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The Old and New meet at St. Andrews
ST. ANDREWS, Scotland -- It is the oddest of sights from a distance. You see only the black baseball cap with the distinctive swoosh, bobbing along in a virtual sea of young humanity. The line extends from the practice range, where Tiger Woods just left, to the car park where he is headed. "Ah," mumbled a wonderful old crag of a face underneath a thatch of unruly white hair. The word came out more "argh", a Scottish muttering of sorts. "Ah, what has the game come to? I have watched it here for seventy years, lad, seen all the greats, and never thought I'd see this day." He shook the thatch and turned his back on the mass of movement. "Sir?" I asked. If he was speaking to me, it was the first I'd heard of it. "Oh, nothing, really, just an old man coming to grips." "With...?" "With that!" and he thrust a thumb over his shoulder in dismay. "Tiger?" "I suppose, yes," he mumbled. "I've seen the best who've played this game. I just missed Jones but saw Hogan and Nicklaus, Player and Watson, Faldo. The very best. But never were they above the game." "And you think...?" "Well," he harrumphed, "don't you?" "And why do you think...?" 
"He's turned it into a carnival. He's a, what do you call them, a rocking star?" It was a useless argument so I didn't. I simply took the coward's way out. "Mmmmmm." "Well, he seems a nice enough young man, doesn't he? And he certainly is awfully good. I followed him a bit this morning on his practice round and he managed some things I've not seen here before. Still..." "Still...?" "Well, look at them running after him," he thumbed again. "And he's got all those people working for him, fending them off. Nicklaus never had that. Did Jones? I surely doubt it." "Is it bad for the game?" I asked, since he seemed to be its caretaker. "Oh, it does seem a bit much, don't you think?" "But when was the last time you saw that many children out here, chasing a golfer's autograph?" He turned and looked me square in the eye and then lowered his, no answer in mind. He shook his head one last time, waved a friendly, resigned, farewell and walked the opposite direction. Good thing. He would have not had a pleasant time going the other way. Jim Huber is an Emmy award-winning journalist for CNN/Sports Illustrated and a regular contributor to CNNSI.com. The opinions expressed here are solely those of the writer.
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