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Playing golf in Scotland isn't for wimps. Except for putting, there are no driving ranges for warmups.
"We figure," St. Andrews author Malcolm Campbell said, "to hit shots before the first tee, well, that's kind of cheating." So, at courses such as Royal Troon, Carnoustie or Turnberry, your first whack is usually for real, no matter how cold or creaky the muscles and senses.
A couple of weeks ago, in the company of other Americans, I played seven rounds in eight days on the Ayrshire coast, including at Western Gailes, Saint Nicholas, Lochgreen and gnarly classic Prestwick, home of the first British Open in 1860.
I'll not bore with details on scores ranging from 86 to 101. This is more about stages of life. On my fifth golfing sojourn to the United Kingdom or Ireland, a few things became evident: I'd been younger the other four times. Stronger. Spunkier.
Tee shots were now more challenging, carrying the ball 150 yards or so, flying beyond ghastly 12-inch rough to the well-clipped comfort of a fairway. When those tee shots fell shy, I was forced to hit from obnoxious low-lying bushes called heather, which often made it difficult to hack a 30-yard shot.
But this is the friendly, intriguing country noted for castles, monsters, kilts and booze where, in days before my newspaper work on the 1987 British Open win of Nick Faldo at Muirfield, there came a Mizell golf shocker, a score of 73 at East Berwick, my best by far. Thankfully, it happened in view of a quite-startled witness, Tim Rosaforte, a renowned golf writer and TV commentator.
Ah, sweet memories
While crusty Scots seem ageless and indefatigable, bounding through weather-beaten challenges of the honorable old game they invented, a visiting Yank can be sobered by comparisons to the relative softness of the golf he plays back home.
It didn't help that this latest Scottish golf exam got off to a hairy start. Due to an airline shank, my suitcase, golf shoes and clubs were 36 hours late in arriving at Glasgow.
We had courses booked, so the show went on. I played the first day with makeshift rented sticks that seemed like leftovers from Old Tom Morris' day, while wearing a long-sleeved red dress shirt and black socks. No shoes.
"Your round of 95," said one grinning bloke from Ayr, "will be sent to the Guinness Book of World Records as the best score ever while walking a course only in socks; although I'm sure barefooted people have greatly eclipsed it."
They're cute, those Scots.
Except at rare resorts catering to Americans, there are no motorized carts in Scottish golf. You walk. Clubs can be carried in a bag on your back or aboard a two-wheeled trolley, with the luxury option being to hire a caddie at an average cost of $70.
As the summer golf business has exploded, so have British/Irish greens fees for outsiders. Expect to pay an average of $100. If you get to the Old Course at St. Andrews or other famous venues, it can be $175 or more.
It's a magnificent experience, especially for those for whom golf is a cherished activity. But the old country game should come with a warning: Be prepared for the unique physical and mental challenges.
Was this my last time?
We'll see.
OOPS, HOOPS!: You wonder, has the NBA gone too narrow, too young and too hip in its focus? Arenas, with music and bombast, tend to be louder than teen nightclubs.
It's a presentation so urban, saucy and defiant, and so removed from a mid-America style that is the sport's historic backbone. What do you think, with Europeans and other global factors now more NBA-involved, would it not be smart to adapt ideas and work at being more appealing to the masses, not unlike what NASCAR has achieved?
Earnhardt is smothering Iverson.
Television ratings were pitiful for the NBA Finals between champion San Antonio and New Jersey, trophy runner-up a second straight season.
How does David Stern continue to sell networks on paying huge TV rights fees? When it drops off, how do owners continue to afford extreme player salaries? If I were NBA commissioner, I would be worried and seeking dramatic changes.
I watch far less, because I seldom care who wins and who loses. It doesn't matter to me if Kobe Bryant or Vlade Divac or Paul Pierce succeeds or fails. For some reason, I care a lot more about who is doing well and who's not in the NFL, MLB and NHL.
Maybe it's just me.
I remember it being important to me to see how Magic Johnson or Larry Bird or Michael Jordan were doing. Long before that, my pulse rates would quicken over the talents of Jerry West, Oscar Robertson, Pete Maravich, Kareem Abdul-Jabbar or Bill Bradley.
Is it just me?