I like a little action once in a while. The odd game of pool, a trip to the blackjack tables in Atlantic City, maybe even a few bob on the Fighting Irish, a bet placed with a friend of a friend I've never met. So there was something of a kid in a candy store effect when I arrived in Ireland to find a bookmaker on every corner, ready to take a wager on everything from Gaelic football to the ending of the last Harry Potter book. (I think I'd have a hard time getting a line on Harry v. Voldemort back in South Philly.)
At first I was captivated by the convenience of so much gambling vice, with horse races running every five minutes on every TV in every pub. But after not placing a single winning wager in six weeks — a feat worthy of some long odds in itself — a trip to the Irish bookkeeper started to lose its appeal. I passed the Ladbrokes and the Paddy Powers with indifference.
That is, until British Open time, where, unlike the Cork vs. Tipperary hurling match, I had a clue about what the hell I was betting on.
I headed into Ladbrokes in Bray and took three players to win. An inside tip from a golf journalist friend had me putting a fiver on Niclas Fasth. Retief Goosen seemed a sound value at 50-1, and in a moment of near treasonous stupidity, I actually scribbled down "Colin Montgomerie to win." It was surely the most absurd bit of fiction I've ever written.
My new friend Chip was wise to bring his trolley with him to transport his gear around Ireland, but he was a genius to put 10 Euro on Padraig Harrington at 20-1.
Disgusted by Sergio Garcia's insurmountable lead, Chip handed me his worthless ticket on Saturday and headed for the airport. He was in the air when Paddy lifted the Claret Jug. I kidded myself that he might not hear about it — a major long shot for a golf nerd like Chip — but after he'd been back in the states for a few days I got his message, "How about that Harrington!" So your euros are on the way, Chip. Most of them at least, after I deduct my fee.
Leading up to the Open, one of the big stories here was whether Padraig was ever going to break through that confidence barrier, if he could go from being a top 10 player to being among the top 4. I'm glad he waited until last week to finally arrive at the pinnacle of the golf pyramid so I could enjoy it with my friend Tim in a packed pub in Arklow. Just arrived from Philadelphia to replace Chip on the road, Tim objected to someone double-bogeying the final hole of a major and still winning. But as one of the many golf cliches my father taught me goes, "They don't ask how. They ask how many."
