Barring a bizarre chain of events, I will never play soccer at Wembley Stadium. Gone too is any chance of playing cricket at Lord's, baseball at Yankee Stadium, or winning the men's singles title at Wimbledon (I'm English, after all).
It seems destiny has made me an everyman, a voyeur from plastic seat or through plasma screen. For this perennial dreamer, the door to the grandest stage is all but closed. "I could have been somebody," as Marlon Brando best said.
Last month, however, I walked in the footsteps of sporting legend. It didn't cost anything, there was no real training involved and it had absolutely nothing to do with talent. Golf, it appears, is the game which brings you closest to your sporting gods.
When I wrote to the Carnoustie Links, I did so with a preconceived notion of stuffy officious types greeting my request with guffaws of cake-muffled laughter. "This young man is asking to play the championship course," they would scoff, "what insolence!"
Opening my emails the following morning, I could barely believe my eyes. Not only was I offered a tee time on the course, less than a year before it hosts the greatest tournament in golf, but I was also invited to play at no cost to myself or my father-in-law. And they say golf's an inaccessible sport.
What followed was an afternoon of sobering contemplation at the task ahead. I'd heard the course was challenging, and I knew Paul Lawrie won The Open in 1999 with an over-par total, but the true venom of this coastal beast percolates the Internet like a public health warning. "Austere. Bleak. Barren. Desolate. Forbidding," read one website. "The hardest golf course in the world," said another.
It's just 18 holes, I thought. Nobody died. And so a golfing odyssey began.
We landed in Edinburgh and headed north. Traveling by train, Scotland's stunning natural beauty ebbed and flowed from valley to mountain, through rocky outcrop and over sparkling lochs. Gradually, we left the lowlands and entered the heart of this beautiful country. "Scotland starts as Perth," said our landlord in Blair Athol.
Having scaled as high as Inverness, we started our descent south-easterly towards Carnoustie, encountering the genial Scottish at every turn. It seemed nothing was too much trouble, and nobody too busy to indulge in conversation.
Each time we bought up Carnoustie, however, a strange thing happened. Glowing faces turned suddenly ashen.
As if comprehending the most heinous of all places, landlords, taxi drivers, and pub regulars alike, would drift towards a dark corridor of their mind and offer their foreboding tales of sporting misery. The message was clear. We, the golfing hobbits, were heading for the links equivalent of Mordor.
Following a wonderfully scenic train ride from Dundee, we arrived in Carnoustie and strolled into town to soak up the atmosphere. The golf tourists were everywhere, immersed in sporting pilgrimage and paying their respects at the local golfing stores. "Must get a load of balls," said one well-jumpered golf-lover to another.
Tim, my ever-generous father-in-law, treated me to a pair of golf shoes in one such establishment. A young caddie working in the store soon reminded us of the enormity of our task. "The championship course then," he said, "should be interesting for you, it's very long and you should add at least ten shots to what you usually score. You'll need some more balls."
"We're looking forward to the challenge" I replied. Remarkably, I maintained the demeanor of a competent golfer enjoying an everyday experience on a major championship course. My facade would soon be demolished in spectacular style.
It's a strange feeling to look upon scenes of iconic sporting triumph (and disaster) with your own eyes. For a true fan, it felt surreal and magical. Ben Hogan had won here in 1953, Gary Player in 1968, and Tom Watson in 1975. Jack Nicklaus, Tiger Woods and Severiano Ballesteros had all walked the legendary fairways at their peak. And then there was Jean Van De Velde. "We're not worthy," I thought.
Having delayed the inevitable for as long as possible, Tim and I left the comfort of the practice area and made our way to the first tee. A couple from Vancouver, dressed as if they were extras in The Sopranos, had been given the dubious pleasure of accompanying us on the round.
Completing our group were two local caddies, Fiona and Andy, a luxury that Tim had insisted on funding. Both were strong golfers who knew the course inside out. Their patience would be tried in the afternoon ahead, but they began by lifting our moral. "Sergio Garcia got an 8 on this one in '99," said Andy, "so anything better and you'll be ahead of him going into the second."
As Fiona checked the yardage, showed me an illustration of where to aim and handed me the driver, I suddenly felt like the biggest fraud in sporting history. "I'm here to write a piece," I told her, "so don't expect any great golf."
"You'll be fine, just avoid the bunkers on the right and the OB on the left, " she said calmly. You'll be glad to know I did both, sending a vicious hook into the deep heather over by a parallel fairway. "We'll find that," she said softly.
Tim, on the other hand, blazed a comfortable drive down the middle and left Andy very satisfied. Poor Fiona, I thought. Somehow I managed a sketchy five and Tim and I moved onto the second tee just one over par. "You're both three ahead of Sergio," said Andy.
It proved a monumental false dawn. While Tim played with guile and composure, I zigzagged the course like a frightened rabbit, dragging the hapless Fiona along for an exhausting front nine. "I'll go find those other three balls when we come back down the eighth," she offered.
Though there were a couple of pars in the mix, my hilarious card showed a 12, an 8, and at least one score that could have won a rugby match. "I'm just trying to get the full experience," I joked. I doubt very much Fiona laughed.
As we made the turn, I bought Fiona a candy bar and she disappeared to pick berries behind the tee box, no doubt stifling the urge to end my misery with a 3-iron to the head. "Never pick them below waist height," she said dryly on her return. It took me an age to work out why, but then I clearly wasn't on point.
Heading into the epic last four holes, I had regained some confidence and felt ready to re-enact the childhood fantasy of winning a major down the 18th. For my garden, substitute a real, genuine championship course. I would still provide the commentary in my head.
On the last tee, the sun burst through and illuminated a quite wonderful vista. If there was a golfing heaven, we had arrived. The silhouettes of golfers ahead were breathtakingly cinematic, and one couldn't help but feel privileged to be enjoying such a unique opportunity.
Thoughts soon turned to Van De Velde. It was the Frenchman who famously capitulated on the 18th at Carnoustie, needing just a six to win The Open in 1999. "He hit a bad drive," said Andy, "then a bad second shot which cracked into the grandstand, and then he went in the water."
Van De Velde got a seven that day and the chance of a lifetime slipped through his fingers. He will be relieved to know, however, that his triple-bogey on the last was considerably better than my attempt at the hole. Luckily, I had little more than pride at stake.
With the round over, our strange-looking foursome shook hands and reflected on a truly memorable experience. For Fiona, a long day's work was finally over. "Thank you so much," I said, " sorry you ended up walking twice as far as usual."
"You're not very good at golf," said Fiona, "but at least you're nice."
Carnoustie's narrow fairways and cavernous bunkers had proved every bit as hard as its reputation suggested. Having benefited from perfect conditions and rough cut far shorter than it will be next summer, it is with utmost respect that this course should be approached.
Ultimately, the experience of playing such an iconic and picturesque course is worthy of any embarrassment its trials and tribulations may bring, for to walk in the footsteps of sporting legends is a rare and beautiful thing.
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