I watched most of the British Open Saturday and Sunday and was pulling for Greg Norman.  After his final round, he was obviously a bit disappointed as he pulled in with a tie for third instead of becoming the oldest man to win a major.  He’d kept his head about him the first three rounds, and his new bride Chris Evert spoke what everyone was wondering:  would he be able to do it for four rounds.

I think he made just one mistake Sunday.  He tried to win rather than simply drinking in this gift that he’d received, the opportunity to walk eighteen holes in the last group of the British Open a decade and a half after he’d been a real player.  His wife had restored his passion for the game, and he’d channeled the desire through brutal conditions to be there at the end.  I wish he’d simply been grinning ear to ear from the first tee to the last, hit is 3-wood or hybrid off all those tees, drink in every step, and wave at the end.  He’ll come to relish this gift in the months to come rather than revisiting all of the ghosts of Christmases past.

It was magical.

Tags: Greg Norman, The British Open

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