British Open: The major Major
IN: News | by Grant Dodd | 13 Aug 2007
“This is British Open?”
It was a deceptively simple question, in effect rhetorical, and more a statement than anything requiring a response. It didn’t matter how I responded anyway. Other than this, KJ didn’t speak any English, and I no Korean.
My room-mate was probably used to more salubrious surroundings than a tiny, third floor attic in suburban Southport, England. I’m not sure what he objected to the most. Perhaps it was the fact that neither of us could stand up in the room, the sloping roof where the children’s sized beds were located necessitating a hunched-over approach. Maybe it was simply that we didn’t fit in those beds, or that there was no bathroom, or cupboards, or well, anything.
So, in the midst of one of the grandest moments in either of our careers to that point, KJ Choi managed with an economy of words to somehow perfectly capture our shared sense of incredulity. I couldn’t have put it better if I tried.
The Asian Tour of the day had offered to accommodate any tour member who qualified for the 1998 Open Championship. KJ and I were the only members to make it through on the Monday, one of the toughest days I had ever played golf in. We filled our part of the bargain, but instead of retiring to a comfortable room for the night – on July 13, 1998 – the two of us were ducking our heads as we stared in disbelief at our supposed lodgings (and room mates) for the week.
It might have been laughable, except for the fact that it wasn’t funny. Neither of us had compromise on our minds when it came to our goals for the week. Of course, we weren’t supposed to be rooming together, it was simply that the Asian Tour had forgotten to book rooms for us. Given that it was already 10pm, we had no other choice but to see out the night. I slept on the floor. We both left for digs of a slightly more suitable quality the next day.
The contrast though with the sheer magnificence of everything else that surrounded us that week was impossible to miss. The scale and sense of occasion is beyond anything that you can envision, relative to any preordained perception of the possibilities of professional golf. Yes, it is likely that the US Masters or the US Open are as, or more grand, or just “more”, but The Open Championship simply has an indefinable something that can’t be replicated by contrivance or money.
But how do you demonstrate, with the written word, that sense of “je ne sais quoi”? How do you do justice to the greatest golf tournament on earth? In attempting to describe it, to capture the essence of its character, the temptation is to try to relate and deliver ones personal experience, when in reality that feeling cannot be properly translated.
For instance, how do you capture the respectfulness and involvement of the crowd, surely the most knowledgeable spectators in world sport? Spectators who understand that the low, boring, into-the-wind knuckle ball and the chip-and-run are art forms, and acknowledge it accordingly. Spectators who self police the behaviour of their companions, who project a sense of privilege and excitement that they are creating, and sharing in, a moment in history.
How do you capture the difficulty of the golf course and the conditions? Of Royal Troon in 1997, when on the back nine on the Thursday there were four par four holes that most of the field couldn’t reach in two, where the best greens in regulation statistic in the afternoon field for the nine was three. Of par fours like 18 where many couldn’t even reach the fairway. Of playing the 18th hole at 9:45pm, bringing in the flags as the last group, with not a soul left on the course bar the scorers.
How do you relate the delayed, fatigue induced disappointment and ignominy of missing the cut, of the pain of depriving yourself of two more days of odyssey-like adventure. Of the subsequent mirror gazing, the self examination, the what if’s and could-have-beens.
In truth, you can’t. The experience is particular to you, and you alone, but the common themes of triumph and failure, winning and losing, and striving to achieve are known to many. Perhaps that shared knowledge is a metaphorical bridge to a place as immortal as The Open Championship.
In 1997, I walked down the 18th hole of Royal Troon on the Friday, side by side with the French golfer Raphael Jacquelin. We were both comfortably missing the cut, and yet the people in the packed grandstands gave us a thunderous ovation, full of cheer and joy and respect. It was the most incredible feeling, a momentary validation of a life spent pursuing excellence (however unfaithful a partner) and of all the great things that the game of golf embodies at its finest.
We hadn’t spoken much through the two days, as Raphael didn’t speak a lot of English at the time, but somehow I wanted to find a way to share the moment with him. Things were at a stalemate until it came to me, the only French phrase I could remember. . “Tres Bien?”, I asked, simultaneously gesturing to the crowds. He looked up, at first somewhat bewildered by my inappropriate and amateurish turn of phrase. Then a big smile broke out, and he nodded back with a chuckle, “Oui, tres bien…tres bien”.
And that, in its simplicity, somehow captures the essence of The Open Championship. It is, if you get my drift, “Tres bien”.
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