A
t just before three o’clock, the first tee was abuzz. Expectation, hope, willing, deep affection, the love of golf fans, the noise of their anticipation — the loudest reception of the day reserved entirely, of course, for the man bouncing onto the tee with that positive spring in his gait. This was Rory McIlroy.
Notepad in hand, I started to fish for words to describe the scene: this hope, this noise, this man for whom golf fans want to inherit the earth. Or at least one more major, preferably this one.
Yet as you looked on and admired, the reality that dawned was that this was not an original scene. It’s a show that we’ve seen before; it’s a staple of the sporting summer. It’s
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