The Hacker: My markers are magic – now all I need is the medal to prove it

It was Gary Player who first coined the expression "It's funny, but the more I practice, the luckier I get" in a dry response to a compliment about some outrageous good fortune.

It is perfectly true, of course, but for most of us who play golf as a hobby, endless, repetitive ball-hitting is anon-starter under both the time and desire headings.

But conversely, luck is something hackers need more than most. And if we don't acquire it on the range, it has to come from somewhere else. And for heaven's sake, even Tiger Woods agrees; he wears his lucky red shirt on Sundays, doesn't he?

My own talismans are a small range of ball markers, and apparently I am notalone. Thomas Levet, for instance, swears by one witha shamrock on it since finding it at Woburn just before winning a four-man playoff.

A sports psychologistwill not sneer at the idea. If something is associated with success (and never mind winning tournaments; it can be an achievement as basic as hitting two consecutive good shots) then the two are paired mentally as cause and effect.

After a colleague brought me a marker from the Masters four years ago, I cut my handicap by two next time out. It is still my favourite – it's a lovely weight, lies very flat, and is clearly imbued with magical properties – but there are now others I feel almost as good about playing with, such as my Walker Cup one from Royal County Down, and a pinkone with sparkly Swarovski crystals on it. Mustn't get too anal about it.

But a week ago, playing in the last of the season's Texas scrambles in absolutely vile weather, I lost one of the special ones, from the Thai Country Club in Bangkok. My putt was the one used on the 18th green, 10 feet from the pin. Alan was the last to play, and after placing his ball he flicked the marker towards me. His putt missed, but the marker went straight intothe hole.

He couldn't have done it again if he'd tried, but unfortunately the cup was brimming with rainwater and the marker sank without trace, down to the deepest, narrowest part.

Alan tried to get it out, but only pushed it further in. I tried, and felt it briefly and tantalisingly before it slithered out of reach into deeper ooze.

The groups behind were starting to back up in a distinctly unamused fashion as the two of us scrabbled on our knees on a sodden green in pouring rain and, sadly, the marker had to be abandoned.

I think it was David Lynn who won his maiden European Tour title a week after losing a faithful Wedgwood China marker that had served him for 10 years. I was resigned to moving on, after a suitable period of mourning.

But up at the club five days later an envelope was waiting for me in the pro shop. Alan had only gone and asked the greenkeepers to look for it when they moved the pin position the following dayand, bless them for pandering to a sad whim, they not only bothered to do that, butfound it.

Some, of course, would say that, in terms of my standard of play, it matters not one jot which one I use, and they may have a point. But I hope to disprove it in this week's medal, reunited with the marker of the east.