The Open Championship
Hey, this ain't a funeral, you know.
The rule says something about intent when you do that. I intended to hit it.
At 15 we put down my bag to hunt for a ball, found the ball, lost the bag.
I'm a serious contender this week. How can they beat me? I've been struck by lightning, had two back operations and been divorced twice.
Not true. I slept on the floor.
You think I play the hole the wrong way?
It is doubtful that there was a man present at Birkdale who wanted Palmer to lose. It's impossible to overpraise the tact and charm with which this American has conducted himself on his two visits to Britain. He has no fancy airs or graces; he wears no fancy clothes; he makes no fancy speeches. He simply says and does exactly the right thing at the right time, and that is enough.
I had to lean sideways to see the top of the flag.
The rough is impossible - impossible to stay out of, impossible to play out of. But I guess I'd rather be in it 40 yards ahead of everybody else.
But the bottom line is, no matter what, even if I shoot 90 tomorrow, I'm going to enjoy it. Maybe people will say "Oh, he blew it" or whatever. Maybe I'm going to blow it, it's the first time I've ever been there. What do you expect? You know I'm not number one in the world. My knees are going to touch each other on the first tee tomorrow. But let me tell you, I'm going to enjoy it.
I held the putter in a vice-like grip and from the moment I took it back from the ball I was blind and unconscious.
Imagine him as he scrutinises a long, difficult stroke, with arms quietly folded, an inscrutable quarter smile on his lips, for all the world like a gambler watching the wheel spin. And then the cigarette is tossed away, the club taken with abrupt decision, the glorious swing flashes and a long iron pierces the wind like an arrow.
I'm tired of giving my best and not having it be good enough.
It doesn't hurt much any more. These days I can go a full five minutes without thinking about it.
Golfing excellence goes hand and hand with alcohol, as many an Open and Amateur champion has shown.
The British Open probably would have died if the American stars hadn't started going over to play in it more regularly the last 15 years. Arnold Palmer saved it, but as far as I'm concerned he didn't do us any favours.
Their only fault is that they give no possible excuse for a missed putt.
How about that amigo. I just come over to see my friends and I win the bloody championship.
They say I get into too many bunkers. But is no problem. I am the best bunker player.
The winner, Severiano Ballesteros, chose not to use the course, but preferred his own, which mainly consisted of hay fields, car parks, grandstands, dropping zones and even ladies' clothing.
When Ballesteros triumphed at the British Open in 1979, for his first major win, he hit so few fairways off the tee that he was often mistaken for a gallery marshall.
The hundred or so followers of the Royal and Ancient game who journeyed from Edinburgh on the morning of Thursday 22 September, the opening day, went prepared to have a thorough treat.
I can honestly say in my entire career, I've never gone around a golf course and not mis-hit a shot, but today I never missed a shot. I hit every driver perfect, every iron perfect. I'm in awe of myself.
I never thought I'd live to see golf played so well.
I guess that's why they call it Hell.
He must have left a hole out.
Twice Open Champion Willie Park coined the slogan: "The man who can putt is a match for anyone." To which J.H. Taylor produced the response: "The man who can approach does not need to putt."
Do I have to know rules and all that crap? Then forget it.
If you're going to be a player people will remember, you have to win the Open at St. Andrews.
To me, the Open is the tournament I would come to if I had to leave a month before and swim over.
Wind is part of the British Open. It is an examination and it took me a long time to pass the examination. Eighty per cent of the fellows out there have not passed the test.
The only equivalent plunge from genius I could think of was Ernest Hemingway's tragic loss of ability to write. Hemingway got up one morning and shot himself. Nicklaus got up the next morning and shot 66.
All my life I wanted to play golf like Jack Nicklaus, and now I do.
I played the British Open in 1937. It took a week to get there and a week to get home. I was the low American; finished fourth or fifth. And what it came down to was, I lost a good part of my summer, won $185, and spent $1,000 on boat fare alone.
What did I want with prestige? The British Open paid the winner $600 in American money. A man would have to be two hundred years old at that rate to retire from golf.
Any golfer worth his salt has to cross the sea and try to win the British Open.
I never felt I could be a complete professional without having won the British Open. It was something you had to do to complete your career.
They keep trying to give me the championship, but I won't take it.
I give you one job to do and you can't even get that right.
So now, if he could avoid the masses of bunkers on the eighteenth, he must surely be home. I saw the shot from just behind him and shall remember it to the end of my days. His swing never left him and this might have been on the practice ground. It might also have been fired from a rifle instead of a golf club - miles down the dead centre, veering neither to right nor left.
I lost my head. I lost everything. I try to cut the ball for it to stop quickly. But my hands - they don't go forward, they are coming back.
The emotion is unbelievable. After second shot at 18 - it blows my head. Then I hole putt. Give me another chance. The second putt - [in fact his first putt, after fluffing a chip - see above] nobody is supposed to hole that putt.
Is winning the Open worth a million pounds? Well, it's worthwhile winning it - I would recommend it to anybody!
He's raised the bar to a level only he can reach.