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PORTRUSH, Northern Ireland — When the Open returned to Royal Portrush in 2019, a great deal of ink and oxygen was spent explaining why golf’s oldest major championship hadn’t visited Northern Ireland in 68 years, the obvious answer being that major sports events usually avoid places where the breeze carries a fresh whiff of gun smoke*.
(*Rule doesn’t apply in regions where the Second Amendment can be used for air cover).
That it took only six years for Royal Portrush to stage another Open is explained by all the questions that were answered in ‘19.
- Does Northern Ireland have sufficient political stability? (Answer: Yes, despite long periods when there was no functioning government, something many locals yearn for during intermittent stretches when there’s a dysfunctional one).
- Is the golf course worthy of hosting? (Answer: Have you seen Royal St. George’s?)
- Will fans support it? (Answer: 237,000 showed up last time and 274,000 will attend this week, crowd numbers that usually require effigies of Donald Trump or Benjamin Netanyahu in these parts).
- And do the financials work? (Answer: Only St. Andrews is more lucrative for the R&A, assisted by a mark-up on merchandise that will have golf’s influencers envying the brazen shamelessness of the grift).
The 148th Open settled as fact that a faded seaside town in Northern Ireland is as capable and deserving of hosting the championship as the faded seaside towns of England and Scotland, which means that the focus at the 153rd Open is where it ought to be: on today’s golf, not on yesterday’s conflict.
The opening round at Royal Portrush unfolded like an ‘Ulster fry’ — an incongruous mixture of ingredients, some delicious, others revolting, that somehow merges into a nourishing meal, albeit one that lasts longer in the digestive tract than in the memory.
Start with the Northern Irish weather, so fickle that a cynic might wonder why anyone would squabble over the right to live in it. The forecast for a calm morning with afternoon showers became a reality of morning downpours and afternoon breezes. Add an early leader so little-known as to be confidential, in this instance Jacob Skov Olesen, a rookie professional ranked 354 in the world who isn’t even the best-known Olesen in the field. Then a splash of ‘only at the Open’ quirk, like the battle for low Højgaard. Sprinkle in veterans proving that age and guile work in links golf, especially if they’re well rested with 54-hole schedules (Justin Leonard, Lee Westwood, Phil Mickelson). And top it off with contenders who tantalizingly placed (Scottie Scheffler, Rory McIlroy, Shane Lowry) or unexpectedly struggled (Brooks Koepka, Jordan Spieth, Collin Morikawa and Wyndham Clark, whose 76 must have had every carpenter in town waiting expectantly by the phone for a summons to the clubhouse).
As with the 152 that preceded it, this Open is as much about acceptance as aptitude.
“You know it’s going to be hard. It’s going to be tricky. It’s going to be difficult,” said Darren Clarke, the 2011 champion golfer of the year. “You’re going to get a few funny bounces, but you’ve just got to go with it.”
There are a few other things you know you’re going to get at an Open. Like savvy fans who politely applaud shots that finish 30 feet from the hole because they know it was quality. Or players being forced to summon artistry in an era dominated by science, because they know that the most decisive part of a ball’s journey begins when it hits the turf. Stock shots that stop and spin may be the norm most weeks in modern professional golf, but not at an Open. Which is why there’s no more entertaining spectacle in the game than watching the mastery of those who have figured out the links puzzle and the misery of those who haven’t, guys determined to paint by numbers when the challenge calls for tie-dye.
Clarke has been in an expansive, entertaining mood this week. He keeps a home in Portrush, but has long since decamped to the Bahamas, where red faces can be attributed to sunshine rather than the Bushmills distillery. At a nearby hostelry, there’s a snug corner where a plaque displays his name and a seat shows the wear of his arse. “Coming in here shooting 4-over, maybe I should have spent more time in the Harbour Bar than out here,” he said with a laugh.
Clarke has been around long enough — this is his 33rd start in the championship — to know that days like this will have many of his peers quietly wishing they had done the same. There are worse places to try to figure things out.
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