Crossing Scotland - Waiting for St. Andrews

To play the Old Course at St. Andrews you must either be rich, lucky, or crazy. I was the latter.

We had failed to win a spot in the daily lottery - or ballot, as the Scots call it - to play golf's most celebrated course.

And from the beginning we weren't about to pay a tour operator what it takes to get a guaranteed tee time, usually doubling the green fee of $242.

So, basically, it came down to how badly did you want it, and apparently not as badly as the guy who started the vigil at 4 a.m. We got there at 5:45. I was 12th on the singles list.

Nine hours later I was standing on the first tee, a hard wind in my face, still numbed by jet lag, but about as happy as a gent can be.

Not that it had been easy, the wait. We were allowed to go to the driving range if we wantws, or walk a couple of blocks into town for lunch. We were well informed of our position.

Once I got to the top of the list I assumed the wait would be soon over. But two hours went by, primarily because three Italians rejected me as their fourth. They have that option, and they exercised it.

"Don't see much of that," said the young starter. "I'd like to see the rule changed.'"

Over 50 years of playing golf I have run into few people I didn't enjoy. It is remarkable, I think, that you can be tied so quickly to folks you have just met and may have little else in common simply because of a crazy love of the game.

In that vein, I sense I wouldn't have had much in common with the Italians.

All around me it sounded like the United Nations. One of our group - we had split into singles by now for hope of having any chance to get on - played with two Danes. Another with two guys from Switzerland.

Finally, I was picked. By three guys from France, from Bordeaux, who as I came to find out later were in the whiskey business.

They asked me my favorite single malt, and I picked theirs, Glenlivit, which is distilled in not-to-far-away Aberdeen.

They were great. As we left the 18th hole, they presented me with a few, airline-sized bottles of their best.

It was more than 12 hours since I started the process. I walked down the hotel row opposite the 18th fairway knowing I had just played one of the world's great courses.

It wasn't my first visit to St. Andrews for I had spent a week there during the 2000 British Open, won by Tiger Woods during four glorious summer days.

But spectating you have no idea how difficult the bunkering is, how mysterious it can be, unseen from the tee and serving as protectors of the course.

An official of the St. Andrews Links Trust said it was pretty well concluded by locals that the New Course was better than the Old, that the Jubilee was the most difficult of the seven Trust courses, and the Eden the best value.

I don't know about that but I know how much I enjoyed the Old Course, both the speed of the game and the creativity it takes get the ball near the hole.

How much fun it was to hear the stories of many of the bunkers with names.

On the famed 11th hole, a wicked par 3, I hit a well-struck shot that started left but into a stiff wind caught a ridge that unthinkably dumped the ball into a bunker right of the green. The one, a caddie said, that caused the great Bobby Jones to walk off the course in frustration, only to come back later to win the Open Championship at St. Andrews. I hit a good sand shot and nearly got up-and-down

I couldn't imagine Tiger Woods not finding a bunker during four days of the 2000 Open.

Of the celebrated changes made to the Old Course this winter those I saw first hand were the addition to the back left portion of the green on No. 11 - to yield more pin placements - and the reduced size of the road hole bunker on No. 17, a bunker that is now easier to escape but more likely to be found.

When we signed up on the singles list early in the morning, the starter asked for a picture Id - no stand-ins - and documentation of an official handicap.

I think 24 was the limit.

But there is nothing snooty about St. Andrews. In fact, you're struck by the public access to the course, even during play.

We arrived the night before and walked out into the 18th fairway and then took pictures on the Swilcan Bridge. You don't dare do that at Augusta National, or any other prestigious private course.

On Sundays the course is closed for golf and open for public picnicking. It is a place like no other.