It's a dangerous thought to sow in the head of Tom Cox, but I'm left with the nagging feeling that if he'd stuck with being a professional long enough he'd do alright one day. The honesty that runs through `Sergio' is painful in places, but it's heartwarming for him to admit to the one emotion that professionals are supposed to rise above - pure unadulterated fear. Fear of cocking it up, looking like a twat, and ending up wearing tangerine coloured nylon. Cox risked two of these but wisely steered well clear of the third, clinging firmly instead to his REO Speedwagon baseball cap for sartorial elegance.
He could be regarded as the antithesis of Michelle Wie. Unhyped, dare I say humble, not female, with a swing that can pure it. Trouble is their scoring is rather too similar. Even so, I'd put my money on Cox any day.
You can enjoy reading `Sergio' if you're a seasoned golfer or as someone who's never donned anything with a Nike or Slazenger logo and enjoy it immensely. I've been brought up with the game, a posh kid with a berrylium copper Ping wedge/spoon in my mouth, but the game always made me feel solitary, like you're up against something far more immense than you and nothing and nobody can face it but you alone. Scarey and, as this book proves, utterly hilarious.
Mr. Cox - when you need a mixed foursomes partner (I'm thinking of the prestigious Worplesdon foursomes), count me in. Failing that I'll see you at the next Urban Golf Open. And if you head back to the Tour, please don't tell them I suggested it.