July 23, 2009--Second Best?
My cousin Chuck, who was a serious student of things strenuous, always said, when comparing the most challenging activities, that the Tour de France bicycle race was by far the most physiologically demanding of athletic contests.
It takes place over 23 days, unfolds in 21 separate stages or daylong segments, and in total distance covers more than 3,500km or 2,171 miles. It virtually circumnavigates France and crosses hot summer valleys and winds its way through the snowfields of both the Pyrenees and the Alps, ending always, on the last Saturday of July, in Paris, along the Champs Élysées. This coming Saturday.
Chuck always said, as evidence of how strenuous the Tour is, that to complete it is the equivalent of running several marathons a week for three weeks.
There is no dispute about who is the greatest of Tour champions—it is the American metastasized cancer-survivor Lance Armstrong who, between 1999 and 2005, won the Tour an unprecedented seven times in a row.
Controversy surrounded him as it does all world-class cyclists. Many, including the 2006 champion, another American, Floyd Landis, have been caught using forbidden performance-enhancing drugs. It is generally assumed that almost everyone cheats, including--the French especially say--Lance Armstrong. But like everyone else, he is tested for doping constantly both during the Tour and at other times of the year and has never been found to be using any illegal substance. But still, again mainly the French persist in claiming that he has somehow figured out how to beat the tests. (See linked New York Times article for additional details.)
In part to get away from all of that and to rest on his considerable laurels, Armstrong retired three and a half years ago. But the lure to compete—perhaps to prove himself again and to wipe away any lingering stigma—he returned to competition this year at for this event the “advanced” age of 37 and is passing all the drug tests and . . . doing remarkably well. With only four stages remaining he is unlikely to win—which would be truly amazing—but he has a very good chance of finishing second. Also amazing.
Then, last weekend, in Scotland, the world’s best golfers gathered for their sport’s ultimate test—The Open Championship. What we in America call the British Open but in Britain it is referred to as just The Open because since golf was invented there to Brits, though there may be other major championships, including the U.S. Open, there is truly only one Open.
The courses where The Open is contested are all among the worlds most daunting. They in no way resemble the rolling suburban, country-club kinds of courses in America where the other three majors are played, including with all due respects in Augusta where the Masters is held. In Britain The Open is always held on turf courses, essentially wild fields and meadows, settings where the players are not only tormented by the narrow fairways and roughs, which resemble unmowed hayfields and by fairway bunkers that look like World War I bunkers—pits with fiercely vertical walls--since these courses are all perched right by the sea, players also have to deal with the wicked and unpredictable weather conditions that are characteristic of these northerly latitudes. Lashing rains and gale force winds are frequent companions.
It was claimed by my cousin, though on the surface most professional golfers do not look like finely trained athletes—some even push around considerable paunches—playing in The Open is the most psychologically demanding of all sporting events. It stretches out over four days, with the competitors during the first two often feeling casually light spirited. But by the third day, always a Saturday, considering what it means to them to win this ultimate championship, it is not hyperbolic in golfing terms to claim that there are even metaphysical stakes for those golfers in contention—for those at that time within half a dozen strokes of each other and then especially on the final day, for those in the last two or three twosomes--it is nothing short of mental torment.
To be in the lead, to be within a shot or two of the lead, after 68 of the 72 holes is to face in an unmediated way either sports immortality or the abyss. It is that existential.
Made more so by the fact that championship golf is the only major sport where competitors are not part of a team and where the opponent they most ultimately face is themselves. Yes, they are competing against the field, if they have or are close to the lead on that final day, they have others who they need to defeat, but as they stand over an eight-foot put on the 72nd green, knowing that “all” they have to do is sink it to take home the coveted 139 year-old Claret Jug, they are as alone in the world, before 40,000 spectators pressing in close and many millions more watching on TV, in that lonely crowd it is just one man against the forces of destiny.
Golf at this level is almost always sport for young men who not only have all the required physical tools at their command but—perhaps because they have not yet come to the awareness that time, in all things, is the unconquerable enemy—the psychological pressure is less on them than it would be for a player with victory in sight on that final hole who is past just 45. Fully conscious of the consequences—This is certainly my last opportunity to win a major much less The Open--the mind asserts itself and takes over from the body. That eight-foot put, ordinarily not much of a problem for golfers at this level, looks endless. And while the green on which the ball sits is in fact rather flat at that location, to the older player with everything at stake, it looks as roiled and undulating as that of the nearby ocean.
Thus it is no surprise that the oldest winner of any of the four golf majors is Julius Boros who won the 1968 PGA Championship at 48 years, 4 months. And the oldest winner of The Open is the aptly named Old Man Morris who took home the Jug way back in 1867 at the not-really-so-old age of 46 years, two months.
But then this past Sunday, confronting history and immortality, standing on the 18th green of the 72nd hole, with a seemingly safe one-shot lead, was Tom Watson, winner of five previous Opens, who at the ancient age of 59 and 10 months was almost 12 years older than Boros.
He was not only on the cusp of history but also on the edge of the green, perhaps 20 feet from the hole. All he needed to do to become immortal was take two strokes to hole out. Routine for even golfers of less skill and experience. His first putt was not distinguished and left him with eight feet remaining. He had been making putts of this length and longer all week long, including on Sunday.
This eight-footer, though, was not just about winning it was about doing something no one else had come even close to achieving. The announcers, all experienced and accomplished former champions, said, again not hyperbolically, that if Watson sinks this putt it will represent the greatest achievement in the entire history of golf.
Feeling unfathomable pressure, he missed the putt, was forced into a four-hole playoff, and lost it, coming in second to Stewart Cink, who is a mere 36.
Armstrong and Watson. Both in one week! Second best? You decide.
It takes place over 23 days, unfolds in 21 separate stages or daylong segments, and in total distance covers more than 3,500km or 2,171 miles. It virtually circumnavigates France and crosses hot summer valleys and winds its way through the snowfields of both the Pyrenees and the Alps, ending always, on the last Saturday of July, in Paris, along the Champs Élysées. This coming Saturday.
Chuck always said, as evidence of how strenuous the Tour is, that to complete it is the equivalent of running several marathons a week for three weeks.
There is no dispute about who is the greatest of Tour champions—it is the American metastasized cancer-survivor Lance Armstrong who, between 1999 and 2005, won the Tour an unprecedented seven times in a row.
Controversy surrounded him as it does all world-class cyclists. Many, including the 2006 champion, another American, Floyd Landis, have been caught using forbidden performance-enhancing drugs. It is generally assumed that almost everyone cheats, including--the French especially say--Lance Armstrong. But like everyone else, he is tested for doping constantly both during the Tour and at other times of the year and has never been found to be using any illegal substance. But still, again mainly the French persist in claiming that he has somehow figured out how to beat the tests. (See linked New York Times article for additional details.)
In part to get away from all of that and to rest on his considerable laurels, Armstrong retired three and a half years ago. But the lure to compete—perhaps to prove himself again and to wipe away any lingering stigma—he returned to competition this year at for this event the “advanced” age of 37 and is passing all the drug tests and . . . doing remarkably well. With only four stages remaining he is unlikely to win—which would be truly amazing—but he has a very good chance of finishing second. Also amazing.
Then, last weekend, in Scotland, the world’s best golfers gathered for their sport’s ultimate test—The Open Championship. What we in America call the British Open but in Britain it is referred to as just The Open because since golf was invented there to Brits, though there may be other major championships, including the U.S. Open, there is truly only one Open.
The courses where The Open is contested are all among the worlds most daunting. They in no way resemble the rolling suburban, country-club kinds of courses in America where the other three majors are played, including with all due respects in Augusta where the Masters is held. In Britain The Open is always held on turf courses, essentially wild fields and meadows, settings where the players are not only tormented by the narrow fairways and roughs, which resemble unmowed hayfields and by fairway bunkers that look like World War I bunkers—pits with fiercely vertical walls--since these courses are all perched right by the sea, players also have to deal with the wicked and unpredictable weather conditions that are characteristic of these northerly latitudes. Lashing rains and gale force winds are frequent companions.
It was claimed by my cousin, though on the surface most professional golfers do not look like finely trained athletes—some even push around considerable paunches—playing in The Open is the most psychologically demanding of all sporting events. It stretches out over four days, with the competitors during the first two often feeling casually light spirited. But by the third day, always a Saturday, considering what it means to them to win this ultimate championship, it is not hyperbolic in golfing terms to claim that there are even metaphysical stakes for those golfers in contention—for those at that time within half a dozen strokes of each other and then especially on the final day, for those in the last two or three twosomes--it is nothing short of mental torment.
To be in the lead, to be within a shot or two of the lead, after 68 of the 72 holes is to face in an unmediated way either sports immortality or the abyss. It is that existential.
Made more so by the fact that championship golf is the only major sport where competitors are not part of a team and where the opponent they most ultimately face is themselves. Yes, they are competing against the field, if they have or are close to the lead on that final day, they have others who they need to defeat, but as they stand over an eight-foot put on the 72nd green, knowing that “all” they have to do is sink it to take home the coveted 139 year-old Claret Jug, they are as alone in the world, before 40,000 spectators pressing in close and many millions more watching on TV, in that lonely crowd it is just one man against the forces of destiny.
Golf at this level is almost always sport for young men who not only have all the required physical tools at their command but—perhaps because they have not yet come to the awareness that time, in all things, is the unconquerable enemy—the psychological pressure is less on them than it would be for a player with victory in sight on that final hole who is past just 45. Fully conscious of the consequences—This is certainly my last opportunity to win a major much less The Open--the mind asserts itself and takes over from the body. That eight-foot put, ordinarily not much of a problem for golfers at this level, looks endless. And while the green on which the ball sits is in fact rather flat at that location, to the older player with everything at stake, it looks as roiled and undulating as that of the nearby ocean.
Thus it is no surprise that the oldest winner of any of the four golf majors is Julius Boros who won the 1968 PGA Championship at 48 years, 4 months. And the oldest winner of The Open is the aptly named Old Man Morris who took home the Jug way back in 1867 at the not-really-so-old age of 46 years, two months.
But then this past Sunday, confronting history and immortality, standing on the 18th green of the 72nd hole, with a seemingly safe one-shot lead, was Tom Watson, winner of five previous Opens, who at the ancient age of 59 and 10 months was almost 12 years older than Boros.
He was not only on the cusp of history but also on the edge of the green, perhaps 20 feet from the hole. All he needed to do to become immortal was take two strokes to hole out. Routine for even golfers of less skill and experience. His first putt was not distinguished and left him with eight feet remaining. He had been making putts of this length and longer all week long, including on Sunday.
This eight-footer, though, was not just about winning it was about doing something no one else had come even close to achieving. The announcers, all experienced and accomplished former champions, said, again not hyperbolically, that if Watson sinks this putt it will represent the greatest achievement in the entire history of golf.
Feeling unfathomable pressure, he missed the putt, was forced into a four-hole playoff, and lost it, coming in second to Stewart Cink, who is a mere 36.
Armstrong and Watson. Both in one week! Second best? You decide.
posted by Steven Zwerling at
6:12 AM
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