by Steve Joos
A poem about the British Open and where golf got started.
|Tucked away near an elite locker room
Hung an artist's rendition
of the birthplace of the links.
An ancient castle,
imposing and dreadful,
like any other medieval fortress.
but this was the cradle of gawf.
There once was a charred mural
of the fortress and those who
lifted the Auld Mug.
Old Willie, Young Willie,
Old Tom, Young Tom.
plumed nobles from Colonial days.
The Liege Lords, the Loyal Subjects
who claimed the Claret Jug
and those who came,
who saw and conquered,
taking it back to the Colonies.
Player and Jacklin,
Middlecoff and Nelson,
Hagen and Jones.
Slammin' Sammy took the Auld Mug,
but wasn't impressed with The Open.
Futebol and gawf hampered defense,
but couldn't hold back these invaders,
royal linksters storming the royal palace.
The Golden Bear and Lively Lee.
Win the Open back-to-back?
This looks like a job for Super Mex.
"A" is for Arnie,
leading his Army,
across the little bridge at St. Andrews.
Hosting cowboys, kings,
stars and even a Rappite.
But the pictures are gone,
one of how many?
Burned to the ground with
the hideaway of a small town's elite.
The hideaway came back.
Bigger and better?
Except for some things.