Peter Corrigan: The dinosaur's fear: being beaten by a woman

Is it fear that drives players such as Greg Norman to denounce the presence of women in the top men's golf tournaments; fear of being beaten by one? This is not a question I would dare ask, but Paul Casey is not afraid to offer it as the reason for the opposition of Norman and others to having a female in their midst.

Casey, a 26-year-old Englishman, is an appropriate man to make the suggestion because he is the defending champion of the ANZ tournament which takes place in New South Wales this week, and to which Laura Davies has been invited to play by the organisers.

Dismissing it as a "bandwagon" move, Norman reckons that women playing in men's events is a mistake. "We can't play on the women's tour because you have to be born female," he said. "It's time we protected ourselves in the same way." His use of the word "protected" is interesting, as is his request that his colleagues should be allowed to take a vote on it.

That such depth of feeling about the fairer sex should exist in golf would not be a surprise to anyone familiar to the game, and certainly not to any women golfers. But even allowing for tradition, Norman's singling out of Davies as the object of his attack is at the very least ungallant, and will put her under a great deal of added pressure when the tournament starts on Thursday.

As someone whose career has given the women's game, and golf in general, a tremendous boost, Davies has the experience and character to cope with extra adversity. But one of golf's main strengths is its sportsmanship and etiquette, and seeking to embarrass a fellow competitor is certainly against the spirit of the game.

Norman didn't complain when the phenomenal Michelle Wie played in the Sony Open in Hawaii at the age of 14 last month. Indeed, he admits to being impressed with her. If he thinks he's seen the last of her, and probably a few more like her eventually, he might have to revise his views.

I have a vested interest in the subject. I've spent 10 years being scorned for expressing in this column the seriously held view that one day a woman will win The Open. I don't expect to be alive to see it but I believe it will happen, and Wie has proved that it's much less outrageous a prediction 10 years on.

Not that I think that Wie is the one to win The Open - anyway, she has her eyes fixed firmly on the US Masters - but she is providing the most convincing evidence yet of the hitherto unrecognised potential of her sex. As she gets older the pressure on her may be too enormous for her to develop properly. But in 10 years' time the world may have five like her, and in 20 years a dozen or more. They'll take some stopping.

Changes will have to occur in the meantime, the main one being the disappearance of the division between men and women. We will all play one game. This is not the first time I have suggested this, and I do so as a veteran of the battle of the sexes at club level. I am a fully paid-up dinosaur and resisted giving the ladies equality at my club. I did so mainly for economic reasons that apply less these days, and I don't apologise for it.

But I do see that the only way we are going to progress is to sweep away divisions that were imposed a century or more ago, when women were far more fragile and fragrant than they are now.

The first step will come in the admin-istration of the game at amateur level. We are close to having a unified handicapping system for both sexes and we can't be far away from unifying the lot. If golf had started in modern times we wouldn't be playing separate games administered by separate unions.

As one official explained to me, if golf had just been invented it would be ridiculous for men and women to play separate games administered by separate unions - and girls would have the oppor-tunity to play alongside boys from an early age. Meanwhile, we may not avoid a revolt among star males against women muscling in on their preserve, but the brave Paul Casey deserves the last word.

"It's all to do with fear. Fear of being beaten by a woman."

Thanks a Lottery

News that the National Audit Office have been called in to examine why nearly £3bn of Lottery money is still being sat on by the Government comes not a moment too soon. Some of us have been banging on for years about the painfully sluggish distribution of funds. At least the figure has reduced slightly. Last time I moaned about it, there was £3.6bn being hoarded, and despite promises to dole it out, only a dribble has emerged.

Even the Culture Secretary, Tessa Jowell, confessed in Parliament last week that public confidence in proper management of Lottery funds was threatened by "the unacceptably high level of Lottery balances". Only part of that money is earmarked for sport, but it is eagerly awaited for vital work.

Just last week, I wrote about the slow distribution of the £750m promised three years ago to revive school sport. Only £8.5m has so far been spent on this screamingly urgent project. That's only part of the jammed-up cash.

The fact that the whole of the home counties will not possess an Olympic-size swimming pool once the one at Crystal Palace closes soon demonstrates that we're not short of priorities. Is it any wonder that there is nobody from London in our Olympic swimming squad?

We should have a regular list of what funding is earmarked for what projects. The sale of Lottery tickets could well improve if we had a better view of where all our money is going.

Head for history

Bob Stokoe would not have been pleased to hear it, but he figured in one of the few highlights of my undistinguished footballing career. Stokoe, the stalwart centre-half of the great Newcastle United side of the Fifties, died last week, and much deserved respect has been paid to his career as a player and manager (he took Second Division Sunderland to a famous FA Cup win against Leeds in 1973).

While he was managing Charlton Athletic in the mid-Sixties he often used to play for the local paper in the unofficial Press League we used to have in those days. I was working for the old Sun then, and was tolerated as centre-forward in their team purely because I could make a passable attempt at heading the ball. Below the neck I was useless.

One day I was horrified to find myself up against Stokoe. Lovely man, but as hard and bristling as old-fashioned centre-halves were prone to be.

I caused him no trouble at all until a corner come over and I leapt high and, to my surprise, was unchallenged as I nodded the ball into the net. Stokoe's face revealed that being beaten by a snotty-nosed football reporter was not the peak of his sporting experience. "I didn't bother to jump," he offered as an explanation.

It ruined his day, and I offered him a consolation: "Aren't you happy I'll be able to tell my grandchildren that I beat the great Bob Stokoe in the air?" I asked.

"No, I'm bloody well not," he answered. I haven't got any grandchildren, so I had to share it with someone. Sorry, Bob.