I’m not sure where the time goes but I’ve just racked up my 25th Open Championship. I thought the R&A would’ve commissioned a limited-edition commemorative dish rag to flog in the merchandise tent at Royal Troon. But they didn’t. Maybe for my 50th, eh?
Anyway, if you were to document this glorious longevity in visual form then it would probably look a bit like that old illustration that portrayed the ascent of man. You know, that one that starts with an ape-like figure shuffling around on all fours and slowly morphs into a striding, upright human?
Of course, my evolution at The Open has slithered the other way. The descent of man if you please.
After a quarter-of-a-century spent hunched, slumped and contorted over the laptop, your correspondent now resembles some primitive, grunting, knuckle-dragging ancestor of the bloomin’ gibbon line.
The 152nd Open is done and dusted. In fact, the tin lid has been shoved onto men’s major season for another year. You’ve only got about nine months to wait until it all starts up again at the Masters.
The interminable previews of the Augusta showpiece will probably start tomorrow. Oh look, there’s a panning shot of Amen Corner and some syrupy schmaltz about a few flowers to get you in the mood.
The Masters, of course, has always benefitted from this prolonged sense of anticipation. As for the three other majors? Well, they come at us so quickly these days you half expect to hear a panicked shriek of ‘fore’ before ducking for cover.
Everything is a complete frenzy, isn’t it? Before a ball had been struck in anger at Royal Troon, all and sundry were being implored to enter the ticket ballot for the 2025 Open at Royal Portrush before the deadline at the end of this month. These are breathless times, folks.
The final men’s major of the year arrived amid a riot of sport on the other side of the pond. Thank goodness England’s football team didn’t win the Euros. The Open would’ve been relegated to the news in brief. Golf’s ongoing fight for relevance in this frantic environment goes on.
Scottie Scheffler speaks during the trophy ceremony after winning the 2024 Masters Tournament. (Photo: Michael Madrid-USA TODAY Sports)
I don’t know about you, but there’s a nagging feeling of unfulfillment as I chisel away at this column. You probably have the same niggle reading the thing.
The rotten summer hasn’t helped. Let’s face it, the last few weeks, by and large, have been as dank as Sawney…
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