I'm in the middle of my annual trip in the way-back machine. I love the British Open. I always feel like I'm in the 1920's and need to wear knickers when I watch them knock the ball around on the firth of forth or St. Andrews or Royal Birkdale.
The buildings look ancient, the grass looks dead and weather looks miserable. Even the Clarett Jug looks like something that was unearthed at a local archeological dig. I don't smoke, but I have the urge to don a pipe and sweater when The Open Championship rolls around.
It's pot bunkers. It's bump-and-run golf. It's wind. It's rain. It's that old yellow scoreboard that is changed by hand. The internet and Wall Street and modern technology seem light years away.
It's English accents and guys name McGinty and stories of evenings at the pub. It's a unique four days on the sports calendar, and I plan on putting on my knickers, pulling up my socks and enjoying every minute of it.