British Open and closed

You'll pardon us if we're a little low, but we're having a tough time with Tom Watson's tragic explosion over Scotland. We'll admit it, we were pulling for the old man, and after 71 holes we were almost convinced he could do it, but when he gave the Putt He'll Always Think About that granny tap on 18, we knew what was coming. Not quite Jean Van de Velde territory, but painful nonetheless.

Don't get us wrong: We have nothing against Stewart Cink except that he looked like a human version of those awful day-glo Slurpees we used to get at 7-Eleven when we were young and didn't realize you shouldn't drink anything that's bright green. An enthusiastic Twitter user, he's already posted his clubhouse clutch with the Jug. Perhaps it's good that Watson hasn't embraced the technology; otherwise we would waiting for an iPhone snap of the old guy throwing his tired bones into the Irish Sea.

Sometimes things seem like they should be, feel like they should be, SHOULD be, dammit, and they aren't. That is our imperfect world. Babies die. Villains prosper. Controversy peddlers disguise themselves as writers even though most of their prose has all the craftsmanship of a Waffle House menu. People eat haggis.

If Watson had crapped out after a great first day, as he did at the U.S. Open a few years back, his life story would essentially read the same. Now he's written a new chapter, and who knows how it will read a few years down the road, or even a few weeks. For the moment, though, it feels like a sad ending.