Top o’ the morning to ya: The British Open for breakfast

Let’s take a moment to tip the cap to newly crowned Open Champion Shane Lowry, and to speak this truism: there’s nothing better than British Open golf for breakfast. Well, maybe cookie-dough ice cream, but that’s another story.

This year’s British Open was more breakfasty than usual, with the announcement that Sunday’s final round play would begin early at (pre-prep the Keurig!) 2:32 a.m with the leaders going off at 8:47 a.m. Eastern Time.

It’s a paradoxically perfect hour…still too early for your friends to call, or for the neighbors to crank up the mower that rumbles like a Harley at full throttle. Instead, it’s just you, your economy French roast, and the storm-tossed Irish sea exactly where it should be: on your TV rather than in your face.

What could be more soulful than an early morning episode of the ultimate reality television: the crooked-stick shepherd’s game on a Sunday morning live from the sort of links where golf was born into the world, kicking and screaming “Fore!”

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As a child my grandfather, a Midwestern farmer, would always say, when he was in a mood to skip church, “I’ve got all the religion I need out in the fields.” On Open Championship Sunday many of us felt similarly about the passion play staged on the Links of Dunluce, the one with the happy ending.

By shortly after 10 a.m. West Coast time Lowry had already hoisted the Claret Jug in a uniquely soul-stirring win for those of us who, despite all evidence, persist in believing in the underdog, the humble one, the “fat kid with glasses,” as golf coach Pete Cowen once unfortunately said of the boy who would be king, a young Shane Lowry.

So, what do you do with yourself after a brunch-time benediction like that? It’s too early to crack open a celebratory Guinness and too late to go to church. It’d be downright sacrilegious to pull-start the string-trimmer and perform the role of proper suburban acolyte.

What’s a golf pilgrim to do? What did you do?

I fussed about the house in that happy way you do in those rare moments when life bestows one of its little (Irish?) blessings, and you need a little time alone-time to process the good luck. Then I climbed in the car and drove to an old church I know in the hills.

By the time I arrived only a few visitors and the day’s designated volunteer greeter remained. I nodded at her politely as I entered, like a pro acknowledging the gallery, and walked into the sanctuary.

The place was deserted, the pews utterly empty, but the programs were still out in a tidy little pile–lots of fine print, per usual, and a spirited reminder to keep the chapel door closed (“It’s hot out there, folks!”). The votive candles were lit by the dozens, and I half expected to see Lowry himself there saying a few Hail Marys.

The black cat snoozed in the courtyard. The greeter packed up and called it good. And I, I had a whole afternoon to burn, thanks be to God, with the morning’s golf feel-goods still smoldering inside, a warming flame, a full cup.