The CSGA Links Volume 2 Issue 3 May, 2014 | Page 28

D

arren may have been groggy as he
started with three sloppy bogeys, but
he was still smiling and didn’t seem the
least bit bothered by the awful shots he’d hit. As
we stood on the fourth tee I recall wondering if all
the hype was exaggerated. When he played the
next six holes in six-under par to make the turn
in 32 I became a true believer. Not only was he a
great guy with quick wit, it was obvious that he
was a tremendous player.

At lunch I asked Darren what he knew
about Raymond Burns. Golf World had been
comparing the 16 year-old Burns to the great
Irish golfer, Ronan Rafferty. Both had grown up
at Warrenpoint Golf Club in Northern Ireland,
and Rafferty, winner of the R&A’s Boys Amateur
at age 15 and a Walker Cupper at 17, had also
been a prodigy some ten years earlier. Burns had
become the first teen to capture all four of the
top Irish junior championships (East, West, North
and South) and I had little doubt he’d be a great
addition to our golf team.

Darren confirmed that Raymie Burns
was an exceptional player, but expressed some
uncertainty about his academic capabilities.
Undeterred, I had an appointment that afternoon
with Raymond and his father, and I was convinced
that if the 16 year-old was anything like Ronan
Rafferty, or Darren Clarke, I would be signing the
next great Virginia Cavalier.
***

Above: Mike Moraghan and Darren Clarke at Mullingar Golf
Club, County Westmeath, Ireland - August, 1990

28

Connecticut State Golf Association

Years before attaining fame on the European and PGA tours,
J.P. Fitzgerald and Darren Clarke were among the top amateurs
in Ireland

T

he drive from Mullingar to Warrenpoint
was as memorable as the golf played
that morning. This was 1990, and “The
Troubles” around Belfast and throughout much
of Ulster were still an accepted part of daily life.
After a brief interrogation as to my intentions in
the North, I passed through the British troops
stationed at the border crossing. A short time
later the road took me through a small town
where traffic had been diverted to avoid a parade.
At every turn in the detour more British troops
stood dressed in full battle gear and armed with
automatic weapons. I guessed the town might
have been a hot spot or an IRA target. It was
clearly a Protestant enclave with placards bearing
the Red Hand of Ulster displayed in many windows.

A few hours earlier I’d been laughing over
lunch with Darren Clarke and now I was motoring
through a potential war zone. It was a bit more
unnerving than any four-footer I’d recently labored
over.

I arrived at Warrenpoint at precisely the
appointment time of 4:30, or as the Irish say,
“half-four.” I sat down in the club bar (by now I’d
learned that all business was best conducted in
a pub) with Raymond Burns to my right and his
father to my left. A group of older men, not unlike
Darren’s band of followers, huddled nearby. I
wasn’t sure if they would join the conversation or
were simply hoping to overhear it.

As I pulled a stack of papers from my