Although Padraig?s winning putt sank quite a while ago now, I?m still suffering from Post Carnoustie Syndrome. One of the symptoms of which is a genuine concern that the rest of my life is going to seem rather anticlimactic. How can you, as they say, follow that?
It was a real privilege to have witnessed such an epic. Naturally I assume that reading my blog was the next best thing to being there, nevertheless it?s hard for me not to feel genuine sympathy for those who weren?t actually at Carnoustie.
Without wishing to sound too pretentious, an Open Championship is more than simply a visual feast, so television can?t hope to convey it all. An Open stimulates all the senses. The smell of the seaside, the sound of the surf and roar of the crowd, the gentle touch of the breeze and spring in the turf, all combine to create that indefinable magic that is, er? well, indefinable.
By now the sensitive reader will have gathered that I was truly exhilarated by the whole experience. What makes that so remarkable is that, like most others in my profession, I?m naturally inclined to the sarcastic and cynical end of the emotional spectrum. But my behaviour belied my status as a grizzled veteran. There I was, racing across fairways, embracing gorse bushes and generally leaping about like a deranged dervish; just to secure a decent view of the remarkable drama unfolding before my ageing eyes.
What made it all the more remarkable that I should have behaved in this manner was that I really didn?t care who won. Either Sergio or Padraig would have made a worthy champion and neither deserved to be runner-up. The fact that one of them had to lose just added a dollop of poignancy to the compelling proceedings.
Ah well, roll on Royal Birkdale.