he is trying to escape, the constant mention of his status. "The bane of golf," he continues, "is its identification with a social set. Only rich people are allowed to play which defeats professionalism." He is not quite finished yet. "Why, only the other day Arjun (Atwal, another gifted Calcutta player) carried bags for me. He wanted to pick up the finer points and his high status in life did not affect him. But will you guys call him a caddie-golfer?" For him then to win -- as Ali Sher did in 1992 and 1993 -- is surely a vindication that it's not the expensive brand of clubs you carry but how you use them that counts. On the course, caste is irrelevant.

Ali's story is an unusual one, yet not unique to golf. In Spain many years ago, a young peasant boy disallowed from playing on the course would sneak into the grounds at midnight and hit stones with a broken club by the light of the moon. His name was Severiano Ballesteros and he become the world's finest player. In India too, players like Basad Ali and Ali Sher and even Chini (Firoz's brother) have proved that being disadvantaged doesn't mean they can't win. But it's hard.

Madartala, where Firoz grew up, is a bizarre place. As the elders remember, golf balls used to land on the rice-stalk roofs of the houses at all hours of the day. Little boys recognised the soft thuds with which they fell and clambered to find them. They were then sold back to the sahibs to supplement the family incomes. When Firoz was 14 and old enough, he joined his father Raushan and older brothers Rizwan and Chini in the parking lot of the rcgc, waiting for members to drive up. A club borrowed, lessons from his father, and a golfer was born. Not so easily. Once, he recalls, "I applied for sponsorship to avail of a course abroad but I didn't make the grade." Why? "Because I couldn't speak English."

He did not back down. Today, he's financially better off. And if the club still baulks at membership, he at least can use the pool, eat at its restaurant. He says quietly: "I'm proud of my self-made status." He will find no disagreement. His journey is complete.

Not quite. There's one thing more this man wants. Respect. It means, don't, please, call a very good player a caddie-golfer anymore. Champion golfer will do just fine.

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