Hauser: The British Open's just not the same on TV
By Melanie Hauser, PGATOUR.COM Correspondent
This week it isn't just about the golf.
It seldom is at an Open Championship, where -- trust us -- even the best writers, twitterers, producers, announcers and cameramen can't do the week justice.
Sorry, just the facts.
If you're like most of us, you'll be watching early each morning to see the year's third major unfold. You'll hear the tales of the Ailsa Craig -- now a bird sanctuary -- and learn that if you can't see it from the golf course, it's raining; if you can see it, it's about to rain. You'll see clips of Tom Watson and Jack Nicklaus dueling in the sun, of Greg Norman throwing out four rounds in the 60s there and Nick Price's Sunday eagle at No. 17.
You'll get a glimpse of the countryside, the lighthouse and the ruins of Turnberry Castle where Robert the Bruce, the first king of Scotland, was born in 1274. You can see the waist-high hay blowing in the wind, the stunning coastline and the 12th fairway, which was a landing strip for the Royal Air Force planes in World War II. You might even get a tour of the long drive to this Open -- a site where most of the accommodations are in Ayr, which isn't all that close.
And, of course, you can savor the tweets from super-twitterers Ian Poulter, who has already posted a tour of Turnberry's back nine, or Stewart Cink, who spent the weekend playing in Ireland to prep for this 138th Open Championship.
It'll be nice, yes. It'll give you a bit more insight into a course thousands of miles away.
But it won't be the Open.
An Open is leaning into the wind to get from here to there. It's taking a walk to grab fish-and-chips and going through two or three seasons on the roundtrip. It's making your way to the carpark at 10 p.m. when there's still enough light to find your car. It's adjusting your ear to the thick Scottish brogues. It's appreciating those huge yellow scoreboards that are changed by hand. It's watching your Gustbuster turn inside out as you walk between tents in 45 mph winds.
It's a local taking one look at the sky and telling you to hurry back to the press tent. It's feeling the icy rain sting your face before you're halfway through the 100-yard sprint to said tent.
It's taking time to walk a course that -- at first glance -- looks like a cow pasture and watching the golf balls bob and weave down the less-than-pristine fairways. It's appreciating the nuances to a game that's literally and figuratively miles apart from what you watch week-to-week in the States.
It's tiny cars, tiny beds, tiny showers and no washcloths. It's letting someone else drive -- someone who knows how to drive on the wrong side of the road. It's listening to an interview and seeing a headline scream something very different in the next morning's tabloids. It's wondering whether you should lay down a bet on someone with astronomical odds like Bryce Molder or Sir Nick Faldo -- in the latter's case just to make the cut.
It's spending a week in an old dorm at St. Andrews, having breakfast under stained glass windows and walking a half-mile to the course. It's poking around old castles and quickly learning that dressing for a salad is most often just mayonnaise, and fish-and-chips is always the safest alternative. It's finding a Starbucks, but opting for high tea. It's never forgetting your umbrella and jumper, er, sweater, when you leave the room.
It's a history lesson around every corner -- whether it's learning about the Picts who painted their faces or the Vikings or the Reformation or simply walking from Liverpool's Albert Dock to the site of the old Cavern Club made famous by The Beatles. Or for me, standing in cathedrals where men dotting my family tree once preached or searching for the shoe shop my great-great grand uncle owned in Glasgow in the 1860s.
It's a trip you never want to miss, which could be why I'm a bit cranky right now and wishing that TARP money was available for golf writers. With all due respect to the folks playing in Milwaukee this week, I'd rather be at Turnberry power-slamming cups of coffee to shake the remnants of jet lag and seeing the course I've heard about for so long.
There's something about standing where Watson and Nicklaus did that Sunday afternoon in 1977 -- not just listening to them talk about it. Or watching Norman try to recapture a bit of the magic he had not just in 1986, but what he found last year at Birkdale.
I'll miss leaning into the wind and letting the salty rain spray my face this week. I'll miss fish-and-chips, which I only eat over there. I'll miss the tabloids in my hand -- even though I can see the headlines and read the entertaining twists on everyone's words on the 'net. I'll miss Geoff Ogilvy showing up at the Association of Golf Writers dinner in jacket, jeans and tennis shoes. I'll miss biscuits and tea. I'll miss hearing "Cheers" instead of "Thanks" and being asked a zillion times if I'm on holiday or here for the golf.
Instead, I'll let Poulter and Cink take me inside the ropes and locker room with their creative tweets. And yes I'll watch every minute I can on TV.
But I'll also start planning for next year when come hell, high water or another year minus TARP funds, I'll take you on a tour -- both Twitter and written word -- through the nooks and wynds of St. Andrews and the 139th Open Championship.
Melanie Hauser is a freelance columnist for PGATOUR.COM. Her views do not necessarily represent the views of the PGA TOUR.
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