I've been enjoying breakfast at The Open Championship this weekend. Every morning; with a cup of coffee. Easily it's the golf major I look forward to the most. The Masters is beautiful, a nice moment that occurs annually; The Open is past, present and future all at once. Where the history of a 500-year-old game and a future collide; old land juxtaposed with new technology. Where the past cannot be forgotten; echoes of those who've gone before heard on every hole. It's haunting in its setting. Along the coasts of England where the fog is dense. Where you expect to find wrecks of ships, abandoned mansions and ne'er a place to hide if you fear danger. I'm guessing, walking those holes is quite fearful when the magnitude of the game, it's history, is present in the form it is at The Open. And there's no where to run and hide.
If you've been watching you know it's at Carnoustie; where Jean Van de Velde had his infamous guffaw some 8 years ago. Up 3 on the final hole, triple bogeyed the 18th and lost in a playoff. They've brought it up a few times; aired an interview with the man. In it, he was asked why he didn't just hit something other than driver, why he didn't play the hole safe. He replied that he wouldn't hit something safe if he was playing to beat a friend at a municipal course, he wouldn't hit anything less to win a major. The interviewer replied that while that is admirable, one can't deny that the stakes were higher, that the meaning was, well, more meaningful.
"Meaning is relative," was his short, quick and lofted response. Uttered like he was a swinging a wedge into deep rough and catching the ball clean, spinning it close to the hole.
I enjoyed this response. The philosophical French golfer. Schooled in Foucault and Satre while swinging irons and drivers and wedges. Meaning may very well be relative. Especially if you lose. I'm sure if you win, it's absolute; no one can deny you've won. That's the thing about history, it's not relative.
Out on the Scottish links this weekend, history's certainly present and loud and ringing; there's no where to hide or run or cower. That's why I love The Open, where history is heard and the future is sought after if only so that it, too, can be remembered in the past. If that means anything.
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4 comments:
I still think that there is nothing like golfing in Maine in January with bowling shoes.
Don't forget the orange colored balls with internal heaters to melt the snow.
Yeah, I was there where chipping onto the green was like bouncing a superball on cement...and running down the hill, slipping and sliding on the bowling shoes ready to hit a Happy Gilmore with pin point accuracy was priceless!
Take that Open!
Obviously, this post has some ominous overtones and foreshadowed a great day of golf. Can't say I've ever been that wowed by a course in a major, with all the pressure bestowed upon its players, as Carnoustie yesterday. Fantastic round of golf.
Followed up by, while not tantamount to in scope or history, a thoroughly enjoyable evening with the Mrs. and Isaac at the Columbus Crew game.
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