SATURDAY, JULY 22
Danielle didn't join us today, opting instead to sleep late and visit Ballater for some shopping. She REALLY wanted to find her Scottish wool sweater, which she did. It will come in real handy in Miami. She may have to make monthly side trips to see family in Michigan just to be able to wear the sweater!
This may seem strange, but as Danielle will vouch for, a bathroom makes a difference. And the bathrooms at The Open were a welcome relief to those in the States, of the port-a-potties that smell like a horse just died in the toilet. The Open had trailers that made it like a regular restroom with lines of urinals (I'm sure the women didn't have this, though) and a few toilet stalls.
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| Looking towards the clubhouse. No. 18 is on the right, No. 1 the left. |
Dad and I waited out the crowd to plop down at the exact same spot as Friday along the Swilken Burn. Also, two guys from Minnesota who we met on Friday were also in the same spot as Friday, having a great time imbibing lagers and making fellow Minnesotan Tom Lehman think that they were stalkers as they cheered - loudly - for him.
We did this from noon until 3, when all of the players had finished the first hole. Then we made our way up to the same grandstands as Friday next to the 17th green.
Why relegate ourselves to just one hole for both days? One of, if not the most, famous hole in the world, the 17th is a voyeur's paradise, fraught with danger from tee to green. Players must hit a blind tee shot over the corner of the St. Andrews Hotel to a thin fairway, and on their approach shot avoid a road that runs along the right side of the green (and players must play from it if their ball lands there) and a pot bunker on the left side. The bunker is the worst of all disasters, five feet deep and it sucks balls in from 20 yards away, as the slope directs the ball to the trap.
Because of these threats, many of the pros played it like a par 5, lying up short of the green. A par was the same as a birdie, and a birdie was rarer than Al Franken telling a funny joke.
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| Tiger approaches the perilous 17th green. |
Harold Segall once said in the NY Times that "Golf is not just exercise; it is an adventure, a romance . . . a Shakespeare play in which disaster and comedy are intertwined [and] you have to live with the consequences of each action," and the Road Hole at St. Andrews is one of the best places to see golf's theater.
Thus, Dad and I sat atop the grandstand with three dozen guy's guys, all scrambling for the best look up the 17th fairway and the green. When the leaderboard changed at 18, everybody wanted to know who was where and what happened. Undoubtedly all were golf lovers and thoroughly knowledgeable about the game, able to understand why Dad wondered aloud to our European brethren why Mark James didn't pick Jean Van de Velde, Jarmo Sandelin and Andrew Coltart to play in the 1999 Ryder Cup until the final day.
As was Friday, the top of the grandstand became very cool and windy by late afternoon, which felt great. I would've been more comfortable wearing my light jacket, but that would have been defrauding since I longed for such conditions all week.
However, for the most part the day was hot. "Basically, it's hotter than a snake's ass in a wagon rut" as Robin Williams would say in Good Morning, Vietnam, adding "It was so hot, I saw a little man in an orange robe burst into flames!"
As a result, Dad and I were very sunburned, which for me only compounded the bad burn from the week before in London. On the way home I discovered that a water blister formed where my neck and chest meet, and looked like an early episode of "Star Trek: The Next Generation" where some hokey alien lifeform latched onto my body, about six inches wide, puffy and squishy in the shape of Russia. I'm no Captain Picard, so I had no clue as to what to make of this anomaly on my person.
It's bad enough that when I wake up in the mornings my hair looks like I'm in the band A Flock of Seagulls, but add to that a sunburn and water blister. If I had asked the mirror who was the fairest of them all, it would have cracked up (literally) laughing.
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| Lookie, he's nekid! |
While shopping along the 18th hole at Old Tom Morris's Golf Shop, I was both fortunate and unfortunate to see a streaker near the 18th tee. Fortunate in that I didn't have to see him up close. Unfortunate, though, that I didn't have the best seat for his show, spending nearly five minutes dancing and doing somersaults over the Swilken Bridge - to the great enjoyment of onlookers - before being apprehended by the police.
I was pleased that I was able to see a streaker during the week, although I wish it were a female. Prior to the Open, rumor was that someone was offering �10,000 for streaking. On Sunday a lady streaked onto the 18th green before Tiger won, and I think she deserves the money if the rumor's true, even if it was an inappropriate time to disrupt the proceedings.
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| My Open loot. |
After Tiger in the final pairing passed, it really didn't take too long to get back to the rail station and complete our Open experience, considering there were 50,000 spectators at the course. You can't really tell there are that many people, though, since the tournament was great about placing grandstands at strategic places, accommodating 21,000 fans. This left the grounds to be less crowded, especially considering that the course is so tight, much less than most U.S. courses. I wish more American tournament officials would take note of how Open officials take care of large crowds, especially the grandstands and restroom trailers.
Headed home Dad and I could finally relax on our final trip on ScotRail, which zips along the green and blue coast, through cities like Stonehaven and Carnoustie. In fact, the train is right next to the golf course at Carnoustie, where 1999's Open Championship was held. You remember that one, where Frenchman Jean Van de Velde blew a three-stroke lead at the 18th hole, because I can guarantee he hasn't forgotten.
Back to the hotel by 10:15 p.m., room service, and ready to relax on Sunday.
SUNDAY, JULY 23
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| What's up, Doc? |
There was to be no exploring the Kingdom of Fife at St. Andrews today. We were purposefully lazy; sleeping late, ordering room service for lunch and sitting on our duffs in front of the television in Dad and Danielle's suite watching The Open from noon until 7 p.m.
We weren't just watching The Open, though, we tuned in to see history being made. Tiger (we're on a first-name basis now) won, completing a career grand slam of The Masters, U.S. Open, PGA Championship and The Open, joining legends Gene Sarazen, Ben Hogan, Gary Player and of course, Jack Nicklaus. (A grand slam is when one wins all four in the same year, whereas Tiger won them over three years). Unfortunately, Tiger forgot to say happy birthday to my grandmother. Hey, he had a lot on his mind.
Jack Nicklaus once said that "If a golfer is going to be remembered he must win the title at St. Andrews".
Not only did Tiger win (he's my age!), he won with a score of 19-under-par, breaking Nick Faldo's 1990 record for lowest score at an Open Championship. Also, his seven-stroke victory is a modern record.
The commentators ran out of adjectives to use for the lad, so I think they started making some up. You tell me, are "superflydudehipcoolcat" and "amazitasticallyawesomest" real words?
Remember how I wished it were cloudy, damp and cold while I was at The Open? Well, on Sunday, when we weren't there, for much of the day it was cloudy, drizzly and chilly. Oh, well, can't win them all.
That evening my misery factor returned, as I discovered the hard way what the variable and thus the culprit was for my previous itching attack.
Once The Open was complete the three of us went to eat dinner at "an authentic That restaurant" in one of the local hotels in Ballater. Despite being skeptical, the food was pretty good. The country is definitely opening up to food options, since I won't even come close to finding Thai in a bigger town in America, my grandparents' little hometown of Chapel Hill, Tenn.
Unfortunately, though, I wasn't feeling great enough to enjoy the quiet atmosphere and calm aura of the town. Before leaving my room, I popped in one of my antibiotics for the first time since Bath, because I had experienced some symptoms of the prostititis that recurred in early July.
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| I was warned, but couldn't my hair have turned orange or something? |
The bottle says not to take the medicine with exposure to the sun, but I hadn't been outside that day, so what's the harm, right? Oh, boy, the harm is insufferable. Apparently the medicine does not react well to post-exposure either, as just like Bath everywhere that I was sunburned itched very, very much.
The itching began just as we got the restaurant (el medicino es muy rapido!), and I must've looked like I was in heroin withdrawal because I was shaking and groping my arms and neck and just visibly uncomfortable. The staff didn't know what to think as I drank my daily allotment of eight glasses a day in fifteen minutes, thinking water may help it move quicker through my system. It didn't help.
The food was good, but I couldn't enjoy it because I was ready to throw myself in a paper shredder to alleviate the itching. Naturally this worried Dad and Danielle because they feared it might get worse, but trust me, it gets no worse than itching like this. And since my sunburn was twice as bad as in Bath, the reaction was that much worse.
A bath in Dad and Danielle's jacuzzi helped a little bit, because I opened the jets on high to keep a steady pelting of my body. After a half-hour though I was ready to pass out from the heat, and once I got out the annoyance returned. I rubbed a towel - hard- all over for fifteen minutes straight, too much, actually, as I popped the water blister, which left a scar that only now (Aug. 12) is looking normal again.
In Bath the itchiness went away after four or five hours. Uh-huh, not this time. The worst of it remained for 12 hours, and for 12 hours after that I could feel it under the radar. I'm telling you, this was the WORST feeling of my life. I lay in bed, not able to enjoy The Wild Bunch, not able to enjoy popping M&Ms while drinking a big Diet Coke and not able to get to sleep. I slept about four hours all night, occasionally getting an hour at a time.
And that was my last night in Scotland. You see that I need to visit again in the future just to get a final good night's sleep and cleanse the stain of that memory out of my head. Maybe if I claim the itching was due to something in the Hilton's water they'll give me a free week's stay? Hmmm.....
Back to London...
