Surviving the British Open

First appeared on July 22, 2015
in The Lebanon Reporter

As a young boy I remember watching the British Open with my father. The driving rain sweeping down over a lifeless moonscape, hurricane force winds ripping at the flagsticks and forty degree temperatures in July, all foretold of a bleak existence and instilled in me early on a fierce determination never to visit.

England, where the beer flows warm and shirty people tell you to buck up when its monkey’s outside. A Fantasy Island for the downtrodden where, instead of Mai-tai’s and leis, the women greeting you hand out cricket bats and ponchos.

From the comfort of his chair, my father slipped peanuts into his Coke while miserable men in flapping rain gear braced themselves against a treacherous wind, a howling fury battering every shot. All this as I caught myself taking in the warmth and comfort surrounding me, wondering why I would ever even leave the room.

This is of course what we Americans are. For ending the Big One and giving the world a cheap automobile and airplanes, we deserve a little pampering. We make cars with heated steering wheels and we want extra fries with that and faster Internet service and somebody to put our shopping cart away at Wal-Mart once the car is loaded.

We see St. Andrews on the telly and cringe, thinking Scotland as a vacation destination could only appeal to a grizzled Polar Explorer or the English. An angry sea throwing itself against the rocky shore sending giant curtains of mist exploding into the air. A sky the color of concrete under which jaded locals with ashen faces huddle, the collars of their Pea coats turned up, speaking fondly of that magical Thursday when they were school children and a strange round object filled the sky and warmed their world, if but for a short time.

Every year at this time the golf world descends upon this barren rock in the North Atlantic, a place so forbidding that more than 300 years ago our forefathers packed up all they had and ran for the hills. Embarking on a trip where, compared to the near constant dreariness of England, they were willing to brave small pox, scurvy, a dangerous sea voyage into the unknown and a mob of angry natives armed with bows and arrows and hatchets carved from stone fixed to sticks using the hide of the deer, an instrument of death so skilled with were they that it could be thrown from great distances and still split the hairs upon your head.

So from near and far they journeyed to the Old Course in St. Andrews Scotland, which is not England you say. And this is true, if you are also willing to argue that Illinois is not Nebraska. Even ESPN, whose power is so great a SportsCenter commercial with Putin and the San Diego Chicken sharing an elevator would surprise no one, couldn’t dress Scotland up for, despite filming in HD, she still came through your television appearing black and white.

The American spirit, albeit portly and somewhat self-serving, is no stranger to the Open having won half of them since 1990. In the end two Americans found themselves in contention late as their countrymen could only watch from the comfort of their living rooms while St. Andrews gnashed her terrible teeth and rolled her terrible eyes and showed her terrible claws.

Ultimately, the award for hanging on the longest in the 144th Open Championship went to Zach Johnson, who seems bright, talented and well spoken, though we’ve no way of knowing if he corrals his own shopping cart at Wal-Mart.

© 2015 Eric Walker Williams

"Progress" comes to Clark and Addison

First appeared on July 11, 2015
in The Lebanon Reporter

A day spent at Wrigley is a day well spent. Forget Florida and its meandering rivers of traffic, or the great outdoors and its fabled tranquility, mosquitoes and near constant threat of bear attacks. Wrigley Field is another world, one you long to visit more and wish others knew less knew about.

So you stand shoulder to shoulder, sharing a prolonged silence with this mass of humanity fate has thrown together in a steel Velveeta box on rails. You avoid eye contact, conversation and interaction of any kind, best not to invite the one you suspect is seriously considering jabbing you in the stomach for your wallet.

Meanwhile the El goes on, listing from side to side while clacking down its tracks. As if you’ve traded an Abraham Lincoln for a ticket back in time, the alleyways and fire escapes of the Brownstones roll past. The homes huddling together and muscle of the trestle that splits them are ripped from a Sinclair novel. Your mind is busy tucking all these images away for later, as your nose has serious questions about the availability of warm water and soap in the Windy City.

For you, this is more than a train ride. It’s therapy. For nothing takes the sting out of a rant from your boss like reminiscing about Wrigley. Forget the overpriced vendors, long lines at the John and warm beer, the only souvenirs you’ll take home are the nostalgic sights and sounds. Lasting images such as the silhouette of downtown cast against an ocean blue sky, or a young father teaching his daughter how to jump a turnstile.

And when your stop arrives and the doors shoosh open, you turn to embrace a scene you didn’t want to leave in the first place. However, instead of an old friends smile or slice of Grannie’s Apple Pie, you’re greeted with something from a Third World Country racked by devastation.

Dump trucks lumber back and forth, navigating a minefield of port-a-potties. With all the synchronicity of a Broadway show, construction workers move seamlessly around each other. It’s the scourge of renovation. A cancer that threatens all you hold dear.

No matter the form, we as humans struggle with change. It’s in our DNA, just ask the boys over at Coca-Cola. Our lives become so choreographed and photocopied that change has a way of reaching out and slapping us every time. A flag goes up, a flag comes down. A presidential candidate who doesn’t tell us what we expect to hear. Renovating Wrigley is like putting lipstick on the Mona Lisa grumbles the old timer behind you.

For whatever reason, your mind is drawn to Millard Fillmore. A stuffed shirt who did little of consequence aside from sleep in the White House for four years, old Mill’s on record as saying one shouldn’t accept change as progress. And as you bask in the glow of the jumbo-tron that now towers over left-center, you know that no truer words have ever been spoken.

Your eyes used to marvel at the hand-operated scoreboard or wander along the bricks until they got lost in the Ivy. Now they’re blinded by 3900 square feet of LED. If this is progress, they can have it. You have satellite TV, microwaveable meals and a one-car detached waiting for you at home.

Not unlike a bad sunburn, we’re often reminded that progress for some is a kick in the shin for others. And yet, it remains our destiny. In the end you’re left to realize that perhaps, not unlike beauty, progress too lies in the eye of the beholder.

© 2015 Eric Walker Williams