Thanks Padraig and Sergio and Carnoustie

For your sake, I hope you watched the Open at Carnoustie, Scotland this past week because it was great theater. It started with Sergio Garcia’s amazing 65 in the first round and his declaration that he wanted to win one for Seve Ballesteros, and for three and a half rounds it looked like he would do just that. But unlike Ben Crenshaw when he won the 1995 Masters for his mentor Harvey Penick, Sergio failed to call his shot, and by the time he made the turn on Sunday his lead had disappeared.

Then came Andres Romero, looking all of twelve years old, with ten birdies, a two shot lead and only two holes to play. You could see the headlines, “Second Argentinean Wins Major.” It was Snoopy striking out Joe DiMaggio; Russell Crow out rebounding Bill Russell; and Carl Lewis losing the 100-meter sprint to Jerry Lewis. Unfortunately, by the end of the day, the stars realigned themselves and young Mr. Romero shot three over on the last two holes.

However, throughout the day Irishman Padraig Harrington stalked the course with the relentless steadiness that he is famous for. Hole after hole Padraig watched each pretender fall by the wayside one-by-one until he alone stood at the top of the mountain. This would be his moment. This would be the return of Irish and European golf. Standing on the 18th tee he could almost hear the cheering emanating from his favorite pub in County Cork. Then with the ghost Jean Van de Velde lurking in the tall grass, and Harrington home free with a three shot lead, he unexplainably pulled out his driver.

At that point there was only two possible outcomes. The first was a fabulous long drive down the middle directly toward the Claret Jug and immortality, or the second which was a miserable miss hit that comes tantalizing close to accidentally skipping across the bridge only to hit the railing and fall hopelessly into the water.

Well, it wouldn’t have been nearly as exciting if he had hit it 285 yards down the middle, would it?

But Padraig was not through. He had another chance at immortality. His three shot lead was now basically two and all he had to do was take his drop, then lay up his third shot, hit his fourth shot on the green and two putt for all the glory. Simple enough. But for some reason, and to everyone’s amazement, he reaches into his bag and pulls out a long iron and proceeds to hit a second ball into the water. Suddenly his Irish brogue was sounding very French and the ghost of Jean Van de Velde was about to be replaced by an Irishman.

When the smoke had cleared Padraig was one stroke behind Sergio Garcia, who appeared to be waiting to make good on his promise to Seve. All that stood between him and keeping his promise was the 18th hole at Carnoustie.

By now, sitting in front of my television sipping on a Diet Dr. Pepper and munching on a Pringle, my own emotions had been torn asunder and I couldn’t imagine what Sergio and Padraig were feeling. It had already been Friday The Thirteenth III and I didn’t know if I could stand Jason coming back to life one more time. Go ahead Sergio, bring back my faith in the golf gods, make par and they’ll start writing songs about you in Spain, Dreams Do Come True.

He had used a Tiger-like Old Course strategy of playing it safe all week and hitting long irons off many of the dangerous tees; now all he had to do was make two more swings, two putts and his place in golf history would be secure. I bet the mayor of his hometown had already started mapping out the route for the parade.

The number one handicap hole at Carnoustie is the 499 yard 18th. The burn swings across the fairway twice, once at about 209 yards and the second time only twenty yards from the green. For Garcia, with a one shot lead there was no need to do anything foolish like hit a driver, so smartly he pulled out his trusty 3-iron, the one that had served him so well all week long. He would place it safely in the middle of the fairway and make a second shot onto the green, two putts and start celebrating. But the golf gods had one more trick up their sleeves. Sergio would have to stand on the tee and wait fifteen minutes before hitting his tee shot. Fifteen minutes to think about it.

Perhaps it wasn’t the ghost of Jean Van de Velde that caused Sergio to hit his tee shot fat resulting in his ball being about twenty yards short of where he had intended, but he was still in the fairway, a long ways away, but nonetheless, in the fairway.

It was at that point that I knew one of difference between me a Sergio Garcia, you see, I’ve always know that the golf Gods had a sick sense of humor, so I was not surprised when Sergio had to wait another fifteen minutes to hit his second shot. And I don’t care who you are, standing there waiting for fifteen minutes to hit your second shot for the Open Championship is difficult beyond belief. Not surprisingly, it was not Sergio’s best shot that found the bunker in front of the green, but even as the golf gods snickered, he was still not dead. All he needed to do is to hit the bunker shot close, one putt and start counting the $1,542,450, but it was not to be.

After Sergio missed the ten-foot putt to win, he was devastated, and who could blame him. He was one inch left from immortality and failed. Sure, there was a four-hole playoff, but it’s hard to play those last four holes with a stake in your heart.

As I sat there in my easy chair emotionally drained, I felt for Sergio and Andres Romero and all of the others that had a shot and came up short. Wow, I thought, this was a great golf tournament; an emotional roller coaster with incredible ebb and flow and Tiger wasn’t even on the first page of the leader-board. Is that possible, a great golf tournament without Tiger in contention? I guess the answer is yes.