Culture
The Open Championship psychology: How to thrive at one of golf's toughest tests
The gusts are practically blowing you over. Your socks are getting soggy. A treacherous pot bunker lingers in the corner of your eye. These are the physical sensations of the Open Championship, but the real challenge of this major test is psychological.
This week at Royal Troon, you’ll hear the broadcast analysts talk about the best links players as the ones who stay patient. They take their medicine. They grind it out. But beyond the cliches, what do the mental hurdles of an Open actually entail? What are the specific goals and necessities that allow one to prevail during a championship like this one at Royal Troon?
Acceptance
At the Open, players face a mental examination that doesn’t just require plotting around well-protected greens and fairways. Much of this test is simply out of the player’s control. You cannot control the wind and the rain. Nor the tee time draw: Only Mother Nature knows if you’ll play in a light breeze or just short of a hurricane. Discovering what lie you end up with in the sand is a relentless shock to the system.
Dr. Morris Pickens, a veteran PGA Tour sports psychologist, said accepting unfavorable outcomes is a learned skill specific to the Open. It all stems from knowing how to evaluate shots.
Pickens defines four categories for how to “label” a golf shot, and he maps it out in a four-quadrant graph, with two axes: “execution” and “result.” The four sections of the chart are as follows: good execution-good result, good execution-bad result, bad execution-good result, and bad execution-bad result.
Pickens, who coached Zach Johnson and Stewart Cink to Open Championship victories and currently works with Keegan Bradley and recent PGA Tour winner Davis Thompson, asserts that in this tournament, you have to both anticipate, accept and appropriately react to the “good-bads” — in other words, a well-executed shot that didn’t turn out how you desired.
“In the Open, you’re going to get a lot of ‘good-bads,’ especially when you turn back into the wind,” Pickens says. “Maybe you played well on the front, maybe it’s been pretty easy and you’re 4-under. But you’re still going to hit some good shots that get bad results. And if you’re not careful, you’re going to lose your mind. Instead of shooting 1-over coming in, you’re going to shoot 4-over.”
At The Open, Pickens advises his players to control their emotions using this visual evaluation. The uncontrollable nature of the tournament conditions means that you’re going to get some “good-bad” outcomes, but you’re also going to get some “bad-goods” — in other words, lucky breaks. You have to appreciate and anticipate both, truly embracing the peaks and valleys of links golf, to keep your mental game in check.
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“You hope to grind out a decent score,” said Jon Rahm, who posted a 2-over 73 on Thursday.
Commitment
When dealing with factors out of one’s control, the best practice is to be ultra-specific with your pre-shot vision. Pickens describes commitment as “knowing where you want to hit the ball,” but many players mistake commitment for confidence or comfort. And that conflation can be a dangerous path.
“Confident means, ‘I know where this ball is going to end up.’ But you can’t know that. There are imperfections on the green. There are wind gusts,” Pickens says. “You don’t have to feel ease over the ball to hit great golf shots. You don’t have to feel comfortable, emotionally. There’s not one player, if they’re honest, who feels comfortable over the 18th tee shot at Augusta or at TPC Sawgrass. Those are physically demanding shots. I talk my players away from that — it’s not the goal. The goal is to be committed, and to trust your routine.”
Seeking confidence and comfort over the ball will only lead to disappointment and unrealistic expectations, and at the Open Championship, that can cause a quick downward spiral.
Commitment means utilizing the information at your disposal, devising a plan, and sticking to it. Crosswinds — which many players have described as one of Royal Troon’s most devilish challenges — make that practice particularly difficult. During links golf, the known variables can change in an instant, but it is the player’s job to know when to adjust. There’s a difference between feeling physically uncomfortable before a swing — because of improper aim, swirling winds, etc. — and feeling mental discomfort. Pickens advises his players not to ask questions while walking up to the ball, whether they’re asking themselves or their caddie. The self-talk has to be determined before the execution: Whatever happens in the lead-up to the shot is the only thing a player truly has control over at the Open. You can’t risk derailing it.
Scottie Scheffler and other top contenders in the Open Championship will have to handle tough lies. (Harry How / Getty Images)
Resilience
You’re going to get kicked in the teeth at the Open. Whether it’s a funky bounce or a sudden gust at the worst time possible, there are going to be moments that force you to pick yourself up off the ground. But not every player has it in them. Acceptance, moving on from a wayward shot or a big number, is one thing. Finding the will to bounce back from the blips is another. It’s difficult to do — especially multiple times throughout a round.
“At some point, people lose their resilience,” Pickens says. “Then they start short-changing the process. They don’t pick good targets, they slap the ball around. They do that because they know they’re not going to be disappointed — because they didn’t put that much into it. It’s a way to protect your ego.”
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Open champions don’t let that happen. They pick themselves back up. Over, and over and over again.
“Resilience is saying no, I’m willing to put myself out there again to be disappointed again,” Pickens says. “A resilient player thinks to themselves, I’m not going to slap it around and let that habit start. Even if I miss the cut by five shots, I’m going to play this out.”
A score will determine this Open. Some sort of concoction of birdies, pars and bogeys or worse. A three-putt. A hole-out. A 350-yard drive. But the eventual winner and his competitors will know that this championship is conquered first and foremost between the ears. The Open Championship is a mind game.
(Top photo of Rory McIlroy: Ross Kinnaird / Getty Images)
A strong sense of place can deeply influence a story, and in some cases, the setting can even feel like a character itself. This week’s literary geography quiz highlights places where authors were born (or lived) that later became locations in their books. To play, just make your selection in the multiple-choice list and the correct answer will be revealed. At the end of the quiz, you’ll find links to the works if you’d like to do further reading.
AMERICA, U.S.A.: How Race Shadows the Nation’s Anniversaries, by Eddie S. Glaude Jr.
For those of us in the national memory-keeping business, anniversaries hold near-totemic power. Satisfyingly round units of time, ideally bearing fancy, Latin-derived names, serve as the overburdened pegs on which to hang think pieces and museum exhibits, revisionist documentaries and maudlin public ceremonies. The arbitrary nature of such occasions is precisely what gives them their charge, inviting us to set aside complacency and submit to a comprehensive check-in.
In his new book, “America, U.S.A.,” Eddie S. Glaude Jr. presents an intriguing variation on the genre, seeing the country’s 250th birthday as an anniversary of anniversaries: 50 years since the malaise-ridden, schlock-heavy Bicentennial. A century since the subdued Prohibition-era Sesquicentennial. A century and a half since telegraphed reports of George Armstrong Custer’s defeat by the Lakota and Cheyenne at Little Bighorn rudely interrupted the Gilded Age Republic’s 100th birthday party.
If an anniversary offers a snapshot of a moment, the core of Glaude’s book is an old-timey photo album, a collection of notable episodes from earlier national reckonings, long-ago glances in the mirror. An estimable scholar of Black history, politics and religion at Princeton — best known for “Begin Again,” his 2020 meditation on James Baldwin’s relevance for our times — Glaude focuses, as his subtitle puts it, on “how race shadows the nation’s anniversaries.”
Such celebrations, he contends, have never really been the moments for honest self-reflection they are often advertised to be. Instead, the nation usually shatters the mirror, refusing to accept what it prefers not to see. “American anniversaries are often moments to turn a blind eye to the evils of the past and the present,” Glaude writes, “to suppress the fact of America’s divided soul.”
It’s a clever concept, and, needless to say, perfectly timed. Last year, Glaude notes, the Trump administration executed a hostile takeover of the government’s studiously bipartisan 250th anniversary planning. It is now preparing a program that is certain to conceal more than it reveals about the country ostensibly being celebrated.
Glaude, in no mood for celebration, argues that such omissions and evasions also defined commemorations in the past. In 1875, Frederick Douglass predicted “one grand Centennial hosannah of peace and good will to all the white race of this country.” He was right: The nation reached 100 years old at a crucial moment in the post-Civil War fight over racial equality, with white Northerners ready to give up on Southern Reconstruction. The occasion would help the once-warring sections to reunite around a shared commitment to white supremacy. On May 10, 1876, at the opening of the Centennial Exposition in Philadelphia, the police tried to bar Douglass from the grandstand, until a white politician vouched for him.
The 150th anniversary came soon after a resurgent Ku Klux Klan successfully pushed for a restrictive immigration law aimed at keeping America a “Nordic” nation. At the lavishly funded, lightly attended celebrations in Philadelphia, Black veterans of World War I were excluded from marching in the opening parade. A writer with The Associated Negro Press wondered “what was in the breast of those black men who fought to make America safe for Democracy and on Monday stood on the sidelines, forgotten, as the Nordic strode by in all his vain pride.”
By 1976, when the nation marked its Bicentennial, the violence of the ’60s had destroyed any semblance of consensus. Vietnam and Watergate had eroded trust in the government. The commission initially tasked with organizing the anniversary was disbanded amid reports of corruption. Corporations filled the vacuum, Glaude explains, with “star-spangled whoopee cushions; patriotic toilet seats; Liberty hamburgers; red, white and blue beer cans.” The author, around 8 years old at the time, dimly remembers donning a pair of tricolor trousers.
A half-century later, Glaude is refreshingly honest about the depths of his despair. “I do not love America, and never have, especially now,” he writes in one of the more startling opening sentences I’ve read in some time. He dismisses this year’s Semiquincentennial as reaching back “to a storybook America that requires either the banishment of Black people from view or the reduction of our role in the country’s history, so as to affirm America’s ongoing quest to be a more perfect union.”
Undoubtedly true. But Trump doesn’t own the country, at least not yet, nor the 250th anniversary of one of the most radically liberatory and confusingly contradictory events in world history — an inspiration, as Glaude shows, even to critical observers of the American experiment, like Douglass. Far from the revanchist MAGA-palooza in Washington, I suspect this summer’s unasked-for invitation to national soul-searching may surprise us yet.
Despite his despair, Glaude concludes that “the past still offers resources for us to freedom-dream.” So, too, does this book.
AMERICA, U.S.A.: How Race Shadows the Nation’s Anniversaries | By Eddie S. Glaude Jr. | Crown | 270 pp. | $31
Take me to visit a dysfunctional family with oceanfront real estate
by Meg Mitchell Moore
Moore is a dependable ingredient in any summer reading soufflé. Her airy novels accomplish what they came to do: entertain and transport, without the pyrotechnics of, say, books that eschew quotation marks. In “Down With the Shipmans,” three sisters, laden with baggage, converge on their late mother’s beach cottage, only to learn that their father and his much younger wife are planning to sell the place.
The stakes are high, the drama is juicy and the views are sublime. Moore even provides two beach dogs — Leo (an unruly pit bull mix) and Cinnamon (“golden retriever, red bandanna, long pink tongue”) — to keep things lively. (Comes out June 2)
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