The championship of all championships, as it were, kicked off with the sort of fanfare you'd expect when a bloke who practically sleeps on the fairways gets to whack the first ball. Matthew Baldwin, a man so familiar with Royal Birkdale’s nooks and crannies he probably has a favorite sprinkler head, started us off with a respectable two-over 72. I bet his playing partners offered him the golf equivalent of a sympathetic pat on the back, the kind you give someone who just admitted they wore crocs to a wedding.
Then there’s the whole “Matthews” phenomenon, a veritable hydra of potential Open contenders popping out of the woodwork. Matthew Wallace, sitting pretty with a 69, is clearly aiming to escape the soul-crushing mediocrity of a T40 finish, a fate that must cling to him like a damp wool jumper. Meanwhile, Matthew Jordan, once a whispered hope for dark horse glory, managed to be seven over through nine holes. That performance suggests his game took a sharp left turn and headed straight for the nearest pub. And Matthew Southgate, guided by the wisdom of one Billy Foster, apparently found religion in late birdies, finishing with a 69. See? Good advice, much like a perfectly struck fairway wood, can actually land you somewhere nice.
Now, about Bryson DeChambeau. His strategic genius has been questioned with the kind of ferocity usually reserved for debates about pineapple on pizza. Sir Nick Faldo, a chap who’s seen enough weather patterns on the golf course to rival a meteorologist, declared DeChambeau had "zero clue of strategy." But then Bryson goes and shoots a 67, looking all calm and in control with his considerable talents. It seems his approach to links golf, much like a particularly pungent cheese, is best savored and judged after it’s had time to mature, not based on some hasty pronouncements.
Justin Rose, returning to the scene of his early triumphs, had a reunion that was less a warm embrace and more a stiff handshake. His opening birdie was a brief flicker of hope before a cascade of bogeys and a double-bogey saw him finish five-over. I suspect his neck, while no doubt tended to by the best medical minds, isn't the only thing feeling the strain of trying to make the cut.
Tommy Fleetwood, carrying the weight of home-town expectation and the kind of adoration usually reserved for local heroes who bake prize-winning scones, navigated his opening round with that quiet determination that makes people call him "best-player-without-a-major." After a bit of a shaky start, he rallied with some late birdies to finish one-under. That score at least means he won't be hauling his own clubs home on Friday.
Joaquin Niemann, whose career has been under more scrutiny than a reality TV contestant's backstory, had a rather rough start. A front nine devoid of birdies, punctuated by six bogeys, led to a 76. It was, in short, a performance that suggested his "window" of opportunity might be more of a "slightly drafty back door." But, given his history, I’d hold off on writing him off entirely just yet. He's got time to prove us all wrong, or at least to make us look like fools for even suggesting he might.