You know that special kind of devotion that only a golfer with a fire in his belly can inspire? Well, at Royal Birkdale, Rory McIlroy was the shining, albeit sometimes wobbly, object of it. Let's be honest, the golfing public's affection is about as stable as a wobbly tee shot, capable of flipping faster than a pancake on a hot griddle. Yet, these assembled thousands seemed absolutely determined to shove him toward success with sheer willpower. From the second he stepped onto that elevated walkway to the first tee, the roars of encouragement were deafening, a grand overture to an afternoon of golf that was surprisingly steady, if occasionally hair-pullingly frustrating.
The second hole was a textbook example of McIlroy’s game, or maybe just a cosmic wink and a perfectly struck driver. His tee shot was so good, it practically screamed "birdie," and the ensuing roar from the crowd obliterated any prior cheers for playing partner Matt Fitzpatrick. It seems we all get a little more excited about a star's comeback, even if that comeback is just… solid.
Later, at the fourth, a tee shot that was flirting with the edge of oblivion took a miraculous, benevolent bounce, setting up what could charitably be called a chance at birdie. One hundred and twenty-four feet later, the putt died an inch short, a tiny, silent nod to the putting woes of the previous day. The universe, it appears, has a penchant for suspenseful ellipses.
As he wound his way through the undulating dunes, a bold choice on the par-four fifth raised eyebrows. Was it ambition? A shortcut to eagle? Whatever it was, the green remained stubbornly out of reach. Still, the subsequent chip and par showed a grit that, while admirable, often feels like the sensible, albeit less glamorous, cousin to pure, unadulterated aspiration.
Alas, not even the most fervent fan could conjure a miracle from the rough on the sixth. A wayward second shot, followed by a chorus of panicked "fores!" from the crowd that hinted at a shared impending doom, led to a missed par. The seventh, a short par three, offered a chance at immediate redemption, but the lengthy birdie putt just couldn't find its destination, provoking a wonderfully expressive, though ultimately futile, kick of the air.
The eighth hole, however, delivered a more satisfying punchline. A booming drive, a quick chat with Fitzpatrick, a solid approach, and a much-needed birdie. It was the kind of relief you feel after, say, checking your bank account after a particularly extravagant dinner.
As the round neared the turn, the ninth hole provided a brief moment of flair. Another driver, much to the delight of the smartphone-wielding paparazzi, sent the ball bounding to within eagle range. While the eagle itself remained as elusive as a sensible opinion on the game's deeper meaning, the tap-in birdie got him to the turn at level par. He was, one presumes, in a mental state conducive to more of the same.