Ian Wood: Sergio's woes show he knows what's wrong but fixing it is another matter

The problem of doing something effective to correct situations which are getting out of hand has been with us for some time now, and the indications are that it will be around for a while yet. Experience suggests that the more that is supposed to be known about things, the less likely it is that anyone can do anything to right them when they do go wrong.

A clue to the nature of this eternal challenge to the ingenuity of the species is to be found in the old music hall exchange in which a doctor asks a patient: "Have you had this before?" to which the patient replies: "Yes", and the doctor says: "Well, you've got it again."

The Spanish golfer, Sergio Garcia, was given a whiff of the futility which lies in wait along life's highway, when he was interviewed during the Castello Masters tournament in Spain. Garcia has had a rough time of it lately, and missing the cut on home territory at the weekend did little to lighten his darkness.

He endured the interview with patience and with a composure which, under the circumstances, was remarkable. There was just one moment when he betrayed the faintest trace of discomfort and that came when the usual ground had been covered - the "how do you feel?" and "where do you go from here?" bit. The direction of the interview then changed specifically to his swing problems and the interviewer put to him a question, the gist of which, in simple terms, was: what did he think was the matter? Garcia paused, gave a slightly pained smile and said, politely, that if he knew what the matter was, he'd have done something about it already.

It was a moment when, for a split-second, restraint teetered on the brink, and it brought to mind a somewhat lighter but still intriguing episode during a tournament some years ago, when a luminary of the European Tour staggered into the press tent to be interviewed after a round played in a storm which, even as he spoke, was threatening to move the wildly flapping tent, together with its occupants, to a new location.

Somehow the interview was held amidst the din and, as it drew towards a close, a late question was delivered by a representative of an international news agency who was charged with providing a line of some sort by the hour, on the hour, to practically every centre in the world. There really wasn't much to be said, but he had to try. "Tell me," he asked meekly, "was the wind a factor out there?" There was a pause, during which even the elements seemed to quieten and cower.The golfer, his hair awry, his storm-lashed face aglow, fixed his questioner with a basilisk stare and said icily: "Was the wind a factor?" and then, going up a couple of decibels, roared: "WAS THE WIND A FACTOR?" I think the reporter took that as a definite yes.

On the technique front, the young Italian, Matteo Manassero, was being discussed by various gurus in the TV commentary box the other night, and it was solemnly declared by one and all that he'd need to find another 20 or 30 yards in length - presumably they meant on drives and so forth - if he was to have any hope of getting to the very top. That seems a bit harsh, for he's operating reasonably near the top right now and he can hardly have stopped growing. Still, while his public breathlessly await the arrival of that extra muscle and bulk, the lad himself can take some consolation from the fact he's rarely off the fairway, putts like a dream, and yesterday became, at 17, the European Tour's youngest ever winner when he captured the Castello Masters by four shots.

Meanwhile, Martin Laird continues to impress in the US, though I might have to stop watching him for I'm beginning to get the feeling that my presence - even at long-range - is not doing him any good. I've noticed this sort of thing before. Racehorses, for instance, tend to sweat up and keel over with bouts of coughing at my approach, and they certainly never look like winning.

On the same tack, I'm quite convinced that Andy Murray only won the other week because I didn't tune in. Whenever I watch him he begins to look exhausted and reaches for bandages and sustaining potions.

It's not quite the same with Scotland football teams, of course. I watch them if I feel like it, for over a long period I have become more or less convinced that it doesn't matter whether I watch them or not, because they lose anyway. I used to watch them regularly, but found I was beginning to do most of my viewing from behind the couch, which, by the way, is how I watch scary films.

Incidentally, the last time I went as a spectator, as opposed to a reporter, to a Scotland match, I was among 135,000 people at Hampden Park and Scotland beat England 1-0, Alan Gilzean scoring the goal, which, I think, makes it 1964.

These days, however, I seem to have a malign influence on Scottish sportsmen or women I seek to support, and for that reason I gave Martin Laird a break last night and switched off.