BURDEKIN TO BIG-TIME

The Country Girl Who Became a Golf Legend

By Jacob Casha

Alberta, Canada, 1999. Five strokes off the lead at the du Maurier Classic, a 24-year-old Karrie Webb looked every bit the underdog—but she was used to that.

Hole by hole, she clawed her way back, sinking four birdies in her last five holes, each one a rebellion against the script.

A declaration that a country girl could not only stand among the world’s best, but best them.

And by the end of the 18th, after a deft chip and a nerveless putt, Karrie had rewritten the whole story—standing there, clutching her first career LPGA major as the Webb surname, long synonymous with a modest north Queensland community, was now on lips around the globe.

Though beneath the cheek-to-cheek grin, beer-soaked jubilation, and the six other majors she would tack onto her illustrious resume beyond that point, she remained exactly what she’d always been—a country girl, who forged her way to the top by doing different, being different, and being...

Burdekin.

From Small-Town Swings to Worldwide Wins

Born in Australia’s Sugarcane Capital to locals Robert and Evelyn Webb in 1974, Karrie experienced the Burdekin like many of us.

Her upbringing was a rich mixture of family barbecues, the occasional Tavern dinner, fishing trips, and sport—typical for the region, most would say. Yet, this young local was anything but typical, and the signs of an anomaly began to reveal themselves quite early.

“Around grade one, one of my teachers was worried about me because I was always playing with the boys,” said Karrie. “The boys played sport, while all the girls were playing with their dolls and stuff. That didn't interest me.”

Karrie dabbled in most sports on the Ayr State School grounds, most notably cricket. But it was back in 1979, at just four years old, that she first stepped onto the golf course alongside her grandfather, clattering balls down the Ayr Golf Club fairways with her flimsy little plastic clubs.

The family, including young Karrie, were club regulars. “My parents were really active members when I was little. My parents would be up [in the clubhouse] after they played and all the kids would be downstairs, running around, playing in the bunkers and all sorts of things. It was just a great, great time,” she said.

By 8, she had received her first real set of clubs ready for Saturday morning junior competitions. Though, at that point, golf was still vying with cricket for her full attention.

“I loved cricket,” she said. “I had dreams to play cricket for Australia.”

However, come age 11, her true path began to take shape.

It was 1986. Queensland Open. A then-dominant Greg Norman was looking to secure his second home-state open victory in just three years—and that, he did. But watching on as Norman strutted to a six-shot victory was an inspired Karrie, who was left mesmerised… Hooked.

“I just couldn't believe how many people were there to watch people play golf. I was like, ‘you can do this for a job? How amazing!’ And when I returned home, I told my parents ’I want to be a professional golfer.’”

That’s where, in a town more known for its cane farms than its courses, her unlikely rise to the top would begin. A rise that would give way to nothing, and no one, despite prevailing doubts among the community.

"My parents had so many adults that were saying, 'you need to tamper her dream... A little girl from Ayr is never going to be a professional golfer,’” she said.

“In my Deb Ball video, I came down the aisle and they introduced me: ‘Karrie is the daughter of so and so… she goes to Ayr State High School, and in the future, she’d like a career in the golf industry... working at a golf resort or something.’ And I was watching it thinking, 'when did I ever think I wanted to do that?' But back when I was in school, I always felt like I had to come up with something to avoid saying I wanted to be a professional golfer, because that’s not what people want to hear.”

After all, global success didn’t often come out of Ayr, and it wasn’t just the distance that made it hard. Karrie remembers the hurdles she faced at every Queensland junior golf camp, and the unspoken assumptions, made quite unequivocally apparent, that country golfers didn’t belong on the state team.

“There was a real country stigma back then,” she said. “I wasn’t considered as polished as kids that go to private schools down South. I was just this country kid… that didn't fit the mould.”

Golf Queensland state team selectors kept her at arm’s length, refusing to pay for her flights down to the Brisbane camps in what Karrie saw as attempts eliminate her from the state team equation. They soon learned it would take much more than that.

From the age of 14, she would embark on nearly two days of Greyhound bus travel for each camp. No mobile phones. No TikTok. Just the hum of the road, ache of the seats, and the patience to endure. Thursday night to Brisbane, collected by her great-aunt for weekend training, Sunday night the long ride back, reaching Townsville only on Monday evening, and missing school along the way.

“I think it was [Golf Queensland’s] way of breaking me. But I never really questioned it. It was like, I just have to do it. If I want to make the state team, I have to do that.”

“[Apart from resilience], the one thing it taught me is I never want to go anywhere on a bus again. I did that for three, four years, and I can still smell the inside of buses,” she laughed.

To embark on that journey at such a young age was remarkable in itself. With the courage to turn a blind eye to the obstacles and deaf ear to the doubters, she revealed a degree of maturity well beyond her years. Yet, she says the real secret was quite the opposite.

“I was just naive. I thought, 'if I just practice harder, I’ll be better,'" she said. "It was a naive approach, because so much of the process is mental, but putting in the work made my mind believe, ‘I’ve done the time, so the reward will come.’”

It was this mindset, coupled with her rapid trajectory, that made her content to stay home rather than move to a bigger city. In fact, to her, living in Ayr was her superpower in many ways.

“I had access to a golf course way more than my friends in the cities, and I always took that as my advantage. I was able to improve my game way easier than they were, because they had restricted access to their golf courses [due to membership popularity],” she said.

“Meanwhile, I kept improving to the point where I ended up becoming the best amateur in the country. So I thought, ‘why do I need to go to Brisbane?’"

"I probably would’ve had to change coach as well, which I didn't want to do.”

Enter, Kelvin Haller—Burdekin local, and an accomplished, self-taught regional golfer in his own right. A friend of Karrie’s mother, he became her coach when she was just 12, and from the very first day, everything clicked. From refining her swing to regularly caddying for her, Karrie very much credits Haller for shaping the foundations that facilitated her greatness.

“Everything I knew about golf was from him. He was my first hero in golf,” she said.

When Haller suffered a life-altering accident in 1990 that left him a quadriplegic, he didn’t step back. He remained Karrie’s guiding force despite his physical limitations, and it was under his tutelage that she embarked on one of the swiftest, most remarkable ascents the sport had ever witnessed.

In 1995, she became the youngest ever Women’s British Open champion at just 20. Within a year she had secured her LPGA Tour card and in 1996, in only her second start on America’s top women’s tour, she won the HealthSouth Inaugural in a sudden‑death playoff. She captured four titles that rookie season, becoming the first woman ever to earn over US $1 million in a single LPGA season, walking away with Rookie of the Year honours.

Despite this rapid global success far, far from home, the Burdekin parts of her was still recognisable from a mile away. The same girl who was pipping some of the world's best golfers to trophies was still walking barefoot into Subway’s in Orlando, copping stares as she pointed her ingredients out through the display glass. She had also retained her sharp, country wit—wit that she admitted didn’t always translate across the Pacific.

“I played most of my golf with boys here in Ayr, and they loved banter and sarcasm… Here, proper sarcasm’s delivered with a straight face. They didn't get that [in the US]. They didn’t get sarcasm unless you said it smiling or had a smirk of some sort on your face, so I think they took that as me being bratty.”

Karrie was used to being misunderstood. Except, this time, all the quirks of this quiet little Burdekin girl were now on show for the world—which, she recalls, didn’t always serve her well.

“At that stage I had no media training,” she said with a smirk. “People were like, ‘you need to have media training,’ but I wasn’t gonna go and be fake just because they didn’t like who I was.”

“The LPGA actually didn't really help me very much there either. They were looking for someone different to lead the next generation… someone outgoing and boisterous, and that wasn't me.”

Karrie, by this point, had become somewhat notorious for her media shyness—which was fine by her. She preferred to do her talking on the course, a notion to which her 41 LPGA Tour trophies and eventual World Golf Hall of Fame induction would attest.

Although still a registered pro, she has since dialled back her tour involvement, allowing for more time with family and friends back home in North Queensland. She has her namesake tournament—the Karrie Webb Junior Masters—every October in Ayr, which continues to steadily grow in participation. This year featured its biggest ever field of 105 participants, some of which, ironically, made the trip up from Brisbane.

Karrie admits she can't help but see herself in some of the kids. For her, it represents an opportunity to impart her knowledge to the next generation of ambitious Burdekinites.

“I never had anyone that had that level of experience when I was a kid. So, to be able to give that experience to them… is fun to do," she said.

“There are a couple of kids up here that I know want to make it, and they talk about how it's hard from up here. And I say, ‘well, I did it. Don’t make that your excuse.”

“You’ve just got to love the game, and it has to be your passion, not your parent's passion. Nothing ever felt like a sacrifice for me. You just have to want to put in the work.”

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