Photo: DR

A formidable sports writer, who nourished a passion as burning for the little white ball as for the oval ball, the “Dab '” (so he had been nicknamed some of his champion friends, Yannick Noah, in particular) had just been awarded by the French Academy for his latest novel, with such a moving title, "God picks up the copies", released in April 2019 at Atlantica ...

The work had already been rewarded by the literary jury of the Hussars, last spring, then by the Prix Lamartine of the departments of France, in October. Unfortunately, "The Sixteenth man of the Fifteen of France" will not have had the joy of going under the Cupola for the annual meeting of the Academy, where he was to be honored by the Immortals, a first for a French sports journalist.

Vagenende 2019 - © Alain de Chantérac

Feather star of "The Team", just like his great friend Antoine Blondin, Denis Lalanne officiated nearly four decades in the sports daily. If he officially retired in 1991, he remained, for a few more seasons, a very special journalist during the golf Grand Slam.

From the beginning of the 1970s, Denis celebrated the most venerable links hosting the British Open and that other Eden Park that Augusta National was for him. When spring returned, he found his friends from the American press, Furman Bisher and Loran Smith, in Georgia.

Nicknamed the Three Musketeers, these high-flying chroniclers and men of art, had become accustomed to living together the greatest events of the calendar, sharing the roof, bread, wine and some great emotions. Like that unforgettable Sunday, April 13, 1986, when Jack Nicklaus won his sixth green jacket at the Masters at the age of 46 and brought his total of major victories to eighteen, an unmatched record to date.

Author of "Grand Combat du Quinze de France", cult book retracing the South African epic of Lucien Mias' gang that beat the Spingboks in 1958, and about fifteen other books, Denis Lalanne offered his readers the first French novel entirely devoted to golf, in 1995 .

With the kind permission of his daughter Laurence, to whom we send, once again, our most sincere condolences, we offer you some extracts from this "Long Sunday in the Countryside" (published by Robert Laffont and unfortunately sold out), as well as some others, taken from his essay "Three Bullets in the Skin" (La Martinière, 2011), or "Golf, the novel of the year", chronicle of the four lifts of the Slam, published by Solar at the end of 1987. All the spirit, all the talent and the sensitivity of Denis are reflected in these pieces of anthology devoted to the noble and ancient game.

Photo: DR

Golf 1987, the novel of the year

“To tell the story of great golf and its characters, the golf of major tournaments and its lyrical heroes, its historic strokes, is to commit not to deceive anyone and to present the most exciting and also the most convincing version of this game, because the history of the British Open goes back to 1860, that of the US Open to 1885, and that, it is not a whim of time, it is a tradition, a vibrant sporting saga, one of the few , no doubt, which have come down to us, with an absolutely intact sense of honor, gallantry, respect for the game and the opponent, also in all intelligence between the player and the spectator, the latter practicing enough himself not to shout at a missed putt. "

“The course is always the first hero of a great golf championship, as true as the grass, for example, is the darling prince of Wimbledon, the master of everything, of the tournament and of its contenders. We speak of the journey as a living character. It is called "The Monster", like the one in Oakland Hills, Detroit, or "The Champion" like the one in Palm Beach Gardens, Florida. We worship him or insult him, but he is above all familiarity and tenderness that we have for his ball in mid-flight: "Come on ball, honey!" Go ahead my casserole. It is because the ball is a friend, when the course, on the contrary, is the enemy, a formidable and magnificent enemy for any sportsman worthy of the name. With him, the dialogue evokes rather that of the “Old Man and the Sea”: “I respect you Fish, you're a big fish, but I'll get…. "

Photo: DR

A long Sunday in the countryside

“On the evening of the second round, drunk with images, emotions and wind, they were about to leave the scene, when passing in front of the training field, they were surprised to find Jack Nicklaus hitting balls there. endlessly. The last part was in, the charcoal of twilight was blurring the lines of the ridges, the lights shimmered from the windows of the clubhouse and the munificent chandeliers of the tent of the Royal and Ancient of St. Andrews, the all-powerful gaming government. hoarse choirs rose from a nearby tent, which was that of a champagne firm. Policemen with imposing casings raised with indulgences of mothers, to protect them from the humidity which rose from the ground and to sit them under the trees, some drinkers who had too presumed of their own tonnage. The shadow that fell from the sky threw a friendly veil over those moments of abandonment when the most successful player of all time was still working like a madman at the driving range. "

“Admiral Nelson, Dr Thomas Arnold, Rudyard Kipling, Baden-Powell, Churchill, Montgomery and the others, not to mention the long beard of Tom Morris Sr. and the pipe of Harry Vardon, fathers of modern champions, one would think that 'they're all there, lined up behind the bay window of the clubhouse, holders of old empire consciousness, tea science, banking and sports whist, mother and turf, to measure the indignity of the player at the start of St. Andrews Old Course. This is the crushing moment when the reckless would willingly exchange their place for a nineteenth hole to escape the sight of the immortals. "

Photo: DR

Three Balls in the Skin

"The gloriole trade is not in the shade. There is no longer a football goal that is not "exceptional", a champion who is not "immense", a star who is not "superstar", a match which is not "crazy". There are also expressions that are now very common, such as “extraterrestrial” or “galactic”. Good Lord ! In congratulation, what will be left for the champions to come? We were showered in 2009 with "Federer best player of all time" for his first victory at Roland Garros (very timely to make us forget the elimination of Nadal that the same announced us invincible), not without welcoming the presence in the comments by Björn Borg, “before whom (I quote) tennis was only a confidential sport”. This is especially true if we measure merit by the intensity of the uproar (…).

The mixing of times is as jarring as the mixing of genres. Raymond Kopa, prophet of Platini and Zidane, swore to me that he had never played with a footballer more dazzling than this ageless Moroccan - but certainly over 40 years old - who was his partner on one occasion that he never forgot. The name of this player: Larbi Ben Barek! The pre-war “Black Pearl”! Simply Ben Barek was playing football like Cerdan on his left and Django on his injured hand.

Without going so far back, the British Open of Golf in 2009 provided us with a blinding reason to doubt the title of greatest player of all time, even if applied to Tiger Woods himself. A ghost presumed exhausted in his sixtieth year of his age, Tom Watson, took the lead alone at the start of the 72nd and final hole at Turnberry! For four days, he resisted the young wolves of the generation of Tiger Woods, himself eliminated on the evening of the second round. Of course, it was pathetic to watch old Tom do something irreparable on the very last green. But we had come close to the unbearable for the experts of the last hour: a sixty-year-old winner of a grand slam tournament in the supreme time of Tiger Woods. "