Half an hour after scoring my first ever round in the Open Championship, I found myself reclined in the warm sun halfway up the grandstand to the left of Carnoustie’s 18th green. In the golden glow of a late Scottish afternoon, 52-year-old American Todd Hamilton was finishing his round, rolling in his 75th stroke of the day.
It was a simple and fairly unmemorable moment, one witnessed by only a few dozen spectators in stands that would later hold thousands.
But of all the moments that unfolded in a magical week of mostly spectacular weather in this “famous golf town” along the North Sea, this little scene plays out over and over in my head.
For it was here on the Carnoustie Championship course that I truly experienced my first great links course in 2004. My dad and I played in similarly nice weather while my mom relaxed in a lovely bed & breakfast across the Links Parade 14 years earlier en route to spectating our first Open Championship at Royal Troon. And while Todd Hamilton has only finished better than 32nd in one of his 18 Open appearances, it was that week he finished first and earned the Claret Jug.
So while my dad and I finished our first round here bogey-bogey – or maybe bogey-double bogey for me – the memory of the day became fresh yet again as Hamilton sunk his final putt.
And it brought back other thoughts as I sat with memories swirling around in the amber light.
Seven years earlier, David Uihlein and I had made a challenging loop around Carnoustie after the 2011 Walker Cup in Aberdeen. From first tee through Hogan’s Alley we played in driving rain and sustained 25 mile per hour winds until we emerged soaked and cold a few hours later to battle the world-famous Barry Burn on 17 and 18.
With average skill I bogeyed 17 and fervently needed a par on the last. A half decent drive left me with 180 to the pin, with – as I suspect most know thanks to Jean van de Velde – out-of-bounds left and long, watery burn in front, and troubling rough to the right. My caddie wanted me to putt, or so it sounded like as my Scottish language skills are challenged at best. But as he handed me the Scotty Cameron, I understood with great clarity.
The ball bounded off the putter face and bounced, rolled and careened up the fairway about 150 yards. The ensuing wedge to two feet secured the unlikely par and a story for years to come.
As I sat I pondered the timing. Fourteen years earlier Dad and I had come to play this course and watch as Todd Hamilton won the Open Championship on the other side of Scotland… seven years after that I returned to watch the Walker Cup and play these fantastic links in markedly different weather. And another seven years later here I was having completed scoring Zach Johnson, Adam Scott and Brendan Steele at the same venerable tract at golf’s oldest major tournament.
As the week unfolded, the remarkable moments kept coming.
In a persistent and ever-present rain Friday morning I had the task of scoring Rory McIlroy, Marc Leishman and Thorbjorn Olesen, managing to keep the radio, score sheet and tablet dry despite ending the round bitterly cold, soaking wet and with finger tips that resembled shriveled prunes.
Ducking under spectator umbrellas, seeking a bit of shelter under the rare tree and using a few existing structures along the course proved invaluable – and the thrill of Rory turning toward the clubhouse with three birdies in the first five holes of the second nine – along with Olesen’s eagle-birdie on 14/15– made the journey plenty exciting.
Walking toward the recording office from the course, Rory thanked me for being out there with them. I told him that despite being cold and wet the memory of walking up the 18th into the Coliseum-like grandstands as people cheered his name might well be a lifetime golf highlight of mine… I was rewarded with a huge McIlroy smile and a pat on the shoulder.
With no assignment Saturday, I took time to dry out, watch Sky Sports coverage of the championship, and appreciate the Scottish distilling skill now turned to gin.
Sunday dawned late and when I checked into the scoring office I learned I would be scoring the sixth group from the end with Zach Johnson and Tommy Fleetwood. What a thrill for a guy who flew across the Atlantic with no expectations for such outstanding groups to score.
By then I will admit for the first time in recent memory, my feet hurt a little bit, my calf muscles could have used a gentle massage and stretching my hamstrings seemed even wiser than usual. But there I am not long after on the first tee, inside the ropes under soaring grandstands as the English yell “Tommy, Tommy, Tommy” and “Go Tommy Lad” already a few pints into their afternoon. I’m walking along in beautiful weather with a bit of a wind up, recording each stroke and soaking in the energy and wonder of Carnoustie’s legendary links as they host the Open.
Scoring late in the day I bear witness to Tiger Wood’s name creeping up the yellow leaderboards as others stumble. Focused and scoring, I still feel the rush of excitement as his name stands alone at the top – until his own challenges early on in his incoming 9 sink his chances at victory. With Rory in the group just behind, I’m also watching countless McIlroy shots and can feel, more than hear, the roar of his Sunday eagle on 14.
In the end, I watched the final holes in the broadcast compound as Francesco Molinari earned himself the Claret Jug with a flawless final 36 bogey-free holes while all the others around him succumbed to the fierce old course’s many defenses.
I’ve now worked just a singular U.S. Amateur championship as well as this single Open Championship – both won by the Molinari brothers: Edoardo in 2005 at Merion and Francesco now at Carnoustie.
In fact, I’ve scored more than 50 tournament rounds – across four continents now – and much of that was exactly the same as it was at Carnoustie. Many of the people inside the ropes were people I knew, I had a radio attached to my right ear, a golf pencil in my right hand, the SMT scoring system strapped to a clipboard, and the same coded scoring sheet of paper I’ve used for a dozen years. I’m walking with a standard bearer – two amazing ones from St. Andrews and a funny lad from Manchester – as well as a rules official… and yet it also feels very different.
Maybe it was the unique and iconic yellow scoreboards, the feel and look of the course itself so far removed from the over-manicured, the rough beauty of the landscape and the salt air, and of course the fourth fellow walking along with our normal trio to rake the bunkers as we make our way from the first tee to the eighteenth green.
Or maybe it was just Carnoustie and Scotland that made it all feel different.
Maybe it was the memories that came alive from 14 years ago and the added memories of 7 years ago… the walk with my dad as these links unfolded for us that very first time, the memories of Todd Hamilton at Royal Troon among the sand dunes and fescue, the wind and rain and ridiculous par with David on the 18th after the Walker Cup.
By 10 pm as the sun grudgingly set into a purple Scottish sky and I dug into my last Arbroath smokie with a local Dundee gin and tonic at my side, the memories gave way to a genuine joy – and the hope that the Royal & Ancient might once again find room for this American walking scorer to lend a hand inside their ropes.