MANIC MONDAY
The extra day at St Andrews provides a sporting feast to savour as players and fans join in on the drama and fun
THE REVOLUTION was only partl y televised, thanks to t he half- hearted approach of our failing state broadcaster. It was never going to be much of an uprising, anyway. More a celebration that deserves to sit alongside some of our most enjoyable recent experiences as a host nation.
People’s Monday at the Open Championship may not have delivered the winner that everyone wanted; wandering the links for most of yesterday, it was obvious the bulk of available affection was split between Jordan Spieth, young amateur Paul Dunne and — if only out of sympathy these days — Sergio Garcia.
Any disappointment over that trio’s absence from the all-or-nothing play-off that dragged into evening, however, was more than offset by appreciation for the skill and steady (ish) nerves displayed by the Champion Golfer of 2015.
The countless ‘ I- was- there’ moments provided for thousands of fans during the long, long day of intense competition rightly elevated this experience, in terms of spectator enjoyment, to a place in the timeline established by Glasgow 2014, the Ryder Cup, the Davis Cup et al.
Sport at i ts absolute finest, replete with triumph and tragedy, played out in front of a crowd utterly rapt in the theatre of a massed dash of contenders hurtling towards the finish line — followed by the brutality of a four-hole shoot-out.
From the earliest moments until the f i nal coronation of Zach Johnson, the f ans who took advantage of this rare extra day’s play could hardly have asked for much more. Nor, despite the odd gap in the ‘reserved’ seating, could the competitors have demanded a more appreciative crowd.
This was a day for the amateurs, in the very best sense of the word. A day when Open organisers dipped their toe in a slightly different market. No one should doubt its success. Nor overestimate its radical reach.
To hear some people tell it, the decision to slash admission prices to the Old Course merited a new inscription — stolen straight from Lady Liberty herself — above the gates of the R&A clubhouse.
‘Give me your tired, your poor, your huddled masses yearning to breathe free …’ Give us a break.
The hallowed turf of St Andrews was never going to be invaded by a crowd of extras straight from the cast of Happy Gilmore; there was zero chance of some Shooter McGavin-style character taking to the balcony behind the 18th green and bellowing: ‘Damn you people! Go back to your shanties’.
All paying customers here, even if they were only paying a tenner per adult- s i zed s kull, were welcomed with open arms.
And t hat enthusiasm was reciprocated by a body of men, women and children ranging from the committed golf fan to casual sensation seekers who saw this as an opportunity too good to be missed.
If many of those in attendance yesterday were merely fulfilling the extended terms of their weekly tickets, a good proportion were surely punters who simply couldn’t justify spending £160 for two adult tickets, even if accompanied kids have always been granted free admission.
Presented with possibly one of the most dramatic days in Open Championship history, though, who wouldn’t jump at the chance to buy a place in history at a bargain price? Mum, Dad and two kids for 20 quid? That’s less than it costs to take them to the cinema.
And, make no mistake, with the way the overnight leaderboard looked, this had all the potential to be more entertaining than any sequel/prequel/spin-off emanating from the brains trust in Hollywood.
SO, by 12 noon, t he unreserved section of the massive stand behind the 18th green — the upper tier — was absolutely crammed.
Other stands were filling up, too, with even the first rains failing to dampen spirits; we’ve been only half-jokingly telling our American friends that Scottish babies are actually born wearing kagools, just in case. Even as the dreich and damp late afternoon stretched into evening, cold as winter and grey as those natty UnderArmour pullovers all the cool kids are wearing, the hardy and the determined, the quick and the damned thrawn, stood — and sat — sentry by the thousands.
There were long queues for the already full stands flanking the famous double fairway covering holes one and 18.
The miracles of modern technology mean it is actually possible to sit in one place and follow most of the developments in a tournament. Still, there is something to be said for the interactive experience of actually making your way round the course.
The perfect final day of any Open should be a mix of scoreboard watching and big screen breaks, sheltering from the inevitable deluge while checking up on the many movers and shakers, then reemerging to follow the action live.
On a day when so many were doing such remarkable things, when emerging talents were being put to the test and old favourites sought to rediscover their mojo, there was an embarrassment of viewing riches. Something to suit everyone.
Birdie fans who love to hoot and holler flanked the front nine all the way through the loop, where scoring was nothing short of spectacular.
Rubberneckers i n search of tragedy joined the ghouls of the Road Hole coven; the 17th hole, made just too long to balance out the risk with reward, was once again a turning point i n the destination of the Claret Jug.
When the fans behind the wall and the 4,000 in the new stand saw Johnson scuff his second shot into the most demanding hole in golf, there was a genuinely sympathetic groan, accompanied by empathetic mutterings of ‘topped it’.
They suspected, right there and then, they had seen the end of the amiable American’s Open dream.
They weren’t to know what he had in store for his 72nd hole. Nor how he would stay upright while Louis Oosthuizen and Marc Leishman went weak at the knees when it mattered.
It was truly wonderful to see Johnson shaking hands and exchange high-fives with some of the many thousands who rushed up the 18th fairway to be part of the celebration.
At the end of an Open that lasted longer than the average Ashes encounter, here was something those fans will remember for a long time.
Who could argue that, at the end of a quite spectacular day of achievement and misadventure, the galleries here — more than just background noise — didn’t deserve t he kind of personal t ouch eschewed by so many professional athletes?