On the Side| Brad Hicks
About noon Thursday, some of my friends will gather on the first tee of their golf course. Before pulling the drivers from their bags, they will pause and look at one another. One of them will finally mutter something such as “to the creators of this great and terrible game” and then they will all down their shot of Scotch.
It’s a ritual we started years ago on the first day of The Open Championship, mostly because I was willing to buy the Scotch and wanted in some way to honor the Scots and their terrible game that I love.
Strangely, I have to say that growing up, I really hated watching what most people know as the “British Open” because the satellite feed of the telecast was awful. One was lucky to make out whether it was Jack Nicklaus trying to putt or some guy competing in a plaid-pants disco contest on green carpet. Once the quality of the telecasts improved, I was still pretty unimpressed, as I wondered why in the world people would fly over the ocean to play courses bereft of trees, in 30 mph wind, amid fans wearing winter coats and stocking caps in mid-July.
But in the mid-1990s, as our 10th wedding anniversary approached, my wife and I started thinking about places to go. She likes history, anthropology, archaeology, and theology. I like golf.
Scotland!
The plan was hatched. We pretty much alternated golf days with exploration days. We wore shorts, perhaps once, and discovered that heated car seats and November/February weather gear occasionally comes in handy in late June.
I got to play Prestwick, where The Open was first played and hosted 24 times. I played Royal Dornoch, which is considered the finest course in Great Britain not to host The Open – it’s too far north and doesn’t have the capability to host the throngs of people who attend. That’s probably why Madonna married at Dornoch Castle – members of the press had to sleep in their cars. I got to play a course, but not the course at Gleneagles where the Ryder Cup was last played. Naturally, I played The Old Course at St. Andrews, commonly called the home of golf. And, I played at Royal Troon, which this week is hosting the 145th Open Championship.
Most don’t know it, but Royal Troon has two courses – the old course, once limited to men, and the Portland Course, built in 1895, that was the home for women players for about a century.
Troon made news last week by changing its rules to allow for women members, though women have been welcome as spousal members for a long time. The change was made because The Royal & Ancient, which oversees The Open, has made it a point to ensure that courses in The Open rotation or “rota” are welcoming to women. In other words – allow women as members, or don’t host what is the world’s tournament.
My green fee for the day allowed me an 18-hole round on the Portland Course in the morning, lunch in the clubhouse – it’s probably smaller than the Red Oak Country Club’s – and then 18 holes on the championship or “Old Course.” There are no carts at these courses – you hoof it. I carried my own bag on the Portland Course, which is a really great layout and a stiff test, too. If you ever go to Troon, I recommend you don’t skip it, but most do.
I fondly remember a few things about the Old Course at Troon.
First, there’s gorse everywhere.
Second, there are diabolical bunkers.
Third, the 11th hole runs along a passenger railway. The tee box is next to it. The green is next to it, and in between, there is a lot more gorse than short grass. It’s a scary hole.
Fourth, the course’s most famous hole is the Postage Stamp, a measly, 123-yard, downhill par 3 with a tiny green and five deep bunkers. The day I played, the wind was gusting 20-30 mph in our faces, and instead of an easy pitching wedge, I hit a 7-iron. Welcome to golf in Scotland.
Lastly, I had a great caddie.
On the fourth hole, as I was preparing to hit, my caddie suggested hitting a shorter club off the tee, and then he told me to aim for the left rough. “Not the fairway?” I asked. He shook his head. So, I set up, looked back at him, and he nodded. I hit the ball. It landed in the rough, then took a big bounce to the right and finished in the middle of the fairway. The next guy in the group set up, looked back at his caddie, who gave him the go-ahead; the golfer then hit the prettiest, straightest shot you’ve ever seen, which landed in the middle of the fairway, bounced a few times, then rolled straight sideways into a punishing bunker. We were standing behind the player and at the back of the tee when my caddie leaned into my ear and said, “Heee’s no caddie; heee’s just a bleeping bag carrier.”
I’ll certainly miss Thursday’s ritual. Perhaps it’s appropriate that if I can’t play golf on the first day of an Open played in Scotland, I’ll be taking pictures at the fair’s sheep show.
Brad Hicks is the Editor/Publisher of the Red Oak Express. He can be contacted at publisher@redoakexpress.com.