The year was 1999. September. As any golf enthusiast knows, every two years the sporting world is treated to one of its grandest spectacles - The Ryder Cup.

Up until then, golf had barely registered on my radar. A few fleeting glances here and there, sure, but nothing that ever stuck. However, that all changed one particular weekend. A weekend that, by all accounts, shouldn’t have been remarkable. But it was.

My Mum had decided it was finally time to install a Sky dish. While the sun shone brightly over The Country Club in Brookline, home to that year’s Ryder Cup, it felt like winter had already arrived in the UK. The engineer, battling wind and drizzle, was unable to mount the dish to the side of the house. Plan B? Prop it up in the middle of the garden. Barely balanced. Wildly temperamental.

We had a picture. Then we lost it. We had a picture. Then we lost it again. That became the rhythm of my very first Ryder Cup experience.

I must’ve sprinted down those stairs and out the back door a hundred times, adjusting that satellite dish with the delicate precision of Seve Ballesteros. Each movement brought a flicker of the signal back, just long enough to catch a shot, a cheer, or a commentator’s gasp. It was chaos. It was brilliant.

Somehow, we managed to catch the end. Just in time to see the winning putt. Not a European one, unfortunately. "A putt heard around the world” was my first experience of the Ryder Cup & possibly the most influential transition of my love for this game.

A game that has taught me so much - given me many moments of pure happiness, stillness, a sense of flow if you will - but also one that humbles you quickly, lets you know it is a game that you never truly conquer, but love it just as much because of it!