BRITISH OPEN : Costliest Patch of Sand in Scotland

We’ve all been there. We’ve all done it. Left the ball in a sand trap. For three shots.

But it didn’t cost us the British Open. It didn’t cost us 25,000 pounds.

But it cost Costantino Rocca that amount ($40,000), the difference between first and second money Sunday. It also cost him the British Open championship, which would have been the first of those ever won by a player born in Bergamo, Italy.

Actually, Costantino Rocca died twice in the Open at St. Andrews. He came up to the 18th green in the regular tournament needing a three to tie and a two to win. He actually had a chip to win.

He chili-dipped that pitch. We’ve all done that too. Came up with a short arm on our swing and slammed the club in the ground and moved the ball only a few feet.

But then, he ran down a 66-foot putt to get his three anyway, tie John Daly and force a playoff.

John Daly is not supposed to win championships and certainly not British Opens. We keep John Daly around for entertainment. Kind of a complicated trick-shot artist.

John is supposed to bring “oohs!” and “aahs!” from the audience, not for birdies and eagles, but for these massive skyscraping gorgeous tee shots. He’s not otherwise to be taken seriously. He’s kind of like a sword-swallower or the bearded lady. A sideshow freak. Like a guy whose nose lights up.

John hits the ball farther than any man who ever picked up a golf club. This is a nice talent, but you’re not meant to equate it with what a Ben Hogan does--or even a Corey Pavin.

You know the expression, “Drive for show but putt for dough”? That was invented for guys like John Daly. His gallery shows up for the tee shot, cackles and laughs happily, then drifts away to the hot dog stand or the clubhouse and comes back only when he takes the driver out again. He’s a one-trick act.

He has won only four tournaments, but two of them were majors. He wasn’t figured to win the British Open this week. Or any week. He had played in three British Open championships before this one and had finished 75th and 81st in two of them. He had two 80s on his scorecard.

The 17th hole won the tournament to the surprise of nobody. This small circle of golfing hell had seen 129 bogeys, 21 double bogeys, three triple bogeys and one quadruple bogey in the first three rounds. It had only 10 birdies. And 160 of the world’s best golfers were shooting at it the first two days and 100 of them on Saturday.

They have a four-hole playoff to decide a British Open championship, a piece of civility you wish our Open would adopt. Rocca came to the 17th hole in the playoff (which was medal, not stroke play, on holes 1 and 2, then 17 and 18) already two shots down after the first two holes.

He was desperate. Not the emotion with which you want to approach 17. It lunches on desperate guys.

Signor Rocca, who looks more like a tenor in “Carmen” than a golfer, dumped his approach shot in that tiered bunker that looks like a Tijuana jail. He tried to explode it out. It exploded in. It hit the wall and fell back at his feet. He swung again. It fell back in again. Finally, he got it out on the green. Then, he two-putted for a seven.

Winning an Open on a chili-dip and two sand-leaves is a little like winning a title fight on a foul or a World Series on a base on balls or a Rose Bowl on a shanked kick.

But the British Open would have done your heart good. It was a glorious day for us double bogey fans. A howling wind that would have run the Spanish Armada aground raked the dunes and burns and St. Andrews.

It forced the world’s best players to find out how we play the game all the time. Their shots went right, sometimes at right angles, even as yours and mine. Theirs were pushed by the wind. Ours are pushed by us. The result is the same.

They had to go look for their tee shots, even as you and I do. When they found them, they didn’t have these nice simple nine-iron flips to the green. They had the same hellish run-ups we do. And, suddenly, they weren’t playing any better than a 14-handicapper at Griffith Park. They had unplayable lies, they had lost balls. Their putts behaved erratically in the wind, fluttering, wobbling, making them afraid to sole their clubs on some holes because of the wind. Two guys took 10s on holes this week. Jack Nicklaus, no less, and Katsuyoshi Tomori. You felt like tapping them on the shoulder and saying “Aw, just put down 8s. That’s enough.”

Guys I play with wouldn’t let you take a 10. They say “Aw, pick it up, what is this, the British Open?”

Daly is the first American to win the British Open since Mark Calcavecchia in 1989 and only the second American in 12 years. He did it by playing the kind of controlled game nobody thought he had. He was supposed to be too young (29), too hot-headed, too impatient. He was none of those this week. He outwaited, outwitted and outpunched the grand old course, which threw its best weapons at him.

He now goes to join those elegant portraits of past winners who adorn this storied old clubhouse.

He’ll probably have to get a bowler hat, a brolly, and a regimental tie and monocle and practice saying “I say, old chap” instead of “Hey, jerkhead!” And if he meets the queen, he’ll have to remember to curtsy and not clap her on the back and ask for a light. He’s now the Right Honourable John Daly, Esq., gentleman, scholar and lord of St. Andrews. And his coat of arms will be the bunker at 17.