‘Did Rory win?’ said my bleary-eyed 10-year-old as he began, somewhat reluctantly, waking up next to me.
He had fallen asleep sometime around the turn of the final round of The 2025 Masters. We had spent the day playing golf on the quite ludicrous, Gil Hanse-designed, Piglets course at Les Bourdes, a country estate and private golf destination about two hours from Paris.
Then rounded off our day by playing the back nine of the stellar New Course on a sunny Sunday evening. We had retired with crisps and biscuits to watch Rory.
Captivated by the canvas and Rory. By the glory and gore. The brilliant fragility. The utter desperation to get it over the line.
Rory had him.
It is day two of The Open, and I am inside the ropes for Rory’s second round at Royal Portrush. Wrestling driver and expectation, his first was a skittish, harum scarum, tense and fragile score of 70, where nothing looked under control.
Barely 12 hours have passed since and the mid-morning crowd on the 1st hole at Portrush is five or six deep. Its entire length on both sides, the grandstands are packed around the tee and the green has a crowd that is maybe 30 or 40 deep. Rory at a Northern Irish Open is Tiger in 2000. He is the only show in town.
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Inside the ropes is a strange place to be. You are on the stage but must stay invisible. There are surreal moments as Sky and BBC on-course reporters audibly describe the action to their distant audiences. I chat to rival super fan Jamie Weir. He is also concerned.
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I turn my phone off, scared of it ringing, but also utterly absorbed. There is no perspective here, no bigger picture. All anyone is concerned about is one man’s score. It is unifying, comforting even as we try and pull him up.
We stop and we start our way through the front nine – a birdie, a bogey, a birdie, a bogey. Missed chances and slumped shoulders. Things are calmer than yesterday, but there is no spark. It’s all two steps forwards, and one step back
He is constantly moving and scouting the horizon. Swing drills, wafting imagined flies, chatting. He is busy constantly. The nod of his head up and down as he flags one on hole 4 – the ball, the flag, the ball again – checking they are indeed soon to be acquainted. No practice swings, but a bounce and a look, and a bounce and a look.
It is a perfect links day, the sun is shining, the breeze is just perfect. Tommy Fleetwood is on a tear and there is a sense that a score is possible. It only adds to the tension.
‘Please, can you move?’ a Northern Irish voice pleads with a photographer. ‘I have been waiting here two hours’. It is not just the hole he is on that is packed, but it is those two, three and four ahead as thousands wait to catch a glimpse. A putt drops for birdie on 4, and the first concerted chant of ‘Rory, Rory’ breaks out.
A tepid bogey at hole 5 seems to stir something. He flushes his tee shot at the par-3 6th and sets off Tiger-style, still holding his finish.
As he tumbles down the 10th, he acknowledges the crowd with a wave and that silent, mouthed thank you. He wants to embrace it, he wants to feel the moment and get swept along, but links golf is exacting and stressful. It needs precision and thought and cannot be conquered through vibes. This is the line they tread.
Things remain imperfect. A failure to convert a birdie at 7 from the front edge is all so relatable. A pulled 3 wood off the tee at 9 is troubling. A couple of loose wedges at 15 and 17 are frustrating after good tee shots. But things are more assured. More in control. A comfortable birdie at 14.
Home in 69. 3-under. Right in it. Job done.
There is a sense that he is relaxing into the week, his game is getting tighter there is a sense of relief that he is here for the weekend.
My children arrive this evening for the weekend. We are praying for sunshine and a Rory charge. I want them to be inspired again. I want them to get it.
‘Will we see Rory this weekend, Dad?’ We will indeed. Rory has him and me.
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