NORTH BERWICK, Scotland — A terrible silence hung over the 18th green at the Genesis Scottish Open for what felt like a beat too long.
Down below, Robert MacIntyre, Scotland’s native son, was staring down the final six inches of the putt of his life, a 22-foot curler that required just enough dying speed to avoid missing the hole altogether. He was willing it toward the cup with every ounce of his being, but every passing instant of quiet seemed to imperil it further.
No 22-footer could take that long to reach the hole — not even a putt at dying speed on these slow Scottish greens. Bob knew it, the few thousand ringed around the 18th green knew it, everybody knew it. So the quiet grew more painful, because it meant the putt of MacIntyre’s life had missed.
“I thought it was half-a-hole short,” he admitted later. “I thought it was running out of legs…”
But MacIntyre’s putt was not short.
“It was just perfect.”
So perfect that it fell in — and then, mercifully, the silence lifted.
It is tempting to describe the noise that followed Bob MacIntyre’s Scottish Open-winning putt as a roar, but the truth is that it was not a roar, it was a release. The people who cheered MacIntyre were not screaming but heaving, belting with all the energy and catharsis of a foolish dream realized.
Perhaps the dream wasn’t all that foolish, what with the 16th-ranked player in the world hailing from the home country and coming within a hair of winning this very tournament a year ago? But how else would you describe golf’s home nation — a country of just 5.5 million — delivering the winner of their very own national open for only the second time in its history? And how else would you describe doing it like this, with all of the most rabid spectators in the world watching from off the side of the 72nd hole? Some of them, like Sahith Theegala, watching from very close, craning their necks out of the top balcony of the Renaissance clubhouse and hoping to capture a whiff of magic brewing below.
“This is the chance you wanted, take it,” MacIntyre told himself as he stood over the 22-footer. The putter felt “heavy” in his hands, he said, which were unusually steady. What happened next was a putt on the outside right edge that bent both ways, slowed down as it neared the hole … and fell.
The eruption started mostly in the gallery, which might have overwhelmed security were they not so overcome with bliss. One section of fans charged orderly up the 18th fairway, encircling the green in a state of chaos, while another, just to the left of the grandstand, hugged with such vigor they strained against the weight of the ropeline. The bagpipe salute that followed was mostly ceremonial, but the giggly handshakes offered to MacIntyre by the musicians were not.
When the music stopped, MacIntyre charged into the crowd from off the 18th green to find the gaggle of his family crying and swearing, and by the time he left for the scoring tent he had all but lost his voice. The celebration, he said, will run into the wee hours of the morning — threatening his driving ability for his scheduled Open Championship press availability on Monday … at 3 p.m.
“I think there might be a change of schedule,” he said with a laugh.
Perhaps Theegala can fill in. He snuck down from the clubhouse with a grin on his face to find MacIntyre just outside of scoring, and interrupted his walk to his courtesy vehicle to butt-into Bob’s celebration with a celebratory handshake.
“Well played,” he said.
The sentiment was shared by MacIntyre’s caddie, Englishman Mike Burrow, though you’d never know it from looking at him. He stood stonefaced from just off the 18th green, until a member of MacIntyre’s family approached him for a hug and his gaze softened.
“F—ing Aye,” he said, a dry grin wrapped across his face.
The pandemonium reached its loudest just before MacIntyre reappeared to accept the trophy in front of the crowd, which still had not left the 18th hole. They began to make a strange noise just before he appeared, a song of some kind, echoing from side to side of the green in a staggered chorus.
But not just any song — Flower of Scotland, the Scottish national sporting anthem. The singing continued like this for a few minutes, broken and disorderly, joyous bedlam.
The words would need several journeys around the amphitheater before they could be understood, but their meaning needed no introduction at all.
O Flower of Scotland
When will we see,
Your like again?
Not soon, and perhaps not ever.
Robert MacIntyre is a Scottish Open champion, and the silence has left Scotland for good.
The author welcomes your thoughts at james.colgan@golf.com
