For the last quarter-century, I’ve spent every third week in July at the seaside. Sort of.
25 years working at the Open Championship, although half my life, is not that much by some standards; golf writers know they have a great job and tend to stick at it. For example, the venerable Jock Macvicar of the Express passed 50 consecutive Opens last year, and by next year he will have spent an entire year of his life at the championship.
When people occasionally ask what covering the Open is like, I usually say it’s the three worst days of the year (the endless, meaningless previews) followed immediately by the four best (the actual championship).
I’ve no clue whose idea it was to make it statutory for writers to turn up at the venue on the Monday (and, increasingly, Sunday) before the tournament starts, when at most events it’s Tuesday night at the earliest. But I loathe them.
By Thursday morning you’re howling for someone to hit a ball in anger. But Sunday is almost always the best day of the year, with the exception of some Ryder Cup Sundays.
It’s not just because of the Open’s ability to produce outstandingly exciting finishes almost year-on-year when you get something like 2010 when Louis Oosthuizen walked away unhindered you almost feel cheated but because the already compelling Open atmosphere cranks up a notch towards feverish.
Of all the Opens I’ve worked I don’t count 1984 when I was merely detailed to take the film spool of Seve punching the air from St Andrews back to the office 1999 was clearly the most memorable.Look out for Steve and Courier sports editor Eric Nicolson’s live behind-the-scenes updates from Muirfield later this week on www.thecourier.co.ukLike many on that fractious final day I had my “Van de Velde wins!” story written and ready to go, and had to cast a complete re-write inside an hour and a half.
But when it became clear that Paul Lawrie was going to win a number of Scottish writers ran from the media centre round to the 18th green.
It had been 100 years since a Scot born, bred and domiciled had won the Open so we figured it might be our only chance to see it happen. The roar as Paul’s four-iron landed on the 18th green will stay with me forever.
The Open produces such drama almost as a matter of course. My first one proper, Troon 1989, had Greg Norman’s final round charge and play-off heartache. My first as lead golf writer and one of only two where I’ve correctly tipped the winner had Nick Price’s eagle and Jesper Parnevik not reading the scoreboards.
Those were quickly followed by Costantino Rocca in the Valley of Sin, Justin Rose and the playoff at Birkdale, Lawrie, Tiger’s processions (his second win at St Andrews was my other correct pre-championship call, but it suffered from being bleeding obvious), Ernie’s playoffs, Padraig and Sergio, the Greatest Story Never Told (Tom Watson at Turnberry in 2009) and just last year Cousin Adam’s collapse.
I’ve done every venue except Hoylake at least twice. My favourite? Take away the tents, the stands and the famous yellow scoreboards, Carnoustie is the hardest and fairest course.
But for an overall venue my stock answer is Sandwich, mostly because it’s the furthest away from the office. “Home” championships at St Andrews and Carnoustie, for a number of reasons, are rarely as good to cover as away ones.
Yet to complain about any aspect of attending one of the world’s greatest annual sporting events for free is clearly perverse. It’s been a privilege to wear the media access badge 25 times.
Only if I get anywhere near 50 of them, permission is granted to all to cart me off to the funny farm.