Where Else Can They Yell ‘You the Lad’?

Oh, to be in Scotland, for today’s final round of the British Open golf tournament. There are few places I would rather be. Maybe on Mars, photographing rocks. Or meeting outer-space creatures with Jodie Foster. But that’s about it.

I have been to two British Opens.

The first was in 1986. I boarded a train in London, spent hours looking out the window at the cows, crossed the border and finally rolled into Glasgow. There I expected moonbeams and castle moats. Glasgow isn’t like that. Glasgow is downtown Youngstown, Ohio, on tire-burning day.

I drove directly to Prestwick, to a small airport there. Many of the world’s top golfers were flying in on the Concorde, by specially arranged charter. Some of the local Scots couldn’t believe their eyes when they saw the Concorde. I think they thought it was a pterodactyl.

One older gentleman, whose brogue was so thick, many of his words had six Rs in them, saw the Concorde land and said it proved his theory that the Loch Ness monster could fly.

Well, you should have been there when the golfers got off.

“You Bit Grin! You Bit Grin!” a man called out, pointing.

I did not know what that meant, until Hubert Green stepped off.

“Fizzy Zilla!” he said next.

That one, I got.

By the time he got to “Bin Crin Sha,” I felt as though I not only understood Scottish pretty well, but could speak it with a few lessons.

After I waited for Fuzzy Zoeller and Ben Crenshaw to pass by, I asked the man if he resented jokes about Scots being cheap.

He said, “What’s this, now?”

“I heard two taxi cabs crashed,” I said, “and 30 Scotsmen were killed.”

“Aye, that’s a fine one,” he said, not cracking a smile.

Later, I drove to the town of Girvan, where I had leased a house. They were holding the Open that year at Turnberry, a converted wartime air strip. Tarmac could still be found beneath the fairway and fringe.

The family renting me the house could not have been sweeter. The mother and father worked for a company that made dental floss. They gave me some. I presume this was because they had extra, not because they were giving me a hint.

They owned a VCR and three cassettes, in case I felt like watching a late movie. I asked which films they had.

“Ro Kee I, Ro Kee II and Ro Kee III,” said the lady of the house, apparently very fond of Sylvester Stallone boxing films.

At the golf course, I saw the greatest players in the world hack through the roughest of rough. Ray Floyd said he wished he had brought a machete. He didn’t need a caddie, he needed a safari guide. I believe Ian Woosnam actually disappeared at one point. It was the first time golf ever lost a player out of bounds.

A local pro name of Guy McQuitty was the goat of the first day, breaking 100, but just barely. I went to speak to McQuitty, to offer my sympathy. He wasn’t having any.

“I would have withdrawn, but I couldn’t remember the way back to the clubhouse,” he said with a grin. Ah, there was no quit in McQuitty. I wonder where he is.

Greg Norman won the tournament.

I was glad, because Norman and I had just spent a couple days together in Melbourne, after the America’s Cup boat race near Perth. I remember two things in particular. One was that Greg let me walk inside the ropes with him at the Australian Masters, which he also won. The other is that Greg drove me through the streets of Melbourne, at the approximate speed of the Concorde.

My only other British Open came in 1991.

It was at Royal Birkdale, nestled in northwest England, along the Irish Sea coast. A train lover at heart, I went by rail into Liverpool, where I hoped to run into Ringo Starr. My sister once told me if I ever got to Liverpool, be sure to look Ringo up. She was quite young at the time.

I stayed in Formby at the house of a lovely lady, Anne Seddon, with whom I have kept in touch. Anne had the courage to rent her spotless home to an American sportswriter. She undoubtedly had to spend years thereafter, cleaning it.

The tournament in Southport was won by Ian Baker-Finch, a man so handsome, young English girls in the tent began whispering and giggling. I admired him myself, mainly because I intended to write a spy novel some day, in which I would name my chief inspector Ian Baker-Finch.

I am sad to report that Baker-Finch shot a 92 on Thursday, in the British Open’s first round. It was the worst score at the Open in 11 years . . . since Guy McQuitty. I must say, it hurt me to miss this.