Bill Elliott
Think of a big number, any number. I bet you’re thinking of 237,750. Right? No? Well, I am because that is the official attendance figure for Portrush.
Despite being the first all-ticket Open in history this is not a record. It turns out that 239,000 people rocked up at St Andrews to watch Tiger romp to victory in 2000. Still, second in the attendance charts is not bad for a little place like Portrush and an area that enjoyed its week in the global public consciousness with rare, laid-back elan.
In these days when an ongoing stream of instant gratification is the preferred way to go for so many people, it is instantly gratifying that so many people continue to make their way to an Open, the grown-ups paying 70 quid each for the privilege. And this is before they have a drink or chomp down on some fish and chips and buy a hat or a shirt or a teddy bear in the big shop.
It’s also before they endure or enjoy whatever weather is thrown at them while straining to see a player, any player, actually swing a club. It’s not easy being a golf spectator but it’s harder at an Open than anywhere other than a Ryder Cup where, by the way, too many people are allowed in.
The great thing is that I’ve never seen any crowd trouble. Not really. There’s always a few who have the extra gargle and struggle to make their way home but they are usually in the company of friends who lend a hand. Golf may have its problems but these problems do not extend to the good-humoured men and
women, boys and girls who stoically put up with whatever confronts them and appear to enjoy themselves hugely.
We who enthusiastically inhabit Planet Golf should be proud of this while The R&A should be proud of the way it presents its biggest event. It’s not easy. Building the stands, the restaurants, the media centre, putting in sufficient toilets and all the rest of the infrastructure is a vast undertaking. Only Glastonbury can compare and even then not really, as each year The R&A has to build this stuff in a different place. Consider this one startling fact: over 8,000 miles of cabling needed to be gently placed in Royal Portrush so the outside world could see what went on. Staggering. And it worked.
Sometimes it even works in a different way than intended. When Michael Bonallack was R&A secretary, he told me of the time they decided to jazz up the closing ceremony by building a large platform that was kept out of sight before being hauled out halfway down the 18th. The moment it came out, however, the punters decided it was a viewing platform and rushed to stand on it. The presentations took place, as ever, on the 18th green while Bonallack and his colleagues later smilingly accepted the congratulations for enhancing the spectator experience in a novel way. The platform has never reappeared. No one has noticed.
Incidentally, my bedroom at this Open was handily placed, overlooking Portrush Harbour and the famed Harbour Bar that boasts the best pint of Guinness in all of Ireland. Mind you, this is a boast made by, conservatively, 1,001 other establishments and, in a way, they may all be correct. Just as the best golf course in the world is the one nearest to home, so the best pint is the one currently in your hand.
Whatever the truth, I marvelled each night at the number of people inside and outside the Harbour Bar. A few times I was among this merry throng and securing a drink meant the sort of heavy-duty pincer movement an All Black scrum might be happy to perform. Getting it back to a spot where there was enough space to raise it to your lips was another challenge.
Day after day, night after night this bar was packed while each morning further supplies rolled in on wagons large enough to satisfy a regiment’s thirst. I’ve no idea how many pints were pulled that week or how many people hit that bar but it may have been enough to make even Royal Portrush’s attendance figures look a little on the unimpressive side. Sláinte - here’s to the next one.
“Portrush enjoyed its week in the public consciousness with rare, laid-back elan”