ELItorial

American imperialism, Tiger style

I followed Tiger Woods across the Atlantic this summer. I told my friends I wanted to see Europe. I told my parents I was going to take classes. I told myself I was going to get away from my parents. But I know I really went for one reason: to see Tiger win the British Open at St. Andrews.

HARRY HOW/ALLSPORT Tiger Woods drives the ball on the 18th tee of St. Andrews during this summer's British Open.

The British Open is the most important event in golf, and Tiger had never won it. After his U.S. Open victory, Sports Illustrated ran out of superlatives to describe what he has accomplished in his young career, but European commentators weren't so liberal in their praise. They didn't buy the hype—Tiger Woods had never won their Open. The upstart American could destroy the field at the U.S. Open, Augusta, and the PGA Championship, but he couldn't do it where it mattered. Their Open is the true test of golf, requiring more wisdom, more maturity, more finesse and more Britishness. Every paper from The London Times to the Daily Scotsman was putting its money on the locals: Lawrie the defending champ, Westwood, who had won the week before at the Irish Open, and Nick Faldo, who had finally found his game again.

Every American, though, knew that Tiger would win the British Open—it was only a question of when.

My pilgrimage to St. Andrews began poorly. Apparently no one at the Royal and Ancient had heard of the Yale Herald, and my request for a press pass was summarily denied. Pompous Euros. At least they turned down some of my Yale Daily News (YDN) friends as well. Maybe if we had said we were from Light and Truth...well, who knows.

On Thursday, the first day of the tournament, seven of us Yale-in-Londoners caught the 12:50 from London's King's Cross Station to Edinburgh. We arrived at 7 p.m. with neither tickets nor a place to say and nary a press pass between us. I voted to sleep in the train station since we were going to catch a 5 a.m. train to the course the next day, but the others, YDN wussies, suggested a hostel.

On Friday morning we saw the first group tee off at 6:30 a.m. I picked up my breakfast haggis on the way in and saw the sun rising over the Fyrth of Clyde. I had never been to St. Andrews before, but from years of watching on TV I felt I knew every nook and cranny: Swilcan Burn running in front of the first green, the famous 17th nicknamed the "Road Hole," the vast Hell Bunker on 14, the Valley of Sin in front of the 18th green.

Walking onto the grounds, I panicked like a freshman on the first day of shopping period. So much to see, so little time. Three days went by in a daze. Friday morning I studied Tiger's swing on the range and watched his coaches tutor him on the practice green. Saturday, I followed him as he racked up birdies, putting even more distance between himself and the field. Sunday, I perched on the grandstand behind the 17th green for five straight hours as player after player made bogey on the most difficult hole on the course. Finally, Tiger's entourage pulled through. Thousands swarmed up the fairway after him. He too made bogey, but it didn't matter. He had won even before he teed off.

The British Open is the most important sporting event in England. Soccer is, of course, popular, but it's not theirs. The Brits hold on to the Open as a vestige of imperialism, the only major worldwide sporting event that is still wholly British, British dominated, with an eminently British feel—rain, tea and crumpets in the clubhouse, and then more rain. (The fact that it's actually played in Scotland bothers no one; it's still British.) Some Brits try to claim Wimbledon as Britain's biggest contribution to worldwide sport, and they have a case, but they know in their heart of hearts that the last time a Brit even came close to winning Wimbledon was some time back when wooden rackets were the new thing.

Tiger's British Open win blasted away all doubts the British ever had about the sanctity of their Open and "that American upstart." Tiger's demolition of St. Andrews hit them closer to home than any Ryder Cup loss ever could. I could feel doubt, awe and a sense of disbelief, and even humiliation enveloping the fans. Behind the 18th green, tournament officials set up a casual interview spot for the lesser known golfers so that press and fans alike could listen to what they had to say. To make up for not getting my press pass, I elbowed my way to the front after the tournament. Christy O'Connor, Jr., a pudgy old bloke, had his own theory as to why he couldn't beat Tiger: "Tiger goes to bed before 10, exercises, and stays away from the women. They say he doesn't like a pint. I've never met a man who doesn't like a pint." Nick Faldo also focused on Tiger's culinary habits as the key to his success: "...you kids need to stop eating doughnuts if you want to compete with Tiger." Faldo and O'Connor were grasping at straws. They just didn't understand.

That same day, a few hundred miles to the south, Lance Armstrong won the Tour de France. A few days earlier, Pete Sampras and Venus Williams had won Wimbledon. Olympics? Who needs to wait for the Olympics to feel patriotic?

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