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Severiano Ballesteros is weeping. The tears do not come gently, but in a torrent, in a sudden epiphany about what it means to die. Alone in this vast house above the Bay of Santander, there is too much time for Ballesteros to contemplate his own mortality. He claims he could never live anywhere else, and when you see the walls of the local clubhouse plastered with his picture, when you pass the tumbledown farm building where he was born, you start to see his point. But Pedreña, the place he once described as "my paradise", harbours too many memories for comfort. Frail and emotionally fragile, he wanders through the rooms of the house alone, his three children having left to live with their mother Carmen, Ballesteros's wife of 16 years, in Madrid. His doctors have counselled that he needs peace, rest and the salty sea air to recover from the ravages of brain surgery. They did not mention solitude. It is at an early stage during this, his only major newspaper interview since his 18-month ordeal began, that a sense of helplessness, a raw fear about not being able to support his family, first manifests itself. I have asked about what he would like for Javier, his 19-year-old son, who apparently has his heart set on emulating his father's exploits in professional golf. "All I want from Javier is to be a good person," he says, before dissolving in heaving sobs. I am asked to leave the living room. Ivan, Ballesteros's nephew, who acts as his manager and protector, comes out after a few minutes to make a plea. "He gets very emotional when talking about the family," he explains. "I know you have to go through these questions, but please try to make it easy for him." For a while longer I remain in the hallway, glancing at a portrait of the young Seve in his most iconic pose: navy-blue sweater, clenched fist, open mouth, roaring in happiness of his Open victory at St Andrews 26 years ago.
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