Buzz about the Open

Our cub reporter learned a painful lesson at the Open - wear comfortable shoes

By John C. Buzzell, PGA.com

Blisters. Why didn't I bring my spikes? This little decision would have been instinctive to any self-respecting golfer; of course, I'm anything but. Having just started playing golf in earnest this year, I find myself in a privileged position: watching one of the most revered events in golf - The Open Championship.

For a country with which we have so much in common, I've experienced shock, delight and, occasionally, outright confusion over the little differences. For instance, in "the states," many quickly regard anyone walking along the road as homeless. In rural England, however, walking is an expected, almost favored way of carriage. Now, picture my inauspicious, sweaty arrival at Royal St George's following an unexpected 3-mile walk over cobblestone from the train station in Johnston & Murphy's -- loaded for bear with two laptops and a week's worth of clothes for any temperature from freezing to 100. Of course, it was 90 that day. I think St. Christopher was busy deleting spam from his inbox.

After a good shower and a few Band-Aids, however, I was able to put the brakes on my "Poor Yankee" pity party and start taking it all in. There is a surreal kindness to the host village of Sandwich and its inhabitants. Their history stretches nearly 2,000 years, including being one of England's few original commercial ports as well as an outpost of the Roman Empire. The evidence is not lost on me. For someone who's spent his entire life amongst strip malls and fast food, Sandwich exhibits a sense of reverent permanence that dwarfs anything we've got at home. From the myriad coins jingling in my pocket to the haunting gong of the "curfew bell" at 8 p.m., my ears are awash in the organic melodies of the venerable old town. People speak less and smile more here. Town maps look like cobwebs, not graph paper. With so much to take in, you're likely to get lost -- quite an enjoyable process. (See http://www.open-sandwich.co.uk/ for more on Sandwich, Kent)

Host course Royal St George's is well within the town's charmed embrace. Despite the huge influx of people, the activity effaces a quiet calm that overtakes everyone that crosses the River Stour onto the course. However, this peaceable attitude runs in stark contrast to the brutal challenge offered up by the links. St George's head professional Andrew Brooks teased, "Here in the UK, we like our golf brown and fast -- not that green sticky stuff you all play in the states." The 350-acre course contains few targets and fewer landmarks. Rain has been a daily concern and the gusting wind almost seems to taunt the competitors. Fairways lie choked by 4-foot-high grass and bunkers that look more like craters than sand traps. It's rare that players are tested this way and it makes for great championship golf.

Fans here at the Open are a relaxed amiable bunch and their diversity is unexpected. Looking through the crowds here you're just as likely to see dogs and grandmothers as you are baby boomers in ball caps and saddle bucks. I'd liken it to baseball in America. A revered game amongst the people that invented it. In that vein, it does feel like a pastime. It's very sociable. People picnic, chat and even doze along the course.

To be out here, walking among the giants of the game, I'm really struck dumb as a fledgling golfer. I can't imagine anywhere else where the feeling of "playing against yourself" is so plain. It's hard to play favorites, like watching people trying to scale a cliff. You root for all of them, cheering every victory.

Looking ahead to the return trip, I'm a bit conflicted. I'll be happy to come home, for sure, to all that I know and love. I'll miss Sandwich though, and all that I learned getting here. The next time I line up on the first tee, I'll remember this blustery illustration of why golf is such a timeless, impossible, beautiful game.